It wasn’t the way Libby wanted to start her day, stopping in mid-yawn when she saw the Facebook status of her best friend Trish.

“The Daleks are here,” it said.

Libby nearly dropped her cup of coffee. It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t. Her hands were shaking as she picked up the phone and rang Trish’s private cell. It rang once and then twice.

“Don’t you dare go to voicemail,” she was saying when her friend answered.

“I had to leave the room,” Trish hissed. “I couldn’t just answer…”

“So it’s true?” Libby asked.

“Yeah.” On the other end of the line the door clicked. Trish had gone into the supply closet. “We’ve been bought out, and it’s just as we feared.”

“Dandridge Press?”

Her friend sighed. “Yeah…”

“Fuck. They’ll gut us. I know they will. Our branch was just part of the deal.” Libby rubbed her temples.

“Yep, and the suits are already here, sizing up the place, looking at equipment. They’ve scheduled a meeting for 1 p.m. Mandatory for all personnel. You’ve probably already been notified.”

Libby sat down in her office chair and rolled back to her computer. She logged into her work account and there it was, the notice that everyone - even employees off for the day - was to report to the office for an important announcement.

Only Libby and Tricia had guessed what it was. Rail House Publications was on the auction block, despite repeated denials by the owners that it was not being shopped around to potential buyers. But Libby had been suspicious. As the head of IT for the Bellwether Press, she’d been pressing the parent company for months to come through with the new computers they’d been promising - computers that had been cleared in the budget before the big scandal had hit Rail House.  Tender is the Knight, a book that stayed seven weeks at the top of the NYT, was found to have been plagiarized by the author, an English professor who stole the manuscript from a student who’d had him review it shortly before the young man was killed in a car accident.

The author and Rail House received a brutal beating in the media; the young man’s family had tried to warn them of the litigation and stop the publication, but the company had ignored them. But even after the story died as the main topic at dinner parties, things started to change. Positions were frozen and editors and department heads at Rail House subsidiary Bellwether Press, which printed political books FOX News called “subversive,” began to notice a glaring lack of communication.

It was Tricia who had first heard the rumor that Malcom Dandridge was eyeing Rail House. The host of the radio talk show Right Now! and publisher of Perspectives was listed as one of the “Fifty Men Under 50 to Watch” in Business Today Magazine. Dandridge made it no secret that he was eager to increase his holdings, and his name was familiar to those who worked at Rail House, especially Bellwether Press, which had published an unauthorized biography about his father’s ruthless business deals. The notion of Dandridge buying Rail House was dismissed by an editor who directly asked CEO Miriam Halsey about it, but Libby had noticed a change in the heads of Bellwether. They seemed grimmer, and some stopped using their company phones for communication. Two of them started bringing personal laptops to work. Whatever they were communicating, they didn’t want anyone to be able to see or retrieve.

Libby only shared her suspicions with Tricia, the one person she knew wouldn’t think she was crazy and paranoid. Libby had been accused of being both things, but she told herself it was only because both things were completely true. Libby was, for lack of a better word, hyper. Her mother had always said it was because she was brilliant and her body was just trying to catch up with her quick mind. Remembering her mom always made Libby smile. She had great parents, and her mother’s death from an embolism three years earlier had sent her into a deep depression that would have immobilized her had it not been for the fact that Libby’s father needed her so much. He was suffering from early onset Alzheimer’s and now, before heading to the office, Libby made sure she stopped into see how he was doing.

Roland Fletcher was sitting at a table in the common room of Shady Manor Assisted Living facility. His face was scrunched in concentration as he stared - pen in hand - at a crossword puzzle. His daughter’s heart twisted at the sight. She knew when she reached him she’d find the blocks of the puzzle filled with x’s. She was right.

“I need a five letter word for ‘fiend,’” her father said, looking up at her with a smile.

She sat down across from him and managed a smile. “Try ghoul.”

Libby watched him fill in the blocks with five x-marks.

“Clever girl,” he said. “How was school? Those other kids didn’t pick on you today, did they?”

She shook her head. “No, dad. They were nice.”

“And what about that headmaster? You did remind him if he ever hurts you again…”

Libby interrupted him, amazed at how her father could remember something from thirteen years earlier but couldn’t tell her what he’d had for breakfast.

“No, dad. He knows better….”

She pushed the nutritional shake on the table towards him. He was looking frail; she wondered if the staff was making sure he ate. She decided to head to the office when she couldn’t find a nurse. The director was there, and when Libby raised her concerns she promised to see to them before asking if Libby would be paying for her father’s monthly care now to - as the director put it - avoid unnecessary late fees.

Libby pulled out her checkbook. Shady Manor took a large part of her income, but it was worth it not to have to worry about whether her father had fallen or found his way out of the house to wander the streets. He got round the clock care and most of the nurses at the facility were kind and indulged him when he wanted to take a walk around the grounds or drone on about his interest in heirloom roses and tropical fish.

The idea that she may not have a job terrified her, especially if it meant letting her father down. He’d always been there for her, and remembered it even now. She was surprised he’d brought up the headmaster reference; it was one of the chapters of her life Libby knew he wanted to close. She’d been attending St. Brutus when it had all gone down. She was eighteen, older than the other seniors because her parents had held her back a year when they’d gone to Europe. It had never bothered her, being older. Libby was small and looked younger, so she’d fit into the crowd. The other kids never picked on her about it; they knew it would have no effect. Libby preferred imaginary people to real ones, and kept her nose in a book most of the time. She favored stories about heroes who fought the forces of evil, champions of the little guy. But Libby bristled that there weren’t enough female heroines and decided to become one herself.

She would champion the bullied kids, the outcasts, the nerds. She defended and befriended them and took Jujitsu at the local dojo in case she needed it. She never thought she would until her senior year when she came upon a group of football players teasing her friend Barry, an effeminate young man who - like Libby - was bookish and aloof.

“Leave him alone,” she said, addressing David Bane, the ringleader and quarterback of St. Brutus’ football team.

David scowled at her, but didn’t release the grip he had on Barry’s collar.

“Fuck off, you little freak,” he said. “You’ll get your girlfriend back later.”

He turned his attention back to his victim, and slammed Barry against the wall. Her friend looked at her, his eyes conveying the message that she should leave. But Libby stepped forward. “I said let him go.”

“Or what?”

Libby’s sensei had always told her that as a small opponent, she had two things going for her - speed and the element of surprise. David didn’t even see the kick that landed on the side of his knee, buckling it. The jeers of his friends turned to shock as David buckled into a heap, dropping Barry, who scurried to his feet and ran to stand behind Libby. David rolled around, clutching his knee.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…”

“Let’s get out of here.” Libby walked over, picked up Barry’s books and turned away. She could see David’s companions considering whether to come after her, but the kick had been delivered with such force that they didn’t dare. So they stood there watching and offering words of comfort to David, who Libby realized with a bit of queasiness really was hurt.

She learned the next day that it was worse than she’d realized. David, who had already injured his knee once playing football was now - thanks to her - out for the season. It was Mr. Meyers who delivered the news. The headmaster sat on the edge of his desk, arms folded, as he looked down at her. He didn’t even try to disguise his anger; football was very important to St. Brutus.

“Very important,” he said. “And the only reason you’re not going to jail is because…” He paused. “There was a witness who said you were defending another student.”

“I was,” she said. “David Bane is a bully.”

Mr. Myers stood, putting a finger in her face. “That doesn’t give you the right to play vigilante, Ms. Fletcher. You could have gone to one of the nuns, or to a teacher. But no. You had to take matters into your own hand and ruin the football season for the whole school. What do you have to say for yourself?

“Fuck football?” she asked, unable to hide a smirk now. Going to the nuns or other teachers wouldn’t have done her a bit of good. David Bane and his crew were rock stars. But fortunately, Barry’s aunt was on the school committee and the freshman who had seen the whole thing was able to give her a full accounting, thus keeping Libby’s head out of the noose.

But escaping Mr. Meyers would be harder.

“You little smart-aleck,” he said, pulling her from the chair. “I may not be able to punish you for what you’ve done to David - or to our team - but I most certainly can correct your foul-mouthedness.”

He shoved her towards the desk. “Bend over.”

She looked back to see him picking a paddle up off a nail on the wall.

“You can’t be serious…”

“I’m completely serious,” he said, turning back with a look of determination.

Libby backed away. “I’m a female student. Male staff members aren’t supposed to punish the female students without a female witness. I know the rules. I read the handbook.”

“In your own words, fuck the rules,” he said. He grabbed her again and pushed her down. Libby felt the breath rush out of her chest as it made contact with the desk. She thought about screaming for help, but she suspected that’s what Mr. Meyers wanted. He wanted it to get around school that Elizabeth Fletcher had cried like a scared child when made to pay for what she’d done to Saint David of the Fifty Yard Dash. So she swallowed her fear, even though her heart pounded and her face reddened as the headmaster lifted the hem of her plaid school skirt and brought the paddle down on her panty-clad bottom.

He was not gentle. Not by any measure. Libby had never been paddled and she could not stop the tears that were soon streaming down her face. Somehow she managed not to scream, though, even when it felt like the skin of her lower buttocks had been branded and she could feel the puffy welts when he finally let her stand. The headmaster wore a nasty smirk.

“Remember this the next time you think about forgetting your place,” he said.

Libby said nothing as she picked up her backpack. She went straight home, where her father was on the phone in his home office, going over some editing changes to a nature book he had set for publication. He waved her in and then upon seeing her distressed expression, told the caller he had to get back to him later.

Libby told her father everything, closing her eyes at the humiliating parts. Roland Fletcher’s face grew as scarlet as his daughter’s, but with rage. He took her hand and led her straight to the hospital, where she was forced to endure the humiliation of having her bruises recorded and photographed. Then he called on every member of the school board personally, gently coaxing his daughter to tell what had happened to her. Half of the board members were outraged to find that the headmaster had done such a thing to an 18-year-old young woman. Libby was right; the school had strict policy guidelines for discipline. The other half - former alumni and football boosters -  having already heard of what Libby had done, were dismissive and Roland and his daughter suspected they already knew and had condoned what had happened. But Roland assured them if they did not take action he’d take what he had to the police.

“It won’t be pretty,” he said. “If you think losing the state cup is going to hurt St. Brutus, wait until the headmaster does a perp walk for sexual assault. He forced her over his desk and lifted her skirts. If that’s not out of order, I don’t know what is.”
The board capitulated. Mr. Meyers was called in for a closed-door meeting the next day and persuaded to resign. Libby and her father were standing out in the hallway as he exited the room in an obvious state of rage and shock.

“You,” he said, when he saw Libby in the hallway. “This is your fault!”

“No it’s not,” she said. “And you know it.”

It felt good to win. But the incident changed something in Libby. From that day on she became increasingly distrustful of authority. She saw those in control as seeking to hide something. It made work difficult for her and she cycled through job after job before landing at Bellwether, where editor Ida Gomez had a lax, permissive management style fitting of the head of an outfit that published books on questioning authority. Libby had worked both as a researcher and an IT person. She loved computers, adored them. Computers could be figured out. They did not lie, and a good and clever mind could reveal their secrets. Over the years she’d practiced coaxing secrets out of the computers of others. Her hacking started as a challenge to herself, but became something of an obsession. She was able to hack into the email accounts of boyfriends she suspected of being less than honest and finding the truth about suspected infidelities. She was able to hack into business computers when they claimed they’d not gotten a payment and present them with evidence otherwise. She’d shut down Web sites of companies she considered unethical, like the pet store owned by a loud, beefy man that sold puppies bred in local puppy mills and the photography service run by a man convicted of two domestic batteries.

Libby made sure she was never traced. She always covered her tracks, always made sure her facts were straight and any trail leading to her would result in a virtual dead end. It was empowering, and while she always felt the desire to hack she resisted unless she felt it was for a good cause. And now, with Bainbridge about to take over and make Bellwether pay for what she knew he thought was a hatchet job on his father, a good cause was presenting itself.

“You can’t be serious,” Tricia said as they sat outside smoking cigarettes. “This isn’t some yahoo, Lib. It’s a powerful businessman.”

“Powerful, yeah,” Libby said. “But I bet he’s as dirty as his old man. Truth hates the light, Tricia. And if we ever needed light it’s now.”

Her friend gave an exasperated sigh. “And what exactly are you trying to accomplish?”

“I’m not sure,” Libby said. “A good severance package? An agreement to keep Bellwether open as is, with contracts for all of us who love it here. Maybe his cooperation can buy our silence.”

“Maybe in the movies,” Tricia said. “But in the real world if you get caught you go to jail. And then where will you be? Or your father?”
Libby’s grey eyes clouded in anger. “Don’t bring him into this.”

She stood, turning away but Tricia - the only person on the planet who could get close enough to Libby to push her, rose and followed. She reached out, grabbing Libby’s arm and turned her around.

“Someone needs to bring him into it, Libby. He’s alone and…he may not have that much more time before he doesn’t recognize you. You’ve told me that yourself. Do you want to spend that time in prison? Come on. Be practical.”

Her friends’ words were sobering, and Libby felt the kind of anger she always felt when someone told her something she didn’t want to hear. But she couldn’t be mad at Tricia, who was just serving as the conscience Libby lacked when in the throes of moral outrage.

“Hey,” Tricia said. “Calm down, alright. You need to. Look.”

A long black car had pulled up to the front of the small office. From the side of the building the women watched as three men exited. Libby didn’t have to ask which one was Malcolm Dandridge. He was a good head taller than the other men. His honey-blonde hair hung nearly down to his collar and he sported the same five o’clock shadow she’d seen in the last photo. He looked more like a rock star than a conservative commentator, but Libby figured that was because he liked the attention and adoration he got from women, who all but swooned over him on the news.

But she wouldn’t swoon. She already hated him, and her new challenge for the day would be to hide it in the meeting.