The Unsung Hero of Red Shift

I had to be the logistics man, you see, because my comrades couldn’t organise a slam poetry night, let alone a cyber attack on a healthcare corporation.

They were talented, all right - they all played their parts. Jenna, Victor, Glyph and the delightful Fatima. They were a nice bunch, for lefties, but Christ alive, did they need telling what to do when.

Steve Glubman to the rescue.

There we were, after-hours in an out-of-the-way flat in Cowley, Oxford - found by Mr. Logistics: yours truly. Someone with a bit of nouse had thought to pre-order everyone’s favourite pizzas (only Fatima bothered to say thank you), and I’d even splashed out on some cushions.

Sure, all the stuff came courtesy of my employer - Thames Valley Police - but they weren’t to know that, were they? Told them the flat was a mate’s who was living out in Fuerteventura. Spent quite a long time thinking up that “friend” and was, frankly, disappointed when nobody expressed any curiosity.

Here we were, after months of preparation: poised, on the brink. Plans were watertight, contingencies made, everyone knew their part to play. And yet Glyph (our actual hacker) appeared to be wetting his knickers. Literally.

‘I can’t start yet,’ he said. ‘Need a wee.’

Jenna rolled her eyes. She’d been tapping the table like a woodpecker on crack for the previous half an hour, which hadn’t gone unnoticed by me, I’ll tell you that for free. ‘I told you not to drink two litres of Pepsi.’

‘I drink when I’m nervous.’

Fatima was looking hard first at me, then at Victor, as though she wanted us to comfort him, encourage him, something.

Victor didn’t meet her eye. He was hunched over a table, frowning at it like he was working through a page-long sentence in Das Kapital, and clearly not listening to the conversation. I sighed. Couldn’t anyone around here going to commit a crime without my help?

‘For the people, comrade!’ I said, slapping Glyph on the back. ‘We’re in it now - gotta do it for the people. Think of the NHS, getting ripped off by these bastards every day. We’re Red Shift. This is why we’re here.’

Victor’s head pulled up sharply, a puppet jerked by its master.

‘Actually…’ he said, with the trace of a smirk. A confidence I hadn’t before seen from him. ‘I think you’ll find, I’m here for you. All of you.’

***

I’d already done a good stint undercover in the animal rights group that hang out outside the uni science labs, but the bosses had heard some whisperings about something afoot over at the Socialist Workers. So I got pulled out of the rat and mouse fan club, and into the commies.

‘This’ll be right up your street,’ said Detective Inspector Gray.

‘Heard you used to be in IT. Apparently they've some kind of code club.’

I didn't like to tell him I was in AV Support, hardly cyber security.

Didn't take long to figure out the source of the trouble. Saw a guy handing out flyers after my very first meeting - long black hair, military jacket, and a Fugazi t shirt. Made a mental note to listen to Fugazi.

‘Steve,’ I introduced myself, offering my hand.

‘Glyph,’ he said.

‘Griff?’

‘No, GLYPH.’

Still had no idea. Must be a Welsh thing. Smiled and nodded.

‘Used to be in IT,’ I said. ‘Always wanted to use tech for good.’

‘Were not using it for good. We're moving fast, breaking stuff, disrupting. That kind of thing.’

He gave me an impatient stare.

‘Hacking. You get it? I'm looking for a team to take down the multinationals. David and Goliath. You got any skills?’

‘I’ve got … a van?’ I said.

‘We’re meeting at The Eagle and Child tomorrow to talk ideas. Just come along. I'm sure you can do something.’

He handed me a business card. It featured a triangle with a horizontal line on its point and it said, GLYPH (ahh, right. Glyph.) artist, disrupter. Followed by a phone number.

‘I do graffiti too,’ he said, as if that cleared things up.

***

Me missus, Laura, thought I was a social worker. It helped cover up the odd hours, last-minute emergencies, that type of stuff. I could distract her with stories about the misery (all nicked from the endless churn of it in the news), so she didn’t pry too much about the day-to-day. She lapped up my invented tales of misery - I do pride myself on an embellishment. When my inspiration ran dry I could just end the conversation with, “Anyway, I’ve already told you too much.”

She used to be a teacher, back in the day. But someone needed to pick up the kids from nursery, and you can’t exactly do that when you’re waiting for some bloke called Dweezil to deliver you thirty litres of fake blood for a protest. So she became a teaching assistant, which is like being a teacher but with more gluing and sticking and a worse pension.

But the thing is, I didn’t just pick social work as my cover because it’s a conversational modesty screen. I wanted the sympathy. The sighs, the “I’m sorry you had to deal with thats”, the head-tilts of admiration. Undercover police work is hard work, you know. Try sitting through a meeting about decentralised authority without being able to call anyone a snowflake. Even when I had to keep shtum, I wanted the bloody credit for it.

***

At the pub it was just me, Glyph, and Swiss Victor. Glyph and Victor had got chatting at the Socialist Worker meetings - both techies so it was a match made in a worker’s utopia. Glyph (never told us his real name: Sebastian Jessop, I later found out) was studying Computer Science at Exeter College, Oxford. Bright lad. Victor always said he’d get him a job one day. Victor was busy “inventing the future” at a startup - leaning into the Oxbridge wannabe-Silicon-Valley-energy, but without the sunshine. Earnest fella. I guess he had a duty to take life seriously: his company was riding high having been given fourteen squillion by some angel donor.

I had a good time with Victor. He had a certain patience about him, which I appreciated. Glyph’d be halfway through a five year plan before we’d even got the pints in, but Victor always understood I wasn’t going to start talking turkey until I’d made a dent in my first pint. In this line of work, you savour the perks where you can.

He seemed like one of those rich-kids-turned-leftie-adults that you come across in activist movements. I’d met them all before - Saskia who’d burned her mother’s fur coats to protest animal cruelty, Felix who was spending his trust fund on sourcing ethical cocaine for squat parties (good stuff, though), Ottilie who would read me excerpts from her book about her voluntary street-sleeping experience (didn’t have the heart to tell her Orwell got there first). But Victor was a good guy. Sound. Apart from the international schoolkid mid-Atlantic accent, which did get on my tits.

In those first few weeks of meeting, they did most of the talking. I threw in a comment here and there, mostly to keep up appearances, you know, but really it was their show. I did have to put in my 2p when they suggested ransomware on the police force - had to think how badly that’d go down with the DI.

Jenna was the one that got us thinking about private healthcare. Well, as an American, she would, wouldn’t she? Bloody awful system they’ve got over there. I might not be a leftie but God bless the NHS.

Victor brought her along a few weeks in. They’d met at a film club for silent Soviet cinema, which presumably is some kind of endurance sport. When I first met her, I thought - this’ll be nice, the feminine touch. Then I got to know her. Jenna Potter drank whisky like it was water and talked like her throat was on fire. Just in case you missed her political leanings in the verbal barrage, her afro was run through with red streaks. She was irate. She came from the Heartland of America, but American capitalism was not in her heart. To pay her her dues, she kept us all sharp. Had to work hard on the cover while she was around.

So it was decided: a data breach of a UK-US healthcare corporation. Sell the data to some nefarious punters. Thus earning ourselves a tidy sum, hitting a multinational, and demonstrating the dangers of trusting big business with your lumps and bumps.

***

But we wouldn’t be a true far-left outfit if we didn’t argue over everything else. Naming ourselves was an ideological battleground. Victor wanted The People’s Algorithm, Jenna wanted Hack the Rich (complete with axe-swinging mime every time she said it), Glyph wanted Code Commune, and me? I wanted Red Shift. Sounded sciencey. Sounded good.

I was four pints deep in at the Eagle and Child, pleasantly merry, and thoroughly enjoying myself.

The debate had come to a standstill.

‘Right,’ I said, grabbing an innocent bystander and pulling her, bewildered, into our nonsense. ‘What’s your name?’

She swirled her vodka cranberry, giving me the kind of look normally reserved for men explaining investment opportunities.

‘Fatima,’ she said slowly.

‘Well, Fatima,’ I say. ‘Only you can help us. Our little collective needs a name.’

I explained our dilemma, giving her the whole pitch. Crescendoed to my big moment. Delivered Red Shift with flourish.

‘Red Shit?’ she said, with a quizzical eye. ‘Like, “we do leftie shit”?’

‘Shift,’ I said. ‘Shift. We move the dial.’

‘Like, shift it mate, it’s a revolution?’ she said, and shoved me.

Everyone laughed. Even Swiss Victor.

‘They’re all awful,’ she said. ‘But I think that might be the least worst.’

Fatima was fascinated by our little group - though, to be fair, she’d been stood up that night, so maybe we were the least worst option. Anyway, it was the gentlemanly thing to keep her company. She was studying English at Wadham College, but didn’t know Glyph. ‘Different year, different college,’ she said.

Took a right interest in me, she did. Guess she saw something in me that doesn’t get seen too much any more. Reckon she asked me more questions in ten minutes than Laura has in ten years. Can’t complain, though. If Laura asked me more questions she'd be a lot tougher to lie to.

I was in the middle of letting Fatima give me my first tattoo, a stick-and-poke saying Red Shift, when I cleared my throat and said, ‘Maybe we could, er, grab a drink sometime?’

‘No chance,’ she said, and I can’t say that my pride wasn’t wounded with the speed of it. But then she added, ‘oh, my family is very strict. They’d never let me be with someone like you.’

‘I’ve got money,’ I said, taking out the card I used for my undercover work, courtesy of Thames Valley Constabulary.

She went back to work on the stick-and-poke.

‘Not gonna happen. But I like you,’ she said. ‘And I like all this red shit. You can count me in on the special event. I’m no techie but I’m good with comms - you’ll need that once it all goes down. Same time next week?’

We shook on it.

***

Most of the time, I had to forget that my job was to get Fatima and the rest of Red Shift arrested. Threw myself so deep into the cover that I barely thought about that part.

We all took on our roles for the attack. Jenna was researching EternaWell and designing all the phishing scams, so we could reel in some of the biggest suckers on their payroll. Glyph was writing a script to sniff out vulnerabilities, and Victor was preparing to map out their internal network, so we could slip in and out unnoticed, bearing our data spoils. Fatima was on comms - finding places to look for buyers, and crafting the message for the big day.

I couldn’t help but wonder, if only her family weren’t so strict...

I kept myself busy with my role in the group. Making stuff happen. Boosting morale. Unsung hero stuff.

She seemed to find me interesting, but wasn’t, you know, interested.

She’d got under my skin. They all had. Glyph’s drive, Victor’s steadfastness, Jenna’s zeal, and Fatima - Fatima’s electricity. What a team. The days of Steve Glubman, a lone rock against the tide, had been seen off by Red Shift.

***

Attack day.

‘Actually…’ said Victor, ‘I think you’ll find, I’m here for you. All of you.’

The room was silent. Couldn’t read him. Did he want a group hug? A punch up? Didn’t make sense - Victor had pushed for this almost as much as Glyph.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Jenna, setting down her whisky glass.

‘What if,’ he said. ‘We could do all of this, but for a bigger payout.’

Silence, except the whir of laptops.

‘We’ve been planning this for months,’ said Fatima. ‘What’s this last minute rubbish?’

‘Shh, let him speak,’ said Jenna, just as Glyph muttered, ‘I’m listening’.

‘I haven’t been entirely … truthful, about who I am,’ said Victor. ‘I work for someone, well, someone who can give Red Shift a bit more backing.’

Glyph’s eyes widened. ‘It's the Russians, isn't it?’

Viktor gave a small nod. It all made sense. The hard-to-place accent, the filthy rich “startup”, the complete and total lack of Swiss cultural references.

‘If this goes well? There’s a place working on a team of professional hackers for all of you. Even you, Steve,’ he said.

‘Hey,’ I cut in, affronted. ‘Who did all the cabling in this room?’

Jenna ignored me, stepping forward, hands on hips. ‘You’re barking up the wrong tree, Viktor. Steve’s already got a job.’

‘I’m a - I’m a social worker,’ I blurted, my brain tripping over its own mess of cover stories.

Jenna threw her hands in the air. ‘You’re the only one of us here with the power to arrest him, dumbass. Quit playing.’ My stomach dropped. She’d sussed me out. How?

Jenna and Viktor’s eyes were locked together. It was a standoff.

Glyph very slowly turned towards the computer. He tried to type as quietly as he could. He failed - but no one cared about the desperate clacking of the keys.

‘I - I don’t know what you’re talking about - ’

‘Damnit Steve, you monumental waste of oxygen,’ said Jenna, and she lunged towards Viktor. He dodged, but like a heat-seeking missile, Jenna was on him. The next thing they all knew, his head was firmly locked under her arm.

She looked at Steve. ‘He’s Viktor Morozov. His favourite hobby is cyber war crime and being a pain in my rear. So how about you ARREST HIM?’

‘I can’t!’ I shouted, unable to keep desperation from my tone. ‘The law is an instrument of the ruling class! YOU arrest him, if you’re so keen!’ The words tumbled out chaotically, as I felt months of work unspool around me.

Jenna began to sweat with the effort of holding Viktor.

‘I can’t Steve. I’m CIA.’

The tapping on Glyph’s laptop became frantic.

‘The laptop’s bugged, Glyph,’ said Jenna. ‘No use trying to delete it all now.’

Glyph picked up his bag and ran for the door, whimpering and leaving a very obvious trail of drips. Nobody stopped him.

I looked at Fatima: the one left who might offer a shred of support. My closest comrade. But as Jenna and Viktor grappled in the background, she, almost lazily, rolled her eyes.

Something was off.

‘Why aren’t you scared like Glyph?’ I asked. ‘You’re in on this too.’

Fatima shook her head. ‘I guess,’ she said. ‘You’re not a reader of The Oxford Student paper, are you Steve? Otherwise you might have seen my name in it once or twice. I’m a journalist.’

‘Student journalist,’ grunted Jenna.

Fatima held up her phone.

‘I’ve got it all - every meeting, every chat,’ she leaned in, smiling. ‘The sexual harassment. It’s cost me a fortune in data, but it’s all in here.’

I gaped at her. All that attention. All those questions.

‘How did you know?’

Fatima settled back, clearly relishing the moment. ‘It was you who gave the game away Steve, the first time we met. Everyone knows the police love sneaking their officers in with ‘extremists’. You’ve bounced from group to group, doing the leg work for all of them. Didn’t take a computer scientist to figure it out.’

‘Yeah, seriously Steve,’ said Jenna, now becoming crimson. ‘You kept getting the wrong phone out, for God’s sake. Your wife’s on your wallpaper.’

‘Don’t be too smug, yeah?’ Fatima cut in. ‘You’ve been tracking Viktor since day one, and you haven’t even got him arrested yet.’

‘You will not take me!’ cried Viktor, flailing.

‘And let’s not forget about Glyph,’ she added. ‘He’s no lefty. He sets up these attacks so he can skim crypto off the payments - a wannabe tech bro cyber crim. Basic. He was bricking it because he was gonna take half the money for himself and run,’ she said. ‘I got our tech team to look at the code. It’s all in there.’

‘I listened to Fugazi for him,’ I wailed. ‘For hours.’

I looked around at my comrades. None of us who we’d said we were. Not a single one of us.

She stood up and pocketed her phone.

‘I’d better go. It’ll be a long weekend, writing up this mess. It’s tragic, but I still kinda like you all.’

My heart sang.

‘Except you, Steve.’

And as the door slammed behind her, I searched the dusty corners of my memory for the words I should know back to front but hadn’t uttered in over ten years.

‘You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence…’