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The DAR does. They’ve got a list of every abnorm in these Disunited States. Ask for it, though, and they say things like, “disclosing said information is not in the interests of public safety,” because it could “jeopardize the well-being, both commercially and personally, of American citizens.”

Igor, bring out the Debullshitization Device. Yes, good, my freaky little friend. Punch it in, let’s see the translation.

What? Are you sure, you rancid cripple?

Huh. Igor says that translates to, “We care more about not panty-twisting the twists than about the lives of your children.”

Luckily, there are still a few heroes-not-zeros in our drugs-not-hugs world, and more than one of them are members of our little hacker community.

And so, hot from the DAR systems, lifted like a goth girl’s skirt on free razor blade night, is a list of 1,073,904 abnorms—and their addresses. You’re welcome.

You better be grateful, bitches, because this looks to be the swan song. The Governot is already huffing and puffing to blow our house down. Payback’s on you—make a little chaos for kOS, will you?

So take it. No seriously, take it. Download it, share it, spread it around like corporate PAC money.

Here’s the whole list.

Here it is by state.

By city.

By zip code, you lazy twat.

This act of civil disobedience brought to you by the merry pranksters and puckish rogues of Konstant kOS. All rights raped.

CHAPTER 10

The room was the size of a large planetarium, only instead of stars, holographic data floated in the air, charts and graphs and video and three-dimensional topographies and scrolling news tickers, a dizzying array of information glowing against subterranean darkness. To the average person—to Cooper—it made little sense. There was just too much of it, too many unrelated notions overlaid against each other.

But to Erik Epstein, who absorbed data the way others took in a feedcast, it held all the secrets of the world. The abnorm had made his billions by finding patterns in the stock market, eventually forcing the global financial markets to shut down and reinvent themselves.

“Yesterday,” Erik said. “Your delay was inappropriate. Time is a factor.”

“Time is always a factor.” Cooper looked around, his eyes adjusting to the gloom. Wearing a hoodie and Chuck Taylors, Erik stood in the center of the room, pale ringmaster to this digital circus. His eyes seemed more sunken that usual, as though he hadn’t slept in a week. Beside him, his brother Jakob was the picture of refined cool in a five-thousand-dollar Lucy Veronica suit. The two couldn’t have seemed less alike, Erik’s extreme geek set beside Jakob’s air of easy command, but in truth, they functioned as a team; Erik was the brains, the money, the visionary, and Jakob was the face and voice, the man who dined with presidents and tycoons. “And I don’t work for you.”

“No,” Jakob said, “you’ve made that abundantly clear. In fact, you’ve failed to do everything we’ve asked of you.”

“That’s not quite true. I did convince President Clay to let you secede. Of course, that was before you murdered him.” It probably wasn’t a good idea to be so flip, given that he was talking to two of the most powerful men in the world. But Cooper just couldn’t make himself care. Part of it was that flippancy let him tamp down his seething fury; no matter what he’d said to Quinn, no matter that he understood their actions philosophically, they had still murdered soldiers, and that he could never forgive.

The other part might have to do with last night. There were reasons he and Natalie had divorced, good ones, but they had nothing to do with the bedroom. A fact that had been demonstrated rather thoroughly last night, leaving Cooper with a loose-limbed jauntiness.

They hadn’t discussed it this morning. The kids were up, and neither of them wanted to confuse Kate and Todd. But while last night had been rooted in the past, he knew now that Natalie was interested in the future. And she wasn’t the only one. It wasn’t just the sex, or even Natalie herself. They were good together. Easy. There had been a moment, as he took a break from cooking pancakes to hand her a mug of coffee, that felt as comfortable as slipping on an old pair of jeans and a favorite T-shirt. It felt like home.

“You’re different,” a small voice said. Cooper squinted, then saw the girl huddled in a chair, her knees tucked up in front of her, a screen of purple bangs hiding her downturned face. Millicent, Erik Epstein’s near-constant companion and one of the most powerful readers Cooper had ever met. She sensed the inner fears and secret darknesses of everyone around her, had intuited Daddy’s weaknesses and Mommy’s cruelties before she could speak. A ten-year-old girl whose insight shaped billion-dollar deals and resulted in murders. As always, Cooper felt a flush of pity for her; too much, too much.