0wnz0red
by Cory Doctorow
Ten years in the Valley, and all Murray Swain had to show for it was a
spare tire, a bald patch, and a life that was friendless and empty and
maggoty-rotten. His only ever California friend, Liam, had dwindled from a
tubbaguts programmer-shaped potato to a living skeleton on his death-bed
the year before, herpes blooms run riot over his skin and bones in the
absence of any immunoresponse. The memorial service featured a framed
photo of Liam at his graduation; his body was donated for medical science.
Liam's death really screwed things up for Murray. He'd gone into one of
those clinical depression spirals that eventually afflicted all the aging
bright young coders he'd known during his life in tech. He'd get misty in
the morning over his second cup of coffee and by the midafternoon
blood-sugar crash, he'd be weeping silently in his cubicle, clattering
nonsensically at the keys to disguise the disgusting snuffling noises he
made. His wastebasket overflowed with spent tissues and a rumor circulated
among the evening cleaning-staff that he was a compulsive masturbator. The
impossibility of the rumor was immediately apparent to all the other
coders on his floor who, pr0n-hounds that they were, had explored the
limits and extent of the censoring proxy that sat at the headwaters of the
office network. Nevertheless, it was gleefully repeated in the collegial
fratmosphere of his workplace and wags kept dumping their collections of
conference-snarfed hotel-sized bottles of hand-lotion on his desk.
The number of bugs per line in Murray's code was 500 percent that of the
overall company average. The QA people sometimes just sent his code back
to him (From:
[email protected] To:
[email protected] Subject:
Your code... Body: ...sucks) rather than trying to get it to build and run.
Three weeks after Liam died, Murray's team leader pulled his commit
privileges on the CVS repository, which meant that he had to grovel with
one of the other coders when he wanted to add his work to the project.
Two months after Liam died, Murray was put on probation.
Three months after Liam died, Murray was given two weeks' leave and an
e-mail from HR with contact info for an in-plan shrink who could counsel
him. The shrink recommended Cognitive Therapy, which he explained in
detail, though all Murray remembered ten minutes after the session was
that he'd have to do it every week for years, and the name reminded him of
Cognitive Dissonance, which was the name of Liam's favorite stupid Orange
County garage band.
Murray returned to Global Semiconductor's Mountain View headquarters after
three more sessions with the shrink. He badged in at the front door, at
the elevator, and on his floor, sat at his desk and badged in again on his
PC.
From:
[email protected] To:
[email protected] Subject: Welcome
back! Come see me... Body: ...when you get in.
Tomas Vanya was Murray's team lead, and rated a glass office with a door.
The blinds were closed, which meant: dead Murray walking. Murray closed
the door behind him and sighed a huge heave of nauseated relief. He'd
washed out of Silicon Valley and he could go home to Vancouver and live in
his parents' basement and go salmon fishing on weekends with his
high-school drinking buds. He didn't exactly love Global Semi, but shit,
they were number three in a hot, competitive sector where Moore's Law
drove the cost of microprocessors relentlessly downwards as their speed
rocketed relentlessly skyward. They had four billion in the bank, a
healthy share price, and his options were above water, unlike the poor
fucks at Motorola, number four and falling. He'd washed out of the
nearly-best, what the fuck, beat spending his prime years in Hongcouver
writing government-standard code for the Ministry of Unbelievable
Dullness.
Even the number-two chair in Tomas Vanya's office kicked major ergonomic
azz. Murray settled into it and popped some of the controls experimentally
until the ess of his spine was cushioned and pinioned into
chiropractically correct form. Tomas unbagged a Fourbucks Morning Harvest
muffin and a venti coconut Frappucino and slid them across his
multi-tiered Swedish Disposable Moderne desque.
"A little welcome-back present, Murray," Tomas said. Murray listened for
the sound of a minimum-wage security guard clearing out his desk during
this exit-interview-cum-breakfast-banquet. He wondered if Global Semi
would forward-vest his options and mentally calculated the strike price
minus the current price times the number of shares times the conversion
rate to Canadian Pesos and thought he could maybe put down 25 percent on a
two bedroom in New Westminster.
"Dee-licious and noo-tritious," Murray said and slurped at the frappe.
"So," Tomas said. "So."
Here it comes, Murray thought, and sucked up a brain-freezing mouthful of
frou-frou West Coast caffeine delivery system. G0nz0red. Fi0red.
Sh17canned. Thinking in leet-hacker crap made it all seem more distant.
"It's really great to see you again," Tomas said. "You're a really
important part of the team here, you know?"
Murray restrained himself from rolling his eyes. He was fired, so why draw
it out? There'd been enough lay-offs at Global Semi, enough boom and bust
and bust and bust that it was a routine, they all knew how it went.
But though Murray was an on Air Canada jet headed for Vangroover, Tomas
wasn't even on the damned script. "You're sharp and seasoned. You can
communicate effectively. Most techies can't write worth a damn, but you're
good. It's rare."
Ah, the soothing sensation of smoke between one's buttocks. It was true
that Murray liked to write, but there wasn't any money in it, no glory
either. If you were going to be a writer in the tech world, you'd have to
be -
"You've had a couple weeks off to reassess things, and we've been
reassessing, too. Coding, hell, most people don't do it for very long.
Especially assembler, Jesus, if you're still writing assembler after five
years, there's something, you know, wrong. You end up in management or you
move horizontally. Or you lose it." Tomas realized that he'd said the
wrong thing and blushed.
Aw, shit.
"Horizontal movement. That's the great thing about a company this size.
There's always somewhere you can go when you burn out on one task."
No, no, no.
"The Honorable Computing initiative is ready for documentation, Murray. We
need a tech writer who can really nail it."
A tech writer. Why not just break his goddamned fingers and poke his eyes
out? Never write another line of code, never make the machine buck and hum
and make his will real in the abstract beauty of silicon? Tech writers
were coders' janitors, documenting the plainly self-evident logic of APIs
and code-structures, niggling over punctuation and grammar and frigging
stylebooks, like any of it mattered - human beings could parse English,
even if it wasn't well-formed, even if you had a comma-splice or a
dangling participle.
"It's a twelve month secondment, a change of pace for you and a chance for
us to evaluate your other strengths. You go to four weeks' vacation and we
accelerate your vesting and start you with a new grant at the same strike
price, over 24 months."
Murray did the math in his head, numbers dancing. Four weeks' vacation -
that was three years ahead of schedule, not that anyone that senior ever
used his vacation days, but you could bank them for retirement or, ahem,
exit strategy. The forward vesting meant that he could walk out and fly
back to Canada in three weeks if he hated it and put 30 percent down on a
two-bedroom in New West.
And the door was closed and the blinds were drawn and the implication was
clear. Take this job or shove it.
He took the job.
A month later he was balls-deep in the documentation project and feeling,
you know, not horrible. The Honorable Computing initiative was your basic
Bond-villain world-domination horseshit, of course, but it was technically
sweet and it kept him from misting over and bawling. And they had cute
girls on the documentation floor, liberal arts/electrical engineering
double-majors with abs you could bounce a quarter off of who were doing
time before being promoted up to join the first cohort of senior female
coders to put their mark on the Valley.
He worked late most nights, only marking the passing of five PM by his
instinctive upwards glance as all those fine, firm rear ends walked past
his desk on their way out of the office. Then he went into night mode,
working by the glow of his display and the emergency lights until the
custodians came in and chased him out with their vacuum cleaners.
One night, he was struggling to understand the use-cases for Honorable
Computing when the overhead lights flicked on, shrinking his pupils to
painful pinpricks. The cleaners clattered in and began to pointedly empty
the wastebins. He took the hint, grabbed his shoulderbag and staggered for
the exit, badging out as he went.
His car was one of the last ones in the lot, a hybrid Toyota with a lot of
dashboard geek-toys like a GPS and a back-seat DVD player, though no one
ever rode in Murray's back seat. He'd bought it three months before Liam
died, cashing in some shares and trading in the giant gas-guzzling SUV
he'd never once taken off-road.
As he aimed his remote at it and initiated the cryptographic handshake -
i.e., unlocked the doors - he spotted the guy leaning against the car.
Murray's thumb jabbed at the locking button on the remote, but it was too
late: the guy had the door open and he was sliding into the passenger
seat.
In the process of hitting the remote's panic button, Murray managed to pop
the trunk and start the engine, but eventually his thumb mashed the right
button and the car's lights strobed and the horn blared. He backed slowly
towards the office doors, just as the guy found the dome-light control and
lit up the car's interior and Murray got a good look at him.
It was Liam.
Murray stabbed at the remote some more and killed the panic button. Jesus,
who was going to respond at this hour in some abandoned industrial park in
the middle of the Valley anyway? The limp-dick security guard? He squinted
at the face in the car.
Liam. Still Liam. Not the skeletal Liam he'd last seen rotted and
intubated on a bed at San Jose General. Not the porcine Liam he'd laughed
with over a million late-night El Torito burritos. A fit, healthy, young
Liam, the Liam he'd met the day they both started at Global Semi at
adjacent desks, Liam fresh out of Cal Tech and fit from his weekly
lot-hockey game and his weekend dirtbike rides in the hills. Liam-prime,
or maybe Liam's younger brother or something.
Liam rolled down the window and struck a match on the passenger-side door,
then took a Marlboro Red from a pack in his shirt pocket and lit it.
Murray walked cautiously to the car, his thumb working on his cellphone,
punching in the numbers 9-1-1 and hovering over "SEND." He got close
enough to see the scratch the match-head had left on the side-panel and
muttered "fuck" with feeling.
"Hey dirtbag, you kiss your mother with that mouth?" Liam said. It was
Liam.
"You kiss your mother after I'm through with her mouth?" Murray said, the
rote of old times. He gulped for air.
Liam popped the door and got out. He was ripped, bullish chest and
cartoonish wasp-waist, rock-hard abs through a silvery club-shirt and
bulging thighs. A body like that, it's a full-time job, or so Murray had
concluded after many failed get-fit initiatives involving gyms and
retreats and expensive home equipment and humiliating early-morning jogs
through the sidewalk-free streets of Shallow Alto.
"Who the fuck are you?" Murray said, looking into the familiar eyes, the
familiar smile-lines and the deep wrinkle between Liam's eyes from his
concentration face. Though the night was cool, Murray felt runnels of
sweat tracing his spine, trickling down between his buttocks.
"You know the answer, so why ask? The question isn't who, it's how. Let's
drive around a little and I'll tell you all about it."
Liam clapped a strong hand on his forearm and gave it a companionable
squeeze. It felt good and real and human.
"You can't smoke in my car," Murray said.
"Don't worry," Liam said. "I won't exhale."
Murray shook his head and went around to the driver's side. By the time he
started the engine, Liam had his seatbelt on and was poking randomly at
the on-board controls. "This is pretty rad. You told me about it, I
remember, but it sounded stupid at the time. Really rad." He brought up
the MP3 player and scrolled through Murray's library, adding tracks to a
mix, cranking up the opening crash of an old, old, old punk Beastie Boys
song. "The speakers are for shit, though!" he hollered over the music.
Murray cranked the volume down as he bounced over the speed bumps, badged
out of the lot, and headed for the hills, stabbing at the GPS to bring up
some roadmaps that included the private roads way up in the highlands.
"So, do I get two other ghosts tonight, Marley, or are you the only one?"
Liam found the sunroof control and flicked his smoke out into the road.
"Ghost, huh? I'm meat, dude, same as you. Not back from the dead, just
back from the mostly dead." He did the last like Billy Crystal as Miracle
Max in "The Princess Bride," one of their faves. "I'll tell you all about
it, but I want to catch up on your shit first. What are you working on?"
"They've got me writing docs," Murray said, grateful of the car's darkness
covering his blush.
"Awwww," Liam said. "You're shitting me."
"I kinda lost it," Murray said. "Couldn't code. About six months ago.
After."
"Ah," Liam said.
"So I'm writing docs. It's a sideways promotion and the work's not bad.
I'm writing up Honorable Computing."
"What?"
"Sorry, it was after your time. It's a big deal. All the semiconductor
companies are in on it: Intel, AMD, even Motorola and Hitachi. And
Microsoft - they're hardcore for it."
"So what is it?"
Murray turned onto a gravel road, following the tracery on the glowing GPS
screen as much as the narrow road, spiraling up and up over the sparse
lights of Silicon Valley. He and Liam had had a million bullshit sessions
about tech, what was vaporware and what was killer, and now they were
having one again, just like old times. Only Liam was dead. Well, if it was
time for Murray to lose his shit, what better way than in the hills, great
tunes on the stereo, all alone in the night?
Murray was warming up to the subject. He'd wanted someone he could really
chew this over with since he got reassigned, he'd wanted Liam there to key
off his observations. "OK, so, the Turing Machine, right? Turing's
Universal Machine. The building-block of modern computation. In Turing's
day, you had all these specialized machines: a machine for solving
quadratics, a machine for calculating derivatives, and so on. Turing came
up with the idea of a machine that could configure itself to be any
specialized machine, using symbolic logic: software. Included in the
machines that you can simulate in a Turing Machine is another Turing
Machine, like Java or VMWare. With me?"
"With you."
"So this gives rise to a kind of existential crisis. When your software is
executing, how does it know what its execution environment is? Maybe it's
running on a Global Semi Itanium clone at 1.6 gigahertz, or maybe it's
running on a model of that chip, simulated on a Motorola G5 RISC
processor."
"Got it."
"Now, forget about that for a sec and think about Hollywood. The coked-up
Hollyweird fatcats hate Turing Machines. I mean, they want to release
their stuff over the Internet, but they want to deliver it to you in a
lockbox. You get to listen to it, you get to watch it, but only if they
say so, and only if you've paid. You can buy it over and over again, but
you can never own it. It's scrambled - encrypted - and they only send you
the keys when you satisfy a license server that you've paid up. The keys
are delivered to a secure app that you can't fuxor with, and the app locks
you out of the video card and the sound card and the drive while it's
decrypting the stream and showing it to you, and then it locks everything
up again once you're done and hands control back over to you."
Liam snorted. "It is to laugh."
"Yeah, I know. It's bullshit. It's Turing Machines, right? When the
software executes on your computer, it has to rely on your computer's
feedback to confirm that the video card and the sound card are locked up,
that you're not just feeding the cleartext stream back to the drive and
then to 10,000,000 pals online. But the ‘computer' it's executing on could
be simulated inside another computer, one that you've modified to your
heart's content. The ‘video card' is a simulation; the ‘sound card' is a
simulation. The computer is a brain in a bottle, it's in the Matrix, it
can't trust its senses because you're in control, it's a Turing Machine
nested inside another Turing Machine."
"Like Descartes."
"What?"
"You gotta read your classics, bro. I've been catching up over the past
six months or so, doing a lot of reading. Mostly free e-books from the
Gutenberg Project. Descartes' "Meditations" are some heavy shiznit.
Descartes starts by saying that he wants to figure out some stuff about
the world, but he can't, right, because in order to say stuff about the
world, he needs to trust his senses, but his senses are wrong all the
time. When he dreams, his senses deliver full-on THX all-digital IMAX, but
none of it's really there. How does he know when he's dreaming or when
he's awake? How does he know when he's experiencing something or imagining
it? How does he know he's not a brain in a jar?"
"So, how does he know?" Murray asked, taking them over a reservoir on a
switchback road, moonlight glittering over the still water, occulted by
fringed silhouettes of tall California pines.
"Well, that's where he pulls some religion out of his ass. Here's how it
goes: God is good, because part of the definition of God is goodness. God
made the world. God made me. God made my senses. God made my senses so
that I could experience the goodness of his world. Why would God give me
bum senses? QED, I can trust my senses."
"It is like Descartes," Murray said, accelerating up a new hill.
"Yeah?" Liam said. "Who's God, then?"
"Crypto," Murray said. "Really good, standards-defined crypto. Public
ciphersystems whose details are published and understood. AES, RSA, good
crypto. There's a signing key for each chip fab - ours is in some secret
biometrics-and-machineguns bunker under some desert. That key is used to
sign another key that's embedded in a tamper-resistant chip -"
Liam snorted again.
"No, really. Not tamper-proof, obviously, but tamper-resistant - you'd
need a tunneling microscope or a vat of Freon to extract the keys from the
chip. And every chip has its own keys, so you'd need to do this for every
chip, which doesn't, you know, scale. So there's this chip full of
secrets, they call the Fritz chip, for Fritz Hollings, the Senator from
Disney, the guy who's trying to ban computers so that Hollywood won't go
broke. The Fritz chip wakes up when you switch on the machine, and it uses
its secret key to sign the operating system - well, the boot-loader and
the operating system and the drivers and stuff - so now you've got a bunch
of cryptographic signatures that reflect the software and hardware
configuration of your box. When you want to download Police Academy n,
your computer sends all these keys to Hollywood central, attesting to the
operating environment of your computer. Hollywood decides on the fly if it
wants to trust that config, and if it does, it encrypts the movie, using
the keys you've sent. That means that you can only unscramble the movie
when you're running that Fritz chip, on that CPU, with that version of the
OS and that video driver and so on."
"Got it: so if the OS and the CPU and so on are all ‘Honorable'" - Liam
described quote-marks with his index fingers - "then you can be sure that
the execution environment is what the software expects it to be, that it's
not a brain in a vat. Hollywood movies are safe from Napsterization."
They bottomed out on the shore of the reservoir and Murray pulled over.
"You've got it."
"So basically, whatever Hollywood says, goes. You can't fake an interface,
you can't make any uses that they don't authorize. You know that these
guys sued to make the VCR illegal, right? You can't wrap up an old app in
a compatibility layer and make it work with a new app. You say Microsoft
loves this? No fucking wonder, dude - they can write software that won't
run on a computer running Oracle software. It's your basic Bond-villain -"
"- world-domination horseshit. Yeah, I know."
Liam got out of the car and lit up another butt, kicked loose stones into
the reservoir. Murray joined him, looking out over the still water.
"Ring Minus One," Liam said, and skipped a rock over the oily-black
surface of the water, getting four long bounces out of it.
"Yeah." Murray said. Ring Zero, the first registers in the processor, was
where your computer checked to figure out how to start itself up.
Compromise Ring Zero and you can make the computer do anything - load an
alternate operating system, turn the whole box into a brain-in-a-jar,
executing in an unknown environment. Ring Minus One, well, that was like
God-code, space on another, virtual processor that was unalterable, owned
by some remote party, by LoCal and its entertainment giants. Software was
released without any copy-prevention tech because everyone knew that
copy-prevention tech didn't work. Nevertheless, Hollywood was always
chewing the scenery and hollering, they just didn't believe that the
hairfaces and ponytails didn't have some seekrit tech that would keep
their movies safe from copying until the heat death of the universe or the
expiry of copyright, whichever came last.
"You run this stuff," Liam said, carefully, thinking it through, like he'd
done before he got sick, murdered by his need to feed speedballs to his
golden, tracked-out arm. "You run it and while you're watching a movie,
Hollywood 0wnz your box." Murray heard the zero and the zee in 0wnz.
Hacker-speak for having total control. No one wants to be 0wnz0red by some
teenaged script-kiddie who's found some fresh exploit and turned it loose
on your computer.
"In a nutsac. Gimme a butt."
Liam shook one out of the pack and passed it to Murray, along with a box
of Mexican strike-anywhere matches. "You're back on these things?" Liam
said, a note of surprise in his voice.
"Not really. Special occasion, you being back from the dead and all. I've
always heard that these things'd kill me, but apparently being killed
isn't so bad - you look great."
"Artful segue, dude. You must be burning up with curiosity."
"Not really," Murray said. "Figgered I'm hallucinating. I haven't
hallucinated up until now, but back when I was really down, you know,
clinical, I had all kinds of voices muttering in my head, telling me that
I'd fucked up, it was all fucked up, crash the car into the median and do
the world a favor, whatever. You get a little better from that stuff by
changing jobs, but maybe not all the way better. Maybe I'm going to fill
my pockets with rocks and jump in the lake. It's the next logical step,
right?"
Liam studied his face. Murray tried to stay deadpan, but he felt the old
sadness that came with the admission, the admission of guilt and weakness,
felt the tears pricking his eyes. "Hear me out first, OK?" Liam said.
"By all means. It'd be rude not to hear you out after you came all the way
here from the kingdom of the dead."
"Mostly dead. Mostly. Ever think about how all the really good shit in
your body - metabolism, immunoresponse, cognition - it's all in Ring Minus
One? Not user-accessible? I mean, why is it that something like wiggling
your toes is under your volitional control, but your memory isn't?"
"Well, that's complicated stuff - heartbeat, breathing, immunoresponse,
memory. You don't want to forget to breathe, right?"
Liam hissed a laugh. "Horse-sheeit," he drawled. "How complicated is
moving your arm? How many muscle-movements in a smile? How many
muscle-movements in a heartbeat? How complicated is writing code versus
immunoresponse? Why when you're holding your breath can't you hold it
until you don't want to hold it anymore? Why do you have to be a fucking
Jedi Master to stop your heart at will?"
"But the interactions -"
"More horseshit. Yeah, the interactions between brain chemistry and body
and cognition and metabolism are all complicated. I was a speed-freak, I
know all about it. But it's not any more complicated than any of the other
complex interactions you master every day - wind and attack and spin when
someone tosses you a ball; speed and acceleration and vectors when you
change lanes; don't even get me started on what goes on when you season a
soup. No, your body just isn't that complicated - it's just hubris that
makes us so certain that our meat-sacks are transcendently complex.
"We're simple, but all the good stuff is 0wned by your autonomic systems.
They're like conditional operators left behind by a sloppy coder: while x
is true, do y. We've only had the vaguest idea what x is, but we've got a
handle on y, you betcha. Burning fat, for example." He prodded Murray's
gut-overhang with a long finger. Self-consciously, Murray tugged his
JavaOne gimme jacket tighter.
"For forty years now, doctors have been telling us that the way to keep
fit is to exercise more and eat less. That's great fucking advice, as can
be demonstrated by the number of trim, fit residents of Northern
California that can be found waddling around any shopping mall off
Interstate 101. Look at exercise, Jesus, what could be stupider? Exercise
doesn't burn fat, exercise just satisfies the condition in which your body
is prepared to burn fat off. It's like a computer that won't boot unless
you restart it twice, switch off the monitor, open the CD drive and stand
on one foot. If you're a luser, you do all this shit every time you want
to boot your box, but if you're a leet hax0r like you and me, you just
figure out what's wrong with the computer and fix it. You don't sacrifice
a chicken twice a day, you 0wn the box, so you make it dance to your tune.
"But your meat, it's not under your control. You know you have to exercise
for 20 minutes before you start burning any fat at all? In other words,
the first twenty minutes are just a goddamned waste of time. It's
sacrificing a chicken to your metabolism. Eat less, exercise more is a
giant chicken-sacrifice, so I say screw it. I say, you should be
super-user in your own body. You should be leet as you want to be. Every
cell in your body should be end-user modifiable."
Liam held his hands out before them, then stretched and stretched and
stretched the fingers, so that each one bent over double. "Triple jointed,
metabolically secure, cognitively large and in charge. I 0wn, dude."
Liam fished the last cig out of the pack, crumpled it and tucked it into a
pocket. "Last one," he said. "Wanna share?"
"Sure," Murray said, dazedly. "Yeah," he said, taking the smoke and
bringing it to his lips. The tip, he realized too late, was dripping with
saliva. He made a face and handed it back to Liam. "Aaagh! You juiced the
filter!"
"Sorry," Liam said, "talking gets my spit going. Where was I? Oh, yeah, I
0wn. Want to know how it happened?"
"Does it also explain how you ended up not dead?"
"Mostly dead. Indeed it does."
Murray walked back to the car and lay back on the hood, staring at the
thin star-cover and the softly swaying pine-tops. He heard Liam begin to
pace, heard the cadence of Liam's thinking stride, the walk he fell into
when he was on a roll.
"Are you sitting comfortably?" Liam said. "Then I shall begin."
The palliatives on the ward were abysmal whiners, but they were still
better than the goddamned church volunteers who came by to patch-adams at
them. Liam was glad of the days when the dementia was strong, morphine
days when the sun rose and set in a slow blink and then it was bedtime
again.
Lucky for him, then, that lucid days were fewer and farther between.
Unlucky for him that his lucid days, when they came, were filled with the
G-Men.
The G-Men had come to him in the late days of his tenure on the palliative
ward. They'd wheeled him into a private consultation room and given him a
cigarette that stung the sores on his lips, tongue and throat. He coughed
gratefully.
"You must be the Fed," Liam said. "No one else could green-light indoor
smoking in California." Liam had worked for the Fed before. Work in the
Valley and you end up working for the Fed, because when the cyclic
five-year bust arrives, the only venture capital that's liquid in the U.S.
is military research green - khaki money. He'd been seconded twice to
biometrics-and-machineguns bunkers where he'd worked on need-to-know
integration projects for Global Semi's customers in the
Military-Industrial Simplex.
The military and the alphabet soup of Fed cops gave birth to the Valley.
After WWII, all those shipbuilder engineers and all those radar engineers
and all those radio engineers and the tame academics at Cal Tech and Cal
and Stanford sorta congealed, did a bunch of startups and built a bunch of
crap their buds in the Forces would buy.
Khaki money stunted the Valley. Generals didn't need to lobby in Congress
for bigger appropriations. They just took home black budgets that were
silently erased from the books, aerosolized cash that they misted over the
eggheads along Highway 101. Two generations later, the Valley was filled
with techno-determinists, swaggering nerd squillionaires who were
steadfastly convinced that the money would flow forever and ever amen.
Then came Hollywood, the puny $35 billion David that slew the $600 billion
Goliath of tech. They bought Congresscritters, had their business-models
declared fundamental to the American way of life, extended copyright ad
[inifinitum|nauseam] and generally kicked the shit out of tech in DC.
They'd been playing this game since 1908, when they sued to keep the
player piano off the market, and they punched well above their weight in
the legislative ring. As the copyright police began to crush tech
companies throughout the Valley, khaki money took on the sweet appeal of
nostalgia, strings-free cash for babykiller projects that no one was going
to get sued over.
The Feds that took Liam aside that day could have been pulled from a
fiftieth anniversary revival of "Nerds and Generals." Clean-cut,
stone-faced, prominent wedding-bands. The Feds had never cared for Liam's
jokes, though it was his trackmarks and not his punchlines that eventually
accounted for his security clearance being yanked. These two did not crack
a smile as Liam wheezed out his pathetic joke.
Instead, they introduced themselves gravely. Col. Gonzalez - an MD, with
caduceus insignia next to his silver birds - and Special Agent Fredericks.
Grateful for his attention, they had an offer to make him.
"It's experimental, and the risks are high. We won't kid you about that."
"I appreciate that," Liam wheezed. "I like to live dangerously. Give me
another smoke, willya?"
Col. Gonzalez lit another Marlboro Red with his brass Zippo and passed him
a sheaf of papers. "You can review these here, once we're done. I'm afraid
I'll have to take them with me when we go, though."
Liam paged through the docs, passing over the bio stuff and nodding his
head over the circuit diagrams and schematics. "I give up," he said. "What
does it all do?"
"It's an interface between your autonomic processes and a
microcontroller."
Liam thought about that for a moment. "I'm in," he said.
Special Agent Fredericks' thin lips compressed a hair and his eyes gave
the hintiest hint of a roll. But Col. Gonzalez nodded to himself. "All
right. Here's the protocol: tomorrow, we give you a bug. It's a controlled
mutagen that prepares your brainstem so that it emits and receives weak
electromagnetic fields that can be manipulated with an external
microcontroller. In subjects with effective immunoresponse, the bug takes
less than one percent of the time -"
"But if you're dying of AIDS, that's not a problem," Liam said and smiled
until some of the sores at the corners of his mouth cracked and released a
thin gruel of pus. "Lucky fucking me."
"You grasp the essentials," the Colonel said. "There's no surgery
involved. The interface regulates immunoresponse in the region of the
insult to prevent rejection. The controller has a serial connector that
connects to a PC that instructs it in respect of the governance of most
bodily functions."
Liam smiled slantwise and butted out. "God, I'd hate to see the project
you developed this shit for. Zombie soldiers, right? You can tell me, I've
got clearance."
Special Agent Fredericks shook his head. "Not for three years, you
haven't. And you never had clearance to get the answer to that question.
But once you sign here and here and here, you'll almost have clearance to
get some of the answers." He passed a clipboard to Liam.
Liam signed, and signed, and signed. "Autonomic processes, right?"
Col. Gonzalez nodded. "Correct."
"Including, say, immunoresponse?"
"Yes, we've had very promising results in respect of the immune system. It
was one of the first apps we wrote. Modifies the genome to produce
virus-hardened cells and kick-starts production of new cells."
"Yeah, until some virus out-evolves it," Liam said. He knew how to debug
vaporware.
"We issue a patch," the Colonel said.
"I write good patches," Liam said.
"We know," Special Agent Fredericks said, and gently prized the clipboard
from his fingers.
* * *
The techs came first, to wire Liam up. The new bug in his system broadened
his already-exhaustive survey of the ways in which the human body can
hurt. He squeezed his eyes tight against the morphine rush and lazily
considered the possibility of rerouting pain to a sort of dull tickle.
The techs were familiar Valley-dwellers, portly and bedecked with
multitools and cellular gear and wireless PDAs. They handled him like
spoiled meat, with gloves and wrinkled noses, and talked shop over his
head to one another.
Colonel Gonzalez supervised, occasionally stepping away to liaise with the
hospital's ineffectual medical staff.
A week of this - a week of feeling like his spine was working its way out
of his asshole, a week of rough latex hands and hacker jargon - and he was
wheeled into a semi-private room, surrounded by louche oatmeal-colored
commodity PCs - no keyboards or mice, lest he get the urge to tinker.
The other bed was occupied by Joey, another Silicon Valley needle-freak, a
heroin addict who'd been a design engineer for Apple, figuring out how to
cram commodity hardware into stylish gumdrop boxen. Joey and Liam croaked
conversation between themselves when they were both lucid and alone. Liam
always knew when Joey was awake by the wet hacking coughs he wrenched out
of his pneumonia-riddled lungs. Alone together, ignored by the mad
scientists who were hacking their bodies, they struck up a weak and
hallucinogenic camaraderie.
"I'm not going to sleep," Joey said, in one timeless twilight.
"So don't sleep, shit," Liam said.
"No, I mean, ever. Sleep, it's like a third of your life, 20, 30 years.
What's it good for? It resets a bunch of switches, gives your brain a
chance to sort through its buffers, a little oxygenation for your tissues.
That stuff can all take place while you're doing whatever you feel like
doing, hiking in the hills or getting laid. Make ‘em into cron jobs and
nice them down to the point where they just grab any idle cycles and do
their work incrementally."
"You're crazy. I like to sleep," Liam said.
"Not me. I've slept enough in this joint, been on the nod enough, I never
want to sleep another minute. We're getting another chance, I'm not
wasting a minute of it." Despite the braveness of his words, he sounded
like he was half-asleep already.
"Well, that'll make them happy. All part of a good super-soldier, you
know."
"Now who's crazy?"
"You don't believe it? They're just getting our junkie asses back online
so they can learn enough from us to field some mean, lean, heavily
modified fighting-machines."
"And then they snuff us. You told me that this morning. Yesterday? I still
don't believe it. Even if you're right about why they're doing this,
they're still going to want us around so they can monitor the long-term
effects."
"I hope you're right."
"You know I am."
Liam stared into the ceiling until he heard Joey's wet snores, then he
closed his eyes and waited for the fever dreams.
Joey went critical the next day. One minute, he was snoring away in bed
while Liam watched a daytime soap with headphones. The next minute, there
were twenty people in the room: nurses, doctors, techs, even Col.
Gonzalez. Joey was doing the floppy dance in the next bed, the OD dance
that Liam had seen once or twice, danced once or twice on an Emergency
Room floor, his heart pounding the crystal meth mambo.
Someone backhanded Liam's TV and it slid away on its articulated arm and
yanked the headphones off his head, ripping open the scabs on the slowly
healing sores on his ears. Liam stifled a yelp and listened to the
splashing sounds of all those people standing ankle-deep in something pink
and bad-smelling, and Liam realized it was watery blood and he pitched
forward and his empty stomach spasmed, trying to send up some bile or
mucous, clicking on empty.
Colonel Gonzales snapped out some orders and two techs abandoned their
fretting over one of the computers, yanked free a tangle of roll-up,
rubberized keyboards and trackballs and USB cables, piled them on the side
of Liam's gurney, snapped up the guard rails and wheeled him out of the
room.
They crashed through a series of doors before hitting a badgepoint. One
tech thought he'd left his badge back in the room on its lanyard (he
hadn't - he'd dropped it on the gurney and Liam had slipped it under the
sheets), the other one wasn't sure if his was in one of his many pockets.
As they frisked themselves, Liam stole his skeletal hand out from under
the covers, a hand all tracked out with collapsed IV veins and yellowing
fingernails, a claw of a hand.
The claw shook as Liam guided it to a keyboard, stole it under the covers,
rolled it under the loose meat of his thigh.
* * *
"Need to know?" Liam said, spitting the words at Col. Gonzalez. "If I
don't need to know what happened to Joey, who the fuck does?"
"You're not a medical professional, Liam. You're also not cleared. What
happened to Joey was an isolated incident, nothing to worry about."
"Horseshit! You can tell me what happened to Joey or not, but I'll find
out, you goddamned betcha."
The Colonel sighed and wiped his palms on his thighs. He looked like shit,
his brush-cut glistening with sweat and scalp-oil, his eyes bagged and his
youthful face made old with exhaustion lines. It had been two hours since
Joey had gone critical - two hours of lying still with the keyboard
nestled under his thigh, on the gurney in the a locked room, until they
came for him again. "I have a lot of work to do yet, Liam. I came to see
you as a courtesy, but I'm afraid that the courtesy is at a close." He
stood.
"Hey!" Liam croaked after him. "Gimme a fucking cigarette, will you?"
Once the Colonel was gone, Liam had the run of the room. They'd mopped it
out and disinfected it and sent Joey's corpse to an Area 51 black ops
morgue for gruesome autopsy, and there was only half as much hardware
remaining, all of it plugged back into the hard pucker of skin on the back
of Liam's neck.
Cautiously, Liam turned himself so that the toes of one foot touched the
ground. Knuckling his toes, he pushed off towards the computers, the
gurney's wheels squeaking. Painfully, arthritically, he inched to the
boxes, then plugged in and unrolled the keyboard.
He hit the spacebar and got rid of the screen-saver, brought up a login
prompt. He'd been stealthily shoulder-surfing the techs for weeks now, and
had half a dozen logins in his brain. He tapped out the login/pass
combination and he was in.
The machine was networked to a CVS repository in some bunker, so the first
thing he did was login to the server and download all the day's commits,
then he dug out the READMEs. While everything was downloading, he logged
into the tech's e-mail account and found Col. Gonzalez's account of Joey's
demise.
It was encrypted with the group's shared key as well as the tech's key,
but he'd shoulder-surfed both, and after three tries, he had cleartext on
the screen.
Hydrostatic shock. The membranes of all of Joey's cells had ruptured
simultaneously, so that he'd essentially burst like a bag of semi-liquid
Jell-O. Preliminary indications were that the antiviral cellular
modifications had gone awry due to some idiosyncrasy of Joey's "platform"
- his physiology, in other words - and that the "fortified" cell-membranes
had given way disastrously and simultaneously.
A ghoulish giggle escaped Liam's lips. Venture capitalists liked to talk
about "liquidity events" - times in the life of a portfolio company when
the investors get to cash out: acquisition and IPO, basically. Liam had
always joked that the VCs needed adult diapers to cope with their
liquidity events, but now he had a better one. Joey had experienced the
ultimate liquidity event.
The giggle threatened to rise into a squeal as he contemplated a liquidity
event of his own, so he swallowed it and got into the READMEs and the
source code.
He wasn't a biotech, wasn't a medical professional, but neither were the
coders who'd been working on the mods that were executing on his
"platform" at that very moment. In their comments and data-structures and
READMEs, they'd gone to great pains to convert medical jargon to
geekspeak, so that Liam was actually able to follow most of it.
One thing he immediately gleaned is that his interface was modifying his
cells to be virus-hardened as slowly as possible. They wanted a controlled
experiment, data on every stage of the recovery - if a recovery was indeed
in the cards.
Liam didn't want to wait. He didn't even have to change the code - he just
edited a variable in the config file and respawned the process. Where
before he'd been running at a pace that would reverse the course of HIV in
his body in a space of three weeks, now he was set to be done in three
hours. What the fuck - how many chances was he going to get to screw
around after they figured out that he'd been tinkering?
* * *
Manufacturing the curative made him famished. His body was burning a lot
of calories, and after a couple hours he felt like he could eat the ass
out of a dead bear. Whatever was happening was happening, though! He felt
the sores on his body dry up and start to slough off. He was hungry enough
that he actually caught himself peeling off the scabby cornflakes and
eating them. It grossed him out, but he was hungry.
His only visitor that night was a nurse, who made enough noise with her
trolley on the way down the hall that he had time to balance the keyboard
on top of the monitor and knuckle the bed back into position. The nurse
was pleased to hear that he had an appetite and obligingly brought him a
couple of supper-trays - the kitchen had sent up one for poor Joey, she
explained.
Once Liam was satisfied that she was gone, he returned to his task with a
renewed sense of urgency. No techs and no docs and no Colonel for six
hours now - there must be a shitload of paperwork and fingerpointing over
Joey, but who knew how long it would last?
He stuffed his face, nailing about three thousand calories over the next
two hours, poking through the code. Here was a routine for stimulating the
growth of large muscle-groups. Here was one for regenerating fine nerves.
The enhanced reflexes sounded like a low-cal option, too, so he executed
it. It was all betaware, but as between a liquidity event, a slow death on
the palliative ward and a chance at a quick cure, what the fuck, he'd take
his chances.
He was chuckling now, going through the code, learning the programmers'
style and personality from their comments and variable names. He was so
damned hungry, and the muscles in his back and limbs and ass and gut all
felt like they were home to nests of termites.
He needed more food. He gingerly peeled off the surgical tape holding on
controller and its cable. Experimentally, he stood. His inner ear twirled
rollercoaster for a minute or two, but then it settled down and he was
actually erect - upright - well, both, he could cut glass with that boner,
it was the first one he'd had in a year - and walking!
He stole out into the hallway, experiencing a frisson of delight and then
the burning ritual humiliation of any person who finds himself in a public
place wearing a hospital gown. His bony ass was hanging out of the back,
the cool air of the dim ward raising goose-pimples on it.
He stepped into the next room. It was dusky-dark, the twilight of a
hospital nighttime, and the two occupants were snoring in contratime. Each
had his (her? it was too dark to tell) own nightstand, piled high with
helium balloons, Care Bears, flowers and baskets of nuts, dried fruits and
chocolates. Saliva flooded Liam's mouth. He tiptoed across to each
nightstand and held up the hem of his gown, then grinched the food into
the pocket it made.
Stealthily, he stole his way down the length of the ward, emptying
fruit-baskets, boxes of candy and chocolate, leftover dinner trays. By the
time he returned to his room, he could hardly stand. He dumped the food
out on the bed and began to shovel it into his face, going back through
the code, looking for obvious bugs, memory leaks, buffer overruns. He
found several and recompiled the apps, accelerating the pace of growth in
his muscles. He could actually feel himself bulking up, feel the tone
creeping back into his flesh.
He'd read the notes in the READMEs on waste heat and the potential to
denature enzymes, so he stripped naked and soaked towels in a quiet
trickle of ice-water in the small sink. He kept taking breaks from his
work to wring out the steaming towels he wrapped around his body and wet
them down again.
The next time he rose, his legs were springy. He parted the slats of the
blinds and saw the sun rising over the distant ocean and knew it was time
to hit the road, jack.
He tore loose the controller and its cable and shut down the computer. He
undid the thumbscrews on the back of the case and slid it away, then
tugged at the sled for the hard-disk until it sprang free. He ducked back
out into the hall and quickly worked his way through the rooms until he
found one with a change of men's clothes neatly folded on the chair -
ill-fitting tan chinos and a blue Oxford shirt, the NoCal yuppie uniform.
He found a pair of too-small penny-loafers too and jammed his feet into
the toes. He dressed in his room and went through the wallet that was
stuck in the pants pocket. A couple hundred bucks' worth of cash, some
worthless plastic, a picture of a heavyset wife and three chubby kids. He
dumped all the crap out, kept the cash, snatched up the drive-sled and
booted, badging out with the tech's badge.
"How long have you been on the road, then?" Murray asked. His mouth tasted
like an ashtray and he had a mild case of the shakes.
"Four months. I've been breaking into cars mostly. Stealing laptops and
selling them for cash. I've got a box at the rooming-house with the
hard-drive installed, and I've been using an e-gold account to buy little
things online to help me out."
"Help you out with what?"
"Hacking - duh. First thing I did was reverse-engineer the interface bug.
I wanted a safe virus I could grow arbitrary payloads for in my body. I
embedded the antiviral hardening agent in the vector. It's a sexually
transmissible wellness, dude. I've been barebacking my way through the
skankiest crack-hoes in the Tenderloin, playing Patient Zero, infecting
everyone with the Cure."
Murray sat up and his head swam. "You did what?"
"I cured AIDS. It's going around, it's catching, you might already be a
winner."
"Jesus, Liam, what the fuck do you know about medicine? For all you know,
your cure is worse than the disease - for all you know, we're all going to
have a - ‘liquidity event‘ any day now!"
"No chance of that happening, bro. I isolated the cause of that early on.
This medical stuff is just not that complicated - once you get over the
new jargon, it's nothing you can't learn as you go with a little judicious
googling. Trust me. You're soaking in it."
It took Murray a moment to parse that. "You infected me?"
"The works - I've viralized all the best stuff. Metabolic controllers,
until further notice, you're on a five-cheeseburger-a-day diet; increased
dendrite density; muscle-builders. At-will pain-dampeners. You'll need
those - I gave you the interface, too."
A spasm shot up Murray's back, then down again.
"It was on the cigarette butt. You're cancer-immune, by the by. I'm extra
contagious tonight." Liam turned down his collar to show Murray the taped
lump there, the dangling cable that disappeared down his shirt, connecting
to the palmtop strapped to his belt.
Murray arched his back and mewled through locked jaws.
Liam caught his head before it slammed into the Toyota's hood. "Breathe,"
he hissed. "Relax. You're only feeling the pain because you're choosing
not to ignore it. Try to ignore it, you'll see. It kicks azz."
* * *
"I needed an accomplice. A partner in crime. I'm underground, see? No
credit-card, no ID. I can't rent a car or hop a plane. I needed to recruit
someone I could trust. Naturally, I thought of you."
"I'm flattered," Murray sarcased around a mouthful of double-bacon
cheeseburger with extra mayo.
"You should be, asshole," Liam said. They were at Murray's one-bedroom
techno-monastic condo: shit sofa, hyper-ergonomic chairs, dusty home
theatre, computers everywhere. Liam drove them there, singing into the
wind that whipped down from the sunroof, following the GPS's sterile
eurobabe voice as it guided them back to the anonymous shitbox building
where Murray had located his carcass for eight years.
"Liam, you're a pal, really, my best friend ever, I couldn't be happier
that you're alive, but if I could get up I would fucking kill you. You
raped me, asshole. Used my body without my permission."
"You see it that way now, but give it a couple weeks, it'll, ah, grow on
you. Trust me. It's rad. So, call in sick for the next week - you're going
to need some time to get used to the mods."
"And if I don't?"
"Do whatever you want, buddy, but I don't think you're going to be in any
shape to go to work this week - maybe not next week either. Tell them it's
a personal crisis. Take some vacation days. Tell ‘em you're going to a
fat-farm. You must have a shitload of holidays saved up."
"I do," Murray said. "I don't know why I should use them, though."
"Oh, this is the best vacation of all, the Journey Thru Innerspace. You're
going to love it."
* * *
Murray hadn't counted on the coding.
Liam tunneled into his box at the rooming house and dumped its drive to
one of the old laptops lying around Murray's apartment. He set the laptop
next to Murray while he drove to Fry's Electronics to get the cabling and
components he needed to make the emitter/receiver for the interface.
They'd always had a running joke that you can build anything from parts at
Fry's, but when Liam invoked it, Murray barely cracked a smile. He was
stepping through the code in a debugger, reading the comments Liam had
left behind as he'd deciphered its form and function.
He was back in it. There was a runtime that simulated the platform and as
he tweaked the code, he ran it on the simulator and checked out how his
body would react if he executed it for real. Once he got a couple of
liquidity events, he saw that Liam was right, they just weren't that hard
to avoid.
The API was great, there were function calls for just about everything. He
delved into the cognitive stuff right off, since it was the area that was
rawest, that Liam had devoted the least effort to. At-will serotonin
production. Mnemonic perfection. Endorphin production, adrenalin. Zen
master on a disk. Who needs meditation and biofeedback when you can do it
all in code?
Out of habit, he was documenting as he went along, writing proper
tutorials for the API, putting together a table of the different kinds of
interaction he got with different mods. Good, clear docs, ready for
printing, able to be slotted in as online help in the developer toolkit.
Inspired by Joey, he began work on a routine that would replace all the
maintenance chores that the platform did in sleep-mode, along with a
subroutine that suppressed melatonin and all the other circadian chemicals
that induced sleep.
Liam returned from Fry's with bags full of cabling and soldering guns and
breadboards. He draped a black pillowcase over a patch of living-room
floor and laid everything out on it, wires and strippers and crimpers and
components and a soldering gun, and went to work methodically, stripping
and crimping and twisting. He'd taken out his own connector for reference
and he was comparing them both, using a white LED torch on a headband to
show him the pinouts on the custom end.
"So I'm thinking that I'll clone the controller and stick it on my head
first to make sure it works. You wear my wire and I'll burn the new one in
for a couple days and then we can swap. OK?"
"Sure," Murray said, "whatever." His fingers rattled on the keys.
"Got you one of these," Liam said and held up a bulky Korean palmtop.
"Runs Linux. You can cross-compile the SDK and all the libraries for it;
the compiler's on the drive. Good if you want to run an interactive app -"
an application that changed its instructions based on output from the
platform - "and it's stinking cool, too. I fucking love gear."
"Gear's good," Murray agreed. "Cheap as hell and faster every time I turn
around."
"Well, until Honorable Computing comes along," Liam said. "That'll put a
nail in the old coffin."
"You're overreacting."
"Naw. Just being realistic. Open up a shell, OK? See at the top, how it
says ‘tty'? The kernel thinks it's communicating with a printer. Your
shell window is a simulation of a printer, so the kernel knows how to talk
to it - it's got plenty of compatibility layers between it and you. If the
guy who wrote the code doesn't want you to interface with it, you can't.
No emulation, that's not ‘honorable.' Your box is 0wned."
Murray looked up from his keyboard. "So what do you want me to do about
it, dead man?"
"Mostly dead," Liam said. "Just think about it, OK? How much money you got
in your savings account?"
"Nice segue. Not enough."
"Not enough for what?"
"Not enough for sharing any of it with you."
"Come on, dude, I'm going back underground. I need fifty grand to get out
of the country - Canada, then buy a fake passport and head to London. Once
I'm in the EU, I'm in good shape. I learned German last week, this week
I'm doing French. The dendrite density shit is the shit."
"Man und zooperman," Murray said. "If you're zo zooper, go and earn a buck
or two, OK?"
"Come on, you know I'm good for it. Once this stuff is ready to go -"
"What stuff?"
"The codebase! Haven't you figured it out yet? It's a startup! We go into
business in some former-Soviet Stan in Asia or some African kleptocracy.
We infect the locals with the Cure, then the interface, and then we sell
‘em the software. It's viral marketing, gettit?"
"Leaving aside CIA assassins, if only for the moment, there's one gigantic
flaw in your plan, dead-man."
"I'm all aflutter with anticipation."
"There's no fucking revenue opportunity. The platform spreads for free -
it's already out there, you've seeded it with your magic undead
super-cock. The hardware is commodity hardware, no margin and no money.
The controller can be built out of spare parts from Fry's - next gen,
we'll make it WiFi, so that we're using commodity wireless chipsets and
you can control the device from a distance -"
"- yeah, and that's why we're selling the software!" Liam hopped from foot
to foot in a personal folk-dance celebrating his sublime cleverness.
"In Buttfuckistan or Kleptomalia. Where being a warez d00d is an honorable
trade. We release our libraries and binaries and APIs and fifteen minutes
later, they're burning CDs in every souk and selling them for ten cents a
throw."
"Nope, that's not gonna happen."
"Why not?"
"We're gonna deploy on Honorable hardware."
"I am not hearing this." Murray closed the lid of his laptop and tore into
a slice of double-cheese meat-lover's deep-dish pizza. "You are not
telling me this."
"You are. I am. It's only temporary. The interface isn't Honorable, so
anyone who reverse-engineers it can make his own apps. We're just getting
ours while the getting is good. All the good stuff - say, pain-control and
universal antiviral hardening - we'll make for free, viralize it. Once our
stuff is in the market, the whole world's going to change, anyway.
There'll be apps for happiness, cures for every disease, hibernation,
limb-regeneration, whatever. Anything any human body has ever done, ever,
you'll be able to do at-will. You think there's going to be anything
recognizable as an economy once we're ubiquitous?"
Every morning, upon rising, Murray looked down at his toes and thought,
"Hello toes." It had been ten years since he'd had regular acquaintance
with anything south of his gut. But his gut was gone, tight as a drumhead.
He was free from scars and age-marks and unsightly moles and his beard
wouldn't grow in again until he asked it to. When he thought about it, he
could feel the dull ache of the new teeth coming in underneath the ones
that had grown discolored and chipped, the back molar with all the ugly
amalgam fillings, but if he chose to ignore it, the pain simply went away.
He flexed the muscles, great and small, all around his body. His fat index
was low enough to see the definition of each of those superbly toned slabs
of flexible contained energy - he looked like an anatomy lesson, and it
was all he could do not to stare at himself in the mirror all day.
But he couldn't do that - not today, anyway. He was needed back at the
office. He was already in the shitter at work over his "unexpected trip to
a heath-farm," and if he left it any longer, he'd be out on his toned ass.
He hadn't even been able to go out for new clothes - Liam had every liquid
cent he could lay hands on, as well as his credit-cards.
He found a pair of ancient, threadbare jeans and a couple of medium
t-shirts that clung to the pecs that had grown up underneath his formerly
sagging man-boobs and left for the office.
He drew stares on the way to his desk. The documentation department hummed
with hormonal female energy, and half a dozen of his co-workers found
cause to cruise past his desk before he took his morning break. As he
greedily scarfed up a box of warm Krispy Kremes, his cellphone rang.
"Yeah?" he said. The caller-ID was the number of the international GSM
phone he'd bought for Liam.
"They're after us," Liam said. "I was at the Surrey border-crossing and
the Canadian immigration guy had my pic!"
Murray's heart pounded. He concentrated for a moment, then his heart
calmed, a jolt of serotonin lifting his spirits. "Did you get away?"
"Of course I got away. Jesus, you think that the CIA gives you a phone
call? I took off cross-country, went over the fence for the duty-free and
headed for the brush. They shot me in the fucking leg - I had to dig the
bullet out with my multitool. I'm sending in ass-loads of T-cells and
knitting it as fast as I can."
Panic crept up Murray's esophagus, and he tamped it down. It broke out in
his knees, he tamped it down. His balance swam, he stabilized it. He
focused his eyes with an effort. "They shot you?"
"I think they were trying to wing me. Look, I burned all the source in
4,096-bit GPG ciphertext onto a couple of CDs, then zeroed out my drive.
You've got to do the same, it's only a matter of time until they run my
back-trail to you. The code is our only bargaining chip."
"I'm at work - the backups are at home, I just can't."
"Leave, asshole, like now! Go - get in your car and drive. Go home and
start scrubbing the drives. I left a bottle of industrial paint-stripper
behind and a bulk eraser. Unscrew every drive-casing, smash the platters
and dump them in a tub with all the stripper, then put the tub onto the
bulk-eraser - that should do it. Keep one copy, ciphertext only, and make
the key a good one. Are you going?"
"I'm badging out of the lot, shit, shit, shit. What the fuck did you do to
me?"
"Don't, OK? Just don't. I've got my own problems. I've got to go now. I'll
call you later once I get somewhere."
* * *
He thought hard on the way back to his condo, as he whipped down the
off-peak emptiness of Highway 101. Being a coder was all about doing
things in the correct order: first a; then b; then, if c equals d, e;
otherwise, f.
First, get home. Then set the stateful operation of his body for maximal
efficiency: reset his metabolism, increase the pace of dendrite
densification. Manufacture viralized anti-viral in all his serum. Lots of
serotonin and at-will endorphin. Hard times ahead.
Next, encipher and back up the data to a removable. Did he have any CD
blanks at home? With eidetic clarity, he saw the half-spent spool of
generic blanks on the second shelf of the media totem.
Then trash the disks, pack a bag and hit the road. Where to?
He pulled into his driveway, hammered the elevator button a dozen times,
then bolted for the stairs. Five flights later, he slammed his key into
the lock and went into motion, executing the plan. The password gave him
pause - generating a 4,096 bit key that he could remember was going to be
damned hard, but then he closed his eyes and recalled, with perfect
clarity, the first five pages of documentation he'd written for the API.
His fingers rattled on the keys at speed, zero typos.
He was just dumping the last of the platters into the acid bath when they
broke his door down. Half a dozen big guys in martian riot-gear, outsized
science-fiction black-ops guns. One flipped up his visor and pointed to a
badge clipped to a D-ring on his tactical vest.
"Police," he barked. "Hands where I can see them."
The serotonin flooded the murky grey recesses of Murray's brain and he was
able to smile nonchalantly as he straightened from his work, hands held
loosely away from his sides. The cop pulled a zap-strap from a holster at
his belt and bound his wrists tight. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves
and untaped the interface on the back of Murray's neck, then slapped a
bandage over it.
"Am I under arrest?"
"You're not cleared to know that," the cop said.
"Special Agent Fredericks, right?" Murray said. "Liam told me about you."
"Dig yourself in deeper, that's right. No one wants to hear from you. Not
yet, anyway." He took a bag off his belt, then, in a quick motion, slid it
over Murray's head, cinching it tight at the throat, but not so tight he
couldn't breathe. The fabric passed air, but not light, and Murray was
plunged into total darkness. "There's a gag that goes with the hood. If
you play nice, we won't have to use it."
"I'm nice, I'm nice," Murray said.
"Bag it all and get it back to the house. You and you, take him down the
back way."
Murray felt the bodies moving near him, then thick zap-straps cinching his
arms, knees, thighs and ankles. He tottered and tipped backwards, twisting
his head to avoid smacking it, but before he hit the ground, he'd be
roughly scooped up into a fireman's carry, resting on bulky body-armor.
As they carried him out, he heard his cellphone ring. Someone plucked it
off his belt and answered it. Special Agent Fredericks said, "Hello,
Liam."
* * *
Machineguns-and-biometrics bunkers have their own special signature scent,
scrubbed air and coffee farts and ozone. They cut his clothes off and
disinfected him, then took him through two air-showers to remove
particulate that the jets of icy pungent Lysol hadn't taken care of. He
was dumped on a soft pallet, still in the dark.
"You know why you're here," Special Agent Fredericks said from somewhere
behind him.
"Why don't you refresh me?" He was calm and cool, heart normal. The
cramped muscles bound by the plastic straps eased loose, relaxing under
him.
"We found two CDs of encrypted data on your premises. We can crack them,
given time, but it will reflect well on you if you assist us in our
inquiries."
"Given about a billion years. No one can brute-force a 4,096-bit GPG
cipher. It's what you use in your own communications. I've worked on
military projects, you know that. If you could factor out the products of
large primes, you wouldn't depend on them for your own security. I'm not
getting out of here ever, no matter how much I cooperate."
"You've got an awfully low opinion of your country, sir." Murray thought
he detected a note of real anger in the Fed's voice and tried not to take
satisfaction in it.
"Why? Because I don't believe you've got magic technology hidden away up
your asses?"
"No, sir, because you think you won't get just treatment at our hands."
"Am I under arrest?"
"You're not cleared for that information."
"We're at an impasse, Special Agent Fredericks. You don't trust me and I
don't have any reason to trust you."
"You have every reason to trust me," the voice said, very close in now.
"Why?"
The hood over his tag was tugged to one side and he heard a sawing sound
as a knife hacked through the fabric at the base of his skull. Gloved
fingers worked a plug into the socket there. "Because," the voice hissed
in his ear, "because I am not stimulating the pain center of your brain.
Because I am not cutting off the blood-supply to your extremities. Because
I am not draining your brain of all the serotonin there or leaving you in
a vegetative state. Because I can do all of these things and I'm not."
Murray tamped his adrenals, counteracted their effect, relaxed back into
his bonds. "You think you could outrace me? I could stop my heart right
now, long before you could do any of those things." Thinking: I am a total
bad-azz, I am. But I don't want to die.
"Tell him," Liam said.
"Liam?" Murray tried to twist his head toward the voice, but strong hands
held it in place.
"Tell him," Liam said again. "We'll get a deal. They don't want us dead,
they just want us under control. Tell him, OK?"
Murray's adrenals were firing at max now, he was sweating uncontrollably.
His limbs twitched hard against his bonds, the plastic straps cutting into
them, the pain surfacing despite his efforts. It hit him. His wonderful
body was 0wnz0red by the Feds.
"Tell me, and you have my word that no harm will come to you. You'll get
all the resources you want. You can code as much as you want."
Murray began to recite his key, all five pages of it, through the muffling
hood.
Liam was fully clothed, no visual restraints. As Murray chafed feeling
back into his hands and feet, Liam crossed the locked office with its grey
industrial carpeting and tossed him a set of khakis and a pair of boxers.
Murray dressed silently, then turned his accusing glare on Liam.
"How far did you get?"
"I didn't even make it out of the state. They caught me in Sebastopol,
took me off the Greyhound in cuffs with six guns on me all the time."
"The disks?"
"They needed to be sure that you got rid of all the backups, that there
wasn't anything stashed online or in a safe-deposit box, that they had the
only copy. It was their idea."
"Did you really get shot?"
"I really got shot."
"I hope it really fucking hurt."
"It really fucking hurt."
"Well, good."
The door opened and Special Agent Fredericks appeared with a big brown bag
of Frappuccinos and muffins. He passed them around.
"My people tell me that you write excellent documentation, Mr. Swain."
"What can I say? It's a gift."
"And they tell me that you two have written some remarkable code."
"Another gift."
"We always need good coders here."
"What's the job pay? How are the bennies? How much vacation?"
"As much as you want, excellent, as long as you want, provided we approve
the destinations first. Once you're cleared."
"It's not enough," Murray said, upending twenty ounces of West Coast
frou-frou caffeine delivery system on the carpeting.
"Come on, Murray," Liam said. "Don't be that way."
Special Agent Fredericks fished in the bag and produced another novelty
coffee beverage and handed it to Murray. "Make this one last, it's all
that's left."
"With all due respect," Murray said, feeling a swell of righteousness in
his chest, in his thighs, in his groin, "go fuck yourself. You don't 0wn
me."
"They do, Murray. They 0wn both our asses." Liam said, staring into the
puddle of coffee slurry on the carpet.
Murray crossed the room as fast as he could and smacked Liam, open palm,
across the cheek.
"That will do," Special Agent Fredericks said, with surprising mildness.
"He needed smacking," Murray said, without rancor, and sat back down.
"Liam, why don't you wait for us in the hallway?"
* * *
"You came around," Liam said. "Everyone does. These guys 0wn."
"I didn't ask to share a room with you, Liam. I'm not glad I am. I'd
rather not be reminded of that fact, so shut your fucking mouth before I
shut it for you."
"What do you want, an apology? I'm sorry. I'm sorry I infected you, I'm
sorry I helped them catch you. I'm sorry I fuxored your life. What can I
say?"
"You can shut up anytime now."
"Well, this is going to be a swell living-arrangement."
The room was labeled "Officers' Quarters," and it had two good, firm
queen-sized mattresses, premium cable, two identical stainless-steel
dressers, and two good ergonomic chairs. There were junction boxes beside
each desk with locked covers that Murray supposed housed Ethernet ports.
All the comforts of home.
Murray lay on his bed and pulled the blankets over his head. Though he
didn't need to sleep, he chose to.
* * *
For two weeks, Murray sat at his assigned desk, in his assigned cube, and
zoned out on the screen-saver. He refused to touch the keyboard, refused
to touch the mouse. Liam had the adjacent desk for a week, then they moved
him to another office, so that Murray had solitude in which to contemplate
the whirling star-field. He'd have a cup of coffee at 10:30 and started to
feel a little sniffly in the back of his nose. He ate in the commissary at
his own table. If anyone sat down at his table, he stood up and left. They
didn't sit at his table. At 2PM, they'd send in a box of warm Krispy
Kremes, and by 3PM, his blood-sugar would be crashing and he'd be sobbing
over his keyboard. He refused to adjust his serotonin levels.
On the third Monday, he turned up at his desk at 9AM as usual and found a
clipboard on his chair with a ball-point tied to it.
Discharge papers. Non-disclosure agreements. Cross-your-heart swears on
pain of death. A modest pension. Post-It "sign here" tabs had been stuck
on here, here and here.
* * *
The junkie couldn't have been more than fifteen years old. She was
death-camp skinny, tracked out, sitting cross-legged on a cardboard box on
the sidewalk, sunning herself in the thin Mission noonlight. "Wanna buy a
laptop? Two hundred bucks."
Murray stopped. "Where'd you get it?"
"I stole it," she said. "Out of a convertible. It looks real nice.
One-fifty."
"Two hundred," Murray said. "But you've got to do me a favor."
"Three hundred, and you wear a condom."
"Not that kind of favor. You know the Radio Shack on Mission at 24th? Give
them this parts list and come back here. Here's a $100 down-payment."
He kept his eyes peeled for the minders he'd occasionally spotted
shadowing him when he went out for groceries, but they were nowhere to be
seen. Maybe he'd lost them in the traffic on the 101. By the time the girl
got back with the parts he'd need to make his interface, he was sweating
bullets, but once he had the laptop open and began to rekey the entire
codebase, the eidetic rush of perfect memory dispelled all his
nervousness, leaving him cool and calm as the sun set over the Mission.
* * *
From the sky, Africa was green and lush, but once the plane touched down
in Mogadishu, all Murray saw was sere brown plains and blowing dust. He
sprang up from his seat, laundering the sleep toxins in his brain and the
fatigue toxins in his legs and ass as he did.
He was the first off the jetway and the first at the Customs desk.
"Do you have any commercial or work-related goods, sir?"
"No sir," Murray said, willing himself calm.
"But you have a laptop computer," the Customs man said, eyeballing his
case.
"Oh, yeah. That. Can't ever get away from work, you know how it is."
"I certainly hope you find time to relax, sir." The Customs man stamped
the passport he'd bought in New York.
"When you love your work, it can be relaxing."
"Enjoy your stay in Somalia, sir."
The End
