Tag: Internet

Of Mechanical Minds

A few weeks back, a friend of mine, Nicola Higgins, directed me to an article about Google’s new neural net. Not only did she provide me with a damn interesting read, she also challenged me to write an article about the different types of robot brains. Well, Nicola, as Barny Stintson would say “Challenge Accepted!”And I got to say, it was a fun topic to get into.

After much research and plugging away at the lovely thing known as the internet (which was predicted by Vannevar Bush with his proposed Memor-Index system (aka. Memex) 50 years ago, btw) I managed to compile a list of the most historically relevant examples of mechanical minds, culminating in the development of Google’s Neural Net. Here we go..

Earliest Examples:
Even in ancient times, the concept of automata and arithmetic machinery can be found in certain cultures. In the Near East, the Arab World, and as far East as China, historians have found examples of primitive machinery that was designed to perform one task or another. And even though few specimens survive, there are even examples of machines that could perform complex mathematical calculations…

Antikythera mechanism:
Invented in ancient Greece, and recovered in 1901 on the ship that bears the same name, the Antikythera is the world’s oldest known analog calculator, invented to calculate the positions of the heavens for ancient astronomers. However, it was not until a century later that its true complexity and significance would be fully understood. Having been built in the 1st century BCE, it would not be until the 14th century CE that machines of its complexity would be built again.

Although it is widely theorized that this “clock of the heavens” must have had several predecessors during the Hellenistic Period, it remains the oldest surviving analog computer in existence. After collecting all the surviving pieces, scientists were able to reconstruct the design (pictured at right), which essentially amounted to a large box of interconnecting gears.

Pascaline:
Otherwise known as the Arithmetic Machine and Pascale Calculator, this device was invented by French mathematician Blaise Pascal in 1642 and is the first known example of a mechanized mathematical calculator. Apparently, Pascale invented this device to help his father reorganize the tax revenues of the French province of Haute-Normandie, and went on to create 50 prototypes before he was satisfied.

Of those 50, nine survive and are currently on display in various European museums. In addition to giving his father a helping hand, its introduction launched the development of mechanical calculators all over Europe and then the world. It’s invention is also directly linked to the development of the microprocessing circuit roughly three centuries later, which in turn is what led to the development of PC’s and embedded systems.

The Industrial Revolution:
With the rise of machine production, computational technology would see a number of developments. Key to all of this was the emergence of the concept of automation and the rationalization of society. Between the 18th and late 19th centuries, as every aspect of western society came to be organized and regimented based on the idea of regular production, machines needed to be developed that could handle this task of crunching numbers and storing the results.

Jacquard Loom:
Invented by Joseph Marie Jacquard, a French weaver and merchant, in 1801, the Loom that bears his name is the first programmable machine in history, which relied on punch cards to input orders and turn out textiles of various patterns. Thought it was based on earlier inventions by Basile Bouchon (1725), Jean Baptiste Falcon (1728) and Jacques Vaucanson (1740), it remains the most well-known example of a programmable loom and the earliest machine that was controlled through punch cards.

Though the Loom was did not perform computations, the design was nevertheless an important step in the development of computer hardware. Charles Babbage would use many of its features to design his Analytical Engine (see next example) and the use of punch cards would remain a stable in the computing industry well into the 20th century until the development of the microprocessor.

Analytical Engine:
Also known as the “Difference Engine”, this concept was originally proposed by English Mathematician Charles Babbage. Beginning in 1822 Babbage began contemplating designs for a machine that would be capable of automating the process of creating error free tables, which arose out of difficulties encountered by teams of mathematicians who were attempting to do it by hand.

Though he was never able to complete construction of a finished product, due to apparent difficulties with the chief engineer and funding shortages, his proposed engine incorporated an arithmetical unit, control flow in the form of conditional branching and loops, and integrated memory, making it the first Turing-complete design for a general-purpose computer. His various trial models (like that featured at left) are currently on display in the Science Museum in London, England.

The Birth of Modern Computing:
The early 20th century saw the rise of several new developments, many of which would play a key role in the development of modern computers. The use of electricity for industrial applications was foremost, with all computers from this point forward being powered by Alternating and/or Direct Current and even using it to store information. At the same time, older ideas would be remain in use but become refined, most notably the use of punch cards and tape to read instructions and store results.

Tabulating Machine:
The next development in computation came roughly 70 years later when Herman Hollerith, an American statistician, developed a “tabulator” to help him process information from the 1890 US Census. In addition to being the first electronic computational device designed to assist in summarizing information (and later, accounting), it also went on to spawn the entire data processing industry.

Six years after the 1890 Census, Hollerith formed his own company known as the Tabulating Machine Company that was responsible for creating machines that could tabulate info based on punch cards. In 1924, after several mergers and consolidations, Hollerith’c company was renamed International Business Machines (IBM), which would go on to build the first “supercomputer” for Columbia University in 1931.

Atanasoff–Berry Computer:
Next, we have the ABC, the first electronic digital computing device in the world. Conceived in 1937, the ABC shares several characteristics with its predecessors, not the least of which is the fact that it is electrically powered and relied on punch cards to store data. However, unlike its predecessors, it was the first machine to use digital symbols to compute and was the first computer to use vacuum tube technology

These additions allowed the ABC to acheive computational speeds that were previously thought impossible for a mechanical computer. However, the machine was limited in that it could only solve systems of linear equations, and its punch card system of storage was deemed unreliable. Work on the machine also stopped when it’s inventor John Vincent Atanasoff was called off to assist in World War II cryptographic assignments. Nevertheless, the machine remains an important milestone in the development of modern computers.

Colossus:
There’s something to be said about war being the engine of innovation. The Colossus is certainly no stranger to this rule, the machine used to break German codes in the Second World War. Due to the secrecy surrounding it, it would not have much of an influence on computing and would not be rediscovered until the 1990’s. Still, it represents a step in the development of computing, as it relied on vacuum tube technology and punch tape in order to perform calculations, and proved most adept at solving complex mathematical computations.

Originally conceived by Max Newman, the British mathematician who was chiefly responsible fore breaking German codes in Bletchley Park during the war, the machine was a proposed means of combatting the German Lorenz machine, which the Nazis used to encode all of their wireless transmissions. With the first model built in 1943, ten variants of the machine for the Allies before war’s end and were intrinsic in bringing down the Nazi war machine.

Harvard Mark I:
Also known as the “IBM Automatic Sequence Controlled Calculator (ASCC)”, the Mark I was an electro-mechanical computer that was devised by Howard H. Aiken, built by IBM, and officially presented to Harvard University in 1944. Due to its success at performing long, complex calculations, it inspired several successors, most of which were used by the US Navy and Air Force for the purpose of running computations.

According to IBM’s own archives, the Mark I was the first computer that could execute long computations automatically. Built within a steel frame 51 feet (16 m) long and eight feet high, and using 500 miles (800 km) of wire with three million connections, it was the industry’s largest electromechanical calculator and the largest computer of its day.

Manchester SSEM:
Nicknamed “Baby”, the Manchester Small-Scale Experimental Machine (SSEM) was developed in 1948 and was the world’s first computer to incorporate stored-program architecture.Whereas previous computers relied on punch tape or cards to store calculations and results, “Baby” was able to do this electronically.

Although its abilities were still modest – with a 32-bit word length, a memory of 32 words, and only capable of performing subtraction and negation without additional software – it was still revolutionary for its time. In addition, the SSEM also had the distinction of being the result of Alan Turing’s own work – another British crytographer who’s theories on the “Turing Machine” and development of the algorithm would form the basis of modern computer technology.

The Nuclear Age to the Digital Age:
With the end of World War II and the birth of the Nuclear Age, technology once again took several explosive leaps forward. This could be seen in the realm of computer technology as well, where wartime developments and commercial applications grew by leaps and bounds. In addition to processor speeds and stored memory multiplying expontentially every few years, the overall size of computers got smaller and smaller. This, some theorized would lead to the development of computers that were perfectly portable and smart enough to pass the “Turing Test”. Imagine!

IBM 7090:
The 7090 model which was released in 1959, is often referred to as a third generation computer because, unlike its predecessors which were either electormechanical  or used vacuum tubes, this machine relied transistors to conduct its computations. In addition, it was an improvement on earlier models in that it used a 36-bit word length and could store up to 32K (32,768) words, a modest increase in processing over the SSEM, but a ten thousand-fold increase in terms of storage capacity.

And of course, these improvements were mirrored in the fact the 7090 series were also significantly smaller than previous versions, being about the size of a desk rather than an entire room. They were also cheaper and were quite popular with NASA, Caltech and MIT.

PDP-8:
In keeping with the trend towards miniaturization, 1965 saw the development of the first commercial minicomputer by the Digital Equipment Corporation (DEC). Though large by modern standards (about the size of a minibar) the PDP-8, also known as the “Straight-8”, was a major improvement over previous models, and therefore a commercial success.

In addition, later models also incorporated advanced concepts like the Real-Time Operating System and preemptive multitasking. Unfortunately, early models still relied on paper tape in order to process information. It was not until later that the computer was upgraded to take advantage of controlling language  such as FORTRAN, BASIC, and DIBOL.

Intel 4004:
Founded in California in 1968, the Intel Corporation quickly moved to the forefront of computational hardware development with the creation of the 4004, the worlds first Central Processing Unit, in 1971. Continuing the trend towards smaller computers, the development of this internal processor paved the way for personal computers, desktops, and laptops.

Incorporating the then-new silicon gate technology, Intel was able to create a processor that allowed for a higher number of transistors and therefore a faster processing speed than ever possible before. On top of all that, they were able to pack in into a much smaller frame, which ensured that computers built with the new CPU would be smaller, cheaper and more ergonomic. Thereafter, Intel would be a leading designer of integrated circuits and processors, supplanting even giants like IBM.

Apple I:
The 60’s and 70’s seemed to be a time for the birthing of future giants. Less than a decade after the first CPU was created, another upstart came along with an equally significant development. Named Apple and started by three men in 1976 – Steve Jobs, Steve Wozniak, and Ronald Wayne – the first product to be marketed was a “personal computer” (PC) which Wozniak built himself.

One of the most distinctive features of the Apple I was the fact that it had a built-in keyboard. Competing models of the day, such as the Altair 8800, required a hardware extension to allow connection to a computer terminal or a teletypewriter machine. The company quickly took off and began introducing an upgraded version (the Apple II) just a year later. As a result, Apple I’s remain a scarce commodity and very valuable collector’s item.

The Future:
The last two decades of the 20th century also saw far more than its fair of developments. From the CPU and the PC came desktop computers, laptop computers, PDA’s, tablet PC’s, and networked computers. This last creation, aka. the Internet, was the greatest leap by far, allowing computers from all over the world to be networked together and share information. And with the exponential increase in information sharing that occurred as a result, many believe that it’s only a matter of time before wearable computers, fully portable computers, and artificial intelligences are possible. Ah, which brings me to the last entry in this list…

The Google Neural Network:
googleneuralnetworkFrom mechanical dials to vacuum tubes, from CPU’s to PC’s and laptops, computer’s have come a hell of a long way since the days of Ancient Greece. Hell, even within the last century, the growth in this one area of technology has been explosive, leading some to conclude that it was just a matter of time before we created a machine that was capable of thinking all on its own.

Well, my friends, that day appears to have dawned. Already, Nicola and myself blogged about this development, so I shan’t waste time going over it again. Suffice it to say, this new program, which thus far has been able to identify pictures of cats at random, contains the necessary neural capacity to acheive 1/1000th of what the human brain is capable of. Sounds small, but given the exponential growth in computing, it won’t be long before that gap is narrowed substantially.

Who knows what else the future will hold?  Optical computers that use not electrons but photons to move information about? Quantum computers, capable of connecting machines not only across space, but also time? Biocomputers that can be encoded directly into our bodies through our mitochondrial DNA? Oh, the possibilities…

Creating machines in the likeness of the human mind. Oh Brave New World that hath such machinery in it. Cool… yet scary!

Nominated for a VBA!

Well, this is awkward. It seems I’ve been nominated for a VBA for the third and fourth time… by two people… in the space of two days. I’m not sure what to do… I can’t imagine there’s a protocol for something like this, but I assume that the practical thing to do would be to roll them into one and acknowledge everyone who made it possible.

For starters, thanks to Dave W at theroadmarathon and Richard at Richard’s Ramblings for the nomination. You guys both rock!

And of course, seven things about myself… going to be hard to think up things I didn’t say the last two times.

  1. I have a notorious love for the color green. An inordinate amount of my clothes are this color. It’s embarrassing when they clash!
  2. I’m a historian and English teacher by training, for high school students. How I got into writing sci-fi and teaching elementary kids is kind of a long story.
  3. I am obsessive. When I want to learn about something, I kind of OD on it before moving on. It’s how I got into the history of WWII, Star Wars, cool-looking guns, and sci-fi literature.
  4. I don’t do organized sports. Though I’ve been doing Taekwon-Do for over two decades, I have no real love for organized sports outside of martial arts and MMA. Some people don’t get this, can’t say I blame them.
  5. I have more girl friends than guys. Though my oldest and best friends are all men, the one thing we all have in common is in being SNAG’s (Sensitive New Age Guys). We all tend to get along better with girls than guys. Probably because there’s no dick measuring involved.
  6. I’ve inherited a slew of health problems from my ancestors. These include baldness, high cholesterol and other heart problems. As such, and despite the recent advances in the field of medicine, I’m likely to die at the age 65, bald and as a result of a heart attack.
  7. I don’t tan well either!

And now for my nominees!

  1. Khaalidah – Indie author and fellow grim5Next contributor Khaalidah Muhammed-Ali. In addition to being a fantastic writer, and a faithful friend, she’s also a working wife and mother. I know eh?
  2. ramiungerthewrter – Rami Ungar, a college student who’s passion for anime, horror and science fiction are a constant source of inspiration for my own work.
  3. Sotet Angyal – The dark angel, or as she’s known to her friends, Nina D’Arcangela. I recently pledged my thanks for her constant follows, but today, I would like to acknowledged her hard work as writer, publisher and a social media anarchist!
  4. Kotev1000 – The dedicated soul who runs the site European Scientist and Journalist, a site dedicated to capturing history in words and photographs.
  5. hnsieverding – Esteemed (and published) fantasy writer Mrs. Sieverding, a relatively new acquintance of mine, but one who’s extensive credentials have not failed to impress me!
  6. VictorsMovieReviews – Film buff, movie reviewer and cinematic guru, definitely a man to be consulted on the latest releases, but not someone you want to cross while waiting for tickets on opening night!
  7. jazfagan – The website of catseyesk, a notorious lover of music, practitioner of Buddhism, and lover of all things existential. If its musical, life-affirming, and spiritual, chances are she’s posted about it.
  8. nicolahigginsfiction – The home of Nicola Higgins, fellow science fiction writer AND martial artist. She is also a working woman and a wife who somehow finds the time to also run two brownie packs. Though I can only nominate 7 people, I would be derelict if I didn’t acknowledge her too.

Well, that about does it for me. Thank you all for the ongoing support and recognition. Rest assured, I am not letting it go to my head… much. If I got paid to do this, then I might start going batty. So… we’ll see how that goes 😉

1000 Likes!

Holy crap, this has been the month of milestones! As the title suggests, I have just received my 1000th “Like”! You gotta appreciate the notifications feature on this website man, they really keep you abreast of things. And as usual, there are many, many people to thank.

First off, I would like to thank jazfagan for being my 1000th like. As the person who pushed the stock ticker over, you deserve special mention. I also notice you’ve been following me and liking my posts for some time, so good for you! And me…

Also, there are many people who take the time to come by and like what I have to say. I know I can’t possibly honor everyone who has done so, but I shall try to do my best by giving credit where credit is due. The following people deserve special mention:

Amateur Professional
caralaceo
iampeterstorey
khaalidah
kotev1000
nine and a half hours ahead
magikostudios
Nonoy Manga
ramiungarthewriter
sotetangyal
thegoodbadpeople
urbannight
vandyscape
versipellusfenris
writerlious
victorsmoviereviews
zencherry

Were it not for your attention-giving, on a pretty much daily basis, I’d be typing to myself! I know this is starting to sound repetitive after three separate announcements, but it’s still true. And all the kind words of encouragement, suggestions and constructive criticism have been extremely helpful and encouraging. While I am still not as accomplished as I would like to be, stuff like this makes me think like it’s truly possible.

Thank you again, and best of luck to all of you in all your future endeavors!

The Future Is Here: Google Glasses!

It’s like something out of a cyberpunk wet dream. Long the subject of speculative science fiction, it seems that we now have a working prototype for a set of goggles that can handle our wireless and networking needs. Merging the concepts of Augmented Reality with a Head-Mounted Display (HMD), Google has created what are now known as the “Google Glasses”.

Also known as “Project Glass”, this device is the first working model for what is often referred to as mobile computing. While still being tested, the project has been unveiled and Google Inc announced that they will now be conducting public trials to test their portability and ergonomics.

But of course, some of the terminology needs a little explanation. For example, augmented reality. By definition, this is the live direct, or indirect, view of the real world with computer generated imagery laid over top. One can be walking down the street or otherwise interacting with their world, but will also be able to view a desktop browser, a web page, or streaming video laid just overtop.

According to Google, the glasses will function much like an iPhone with the Siri application, in that wearers will be able to get onto the internet using voice commands. If this goes through, Apple Inc. will have its work cut out for it if they want to remain top dog in the technology race. I wonder what Steve Jobs would have made of this, may he rest in peace!

The project is just one of several being worked on by Google X Lab’s team of crack engineers, which includes Babak Parviz, an electrical engineer who has also worked on putting displays into contact lenses; Steve Lee, a project manager and “geolocation specialist”; and Sebastian Thrun, who developed Udacity education program as well as working on their self-driving car project.

Naturally, this news is causing a great deal of excitement, but I can’t help but wonder if certain people – not the least of which is William Gibson – aren’t getting just a tinge of self-satisfaction as well? You see, it was this Vancouver-based, American born purveyor of cyberpunk that predicted both the use of “cyberspace goggles” and augmented reality many years ago. The former were featured extensively in his Sprawl Trilogy and a similar device, known as Virtual Light glasses, made several appearances in his subsequent Bridge Trilogy.

What’s more, his latest books (known as the Bigend Trilogy) also made extensive mention of Augmented Reality before most people had heard of it. Beginning with Spook Country (2007), the second book in the series, he described an artist who used wireless signals and VR goggles to simulate the appearance of dead celebrities all over LA. This new type of touristic art, known as “locative art” was the first time AR was mentioned in a pop culture context. In his third book of the series, Zero History (2010), he mentions the technology yet again but says how it has been renamed “Augmented Reality” now that its more popular. As always, Gibson was on the cutting edge, or just ahead of the curve.

Click on the links below for a little “light reading” on the announcement:

https://plus.google.com/
http://bits.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/04/04/
http://www.washingtonpost.com/business/technology/

20,000 Hits!

Morning! Some good news, netter news, and bad on this rainy day here in Victoria BC. Good news first, I’m finally over my flu… well mostly. For days it’s been dogging me and keeping me grounded. Luckily, I turned this  time towards more articling and have topped 250! Good for me. As for the better news, I just learned that my hit ticker, the thing that monitors my overall traffic, has just passed 20,000. YAAAAAAY!

Okay, now for the bad news… I lied, there is no bad news! At least none that I can see right now, but I’m heavily biased by this good news. Perhaps I’m tempting fate… Who cares?! Point is, I’ve finally reached this milestone and there are plenty of people to thank!

For starters, I want to thank Worpdress.com for the FP back in March of this year. Were it not for them posting my article Dystopian Science Fiction, on their home page, I never would have made it this far. I know, the moderators give FP’s to like a dozen people a day, but thanks to that sliver of recognition, I got over 7000 hits in the space of 24 hours. That’s almost twice what I managed to get in the 12 months leading up to it. In the space of a day, my overall traffic went from just over 4000 to 11,000, just in the space of a day!

Wow. But more importantly, that day allowed me to pick up roughly 100 new followers. 100 new colleagues, peers, friends, and collaborators to spin ideas with, bounce my thoughts off of and help with ideas of their own. This meant that every day thereafter, whenever I published something, I had 100 people to share it with, rather than just speaking my thoughts to the void. That kind of interaction is invaluable and matters far more than overall traffic, let me tell you 😉

And things only got better from there. As March rolled in April and April to May, more and more people came by to comment on what I had to say and began following my blog. In those eight weeks, my total followers went from just over 100 to 200, on WordPress that is (think I got like 600 from twitter, but they rarely stop by!) So naturally, my endless gratitude goes to all the people who came by, liked what they saw, and decided to stay. Without you, this would really be impossible!

And of course there’s my family, my darling bride, the good folks at Grim5Next, and Story Time to thank. You’re encouragement, invitations to join in writer’s projects, proofreading and editing and helpful comments have always been a source of help and inspiration. I dream of someday writing professionally, which in addition to committing all my time to it means that I’ll also get paid. Hopefully, that dream isn’t too far from realization. I can’t tell you how annoying I’ll be when that happens, at least to those who sign my checks… Freaking PAY ME!

So once again, thank you all and I hope you’ll keep coming by in the future. I have plenty more to share, new ideas to formulate, and about a million more articles concerning science fiction, pop culture and the changing world we live in. And rest assured, if I EVER get famous, I’ll be taking all of you with me! Good luck and good day!

Data Miners – Chapter 9

Tuesday night.

Prad is standing outside Angie’s apartment door. He’s been invited this time, so it’s all good. Everyone within the Society has though so it’s not exactly special either. But there is an occasion. News of their accomplishment has spread like wildfire through the DeeP underworld. The New York Times and Seattle Times ran the story, CNN and MSNBC have picked it up, and even Fox News is running segments where pundits are saying this is some kind of liberal conspiracy, which only adds weight to the scandal. The fulcrum of the scandal appears to have been the FBI, who chose not to comment when the story first broke. That, they knew, only managed to fuel all the media speculation. As they had anticipated (quite brilliantly, in Prad’s opinion) the FBI has neither confirmed nor denied the legitimacy of the Dangle photos. If they deny their authenticity, they’ll be admitting publicly that they’ve been hacked. Confirming them will ruin the Congressman’s reputation, a man who supports the controversial work they do. Either way, they’re screwed, so naturally, they choose the path of least resistance: say nothing and let the jackals assume what they want.

Prad knocks for the second time. He can hear tunes playing from inside and some bantering. The bottle of Absolut Citron is sitting against his forearm and its starting to bite. He doesn’t even like the stuff, but he knows Angie and some others like Vodka tonics so it’s what he chose to pick up on the way. Since he drove himself, it only seemed natural to bring something he wouldn’t be drinking. Simple common sense.

Prad can hear footsteps approaching the door and a shadow falls across the peephole. He smiles and waves, hearing a click from the door’s locking mechanism. The door slides open, Lynette has shown up to greet him.

“Yammie,” she says, a touch annoyed. “You’re late. Angie was starting to get pissed.”

“Why? Sounds like things started without me.”

“She says the DeeP’s are on Skype, waiting to deliver a message. She’s had them on hold until everyone got here.”

“Oh shit,” Prad says, pushing his way in and thrusting the bottle towards her. “I got held up on the freeway. Didn’t mean to hold things up.”

“Whatever, just get in there!”

Prad pushes forward into the living room. Lynette declares his arrival when he gets there. There’s little reaction, everyone is huddled around Angie’s computer, the Skype screen minimized in her tray. Angie is sitting in front of it in her work chair, momentarily looking back to acknowledge Prad’s arrival.

“Good of you to join us, now let’s get this party started.”

Everyone closes in a little tighter around her terminal when she brings the Skype function back up to fill the screen. She hits the Call button to continue the conversation; the enlarged picture of a face covered with a black cowl opens up inside the box. Prad hears a few titters from the group and chuckles himself. Clearly these guys take the whole anarchist thing to the very edge. The face is alone, and even through the cowl, they think they can see some beady eyes admitting defeat.

“On behalf of the DeeP nation,” the person begins, even the voice is altered. Probably some Radio Shack voicebox modulator they picked up for Halloween. “I am authorized to congratulate you on your exploits. You have proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that you have what it takes to take on the establishment. Fight on brave data warriors!”

The black cowled figure lets his righteous fist fill the screen, then reaches over to the cameras left side to click their mouse. The image is gone, the call ended. In the air hangs the sweet satisfaction of victory. Sa’id is the first to break the silence with some well deserved hoots and hollers.

“WOOOOOOOOO! Fucken eh!”

Achebe joins him. “Bragging rights! Who has bragging rights?!”

“Uh, we do! That’s who!”

High fives are given all around and Angie jumps off her computer to give out hugs. The first one is to Scott, predictably, and then she works her way around. Prad is last. She’s awkward about it too. There’s the momentary hesitation, followed by some palatable tension when it’s over. Even Scott appears to be shuffling his feet. To make matters worse, only the four of them get hugged, leaving out the ones who couldn’t or wouldn’t come.

It’s a bad moment, until Prad suggests what the next step in their partying might be.

“Okay, who wants to get drunk?!”

Getting close to ten o’clock and most of the guests are soused. Rage and a few of their offspring are playing from her iTunes, just a few albums seeing as how he’s heard a couple songs repeated by now. Lynette has also turned his vodka into a punch with a tall bottle of Angie’s grapefruit juice. The cocktail is a hit and Prad is on his third glass in as many hours. He’s proud of the restraint he’s shown tonight, but for some reason, he feels obliged not to embarrass himself, maybe even give some people a ride home at the end of the night. He’s not sure what reason he has for this sudden upswing in social responsibility, but there are several culprits. The new guy is one, the crap his parents have been giving him since his little outburst over the phone is another. Then there’s the very real possibility that he might be fired by the end of the month.

Yes, it’s all a rich tapestry, plenty of reasons to act all grown up. And it’s killing him. The punch is really good, and Sa’id’s drunk off his ass on it and the set of Rogue beers Claude brought. Being sober around him is just a tad bit annoying. Now he knows how other people must feel around him when he’s under the influence. At the moment they are standing together in the kitchen, Prad being nice and fetching Tania a refill while Sa’id keeps him company. The way he’s hanging off Prad’s shoulder and telling him how great he is is virtually intolerable while sober. He sees the bottles that have been arranged on Angie’s nice marble counter. He’s tempted to open one up and suck whatever is in it straight, at least until Sa’id’s fun again. Luckily, he can think of some interesting topics to talk about. For one, he’s got a chance to ask Sa’id some questions that have been on his mind for some time.

“Always wondered, dude, aren’t you forbidden from drinking?”

He knows from experience that Sa’id is a practicing Muslim, but every time they go out, he’s there tossing pints back or drinking some funny shit Prad’s never heard of. At some point, he knew he’d need to clear this up.

“Yeah, technically,” Sa’id replies mournfully. “But it’s a Persian thing, man. We do everything with wine. It’s kind of like the Turks. Them they got that Raki and Ouzo shit, just like the Greeks; been that way for centuries. So how do you tell people to give up something that’s such a big part of their culture?”

“Didn’t know that,” Prad admits. “Thought you all did the temperance thing.”

Sa’id slaps Prad’s shoulder playfully and laughs drunkenly, the kind of laugh that sends spittle and beer foam into the face of the listener. “Naw, we aint like those Arab or Kurdish fuckers who can get by on coffee and Sisha. Strict fucking dudes! No, people like us, we got too much to celebrate!”

“I thought you were Arab,” Prad says. Sa’id was in the middle of a sip and lowers the bottle. His face is twisted into a strange expression of betrayal and shock, until he’s had a second to remember it’s Prad he’s talking to and erupts in laughter. His hand lands on Prad’s shoulder a few more times.

“Dude! Don’t go saying shit like that to any of my relatives. They’ll kill you!”

Prad laughs and has to wait while Sa’id explains to him why this should be considered offensive. Apparently, and this is some surprise to Prad (in part because he can’t believe he didn’t already know this) Persians, Turks and a whole lot of Asians besides who just happen to be Muslim don’t like being called Arab. The reason: ethnically, they’re not, and it is offensive to assume otherwise. The confusion is a by-product of media misrepresentation and cultural ignorance. This Prad nods to and understands fully.

“Just like I don’t like being confused with a Chinese person, or a Cambodian,” which has happened to him repeatedly in his youth, as Sa’id knows. They’ve shared many a laugh over it, while drunk, no less. “I get it. You’d think I would have known better.”

“Yeah, you of all people,” Sa’id says half-seriously.

“Us half-breeds know best.”

Sa’id erupts again, spewing bits of beer and foam in all directions. Prad is able to join him this time, finding his own wit quite awesome. Done with their business in the kitchen, Prad and Sa’id bring Tania her drink and join the conversation already in progress. Tania, Lynette and Claude are sitting in semi-circle fashion in front of Angie’s couch, having hogged all the seats and the room’s chest. Achebe, Angie and Scott (her left leg strewn across his lap) have taken the couch with Achebe straddling the cushioned armrest. He looks to the balcony and accounts for Zuhair and Tommy, both of whom appear to be enjoying a thin joint. Prad looks longingly at them, his mouth watering at the thought of the sweet, sticky Buddha. But the couch seems to be emitting its own gravitational pull. He finds himself irresistibly drawn to it, if only to demonstrate how good he’s being.

He’s a little surprised to hear the topic of conversation, at least the path it’s taken.

“I’m just saying, I think this might have been a mistake,” he hears Tania say. It takes a few seconds of listening, but in time it’s clear that some kind of moral debate has erupted, one concerning the nature of their mission. It doesn’t take long before he also notices that a sort of partition has set in between the party guests. The little discussion groups appear to be more than just spatially divided. Now that he thinks about it, something has been amiss ever since Angie gave out selective hugs to people. Some must have felt left out, or possibly upset that others chose to do something they didn’t approve of and got away with it. Either way, he’s totally forgotten about Tommy and Zuhair and is dedicating his full attention to the debate before him.

“I mean really, what separates the DeeM’s from the DeeP’s now?”

“I told you Tania,” she replies calmly. “I’ve declared that we are a DeeMarchy now. The days of being a simple society have passed.”

“Right,” Tania says dryly. “And in this new order, are we allowed to ask questions?”

“Of course!” Angie says angrily. “We have not abandoned our principles just because we’ve upgraded. Everyone here has a say. I’m just in charge, is all.”

“Okay, but really, aren’t we supposed to be against doing all that illegal shit? I thought we were supposed to different from those DeeP dicks.”

Prad has to restrain himself from guffawing. He’s sure he saw a movie called that once, on pay-per-view or one of his many, favored many sites. Everyone else seems oblivious to the fact that she just said something potentially filthy since they are still talking about scruples.

“She’s right,” says Claude. “You guys could seriously get in trouble for this.”

“What are you talking about, we got away clean!” Achebe protests.

“For now, maybe, but what if you missed something?”

Sa’id laughs. “Missed something? Do you know who you’re talking to?”

Angie calls him over for a high-five. Their celebratory remark has only seemed to empower the detractors in their own little camp.

“Don’t be stupid. You guys went up against the feds; Christ, against the system! You think this is just going to blow over?”

It’s Lynette saying this now, and Achebe seems to be smarting a little from the remark. He looks over at Prad like he’s expecting him to say something. At first, he thinks he wants Prad to come to their defence. Then he remembers the objections he raised in private. It’s true, he did have doubts, but clearly he doesn’t like someone else giving him crap for this. A challenge was issued, and no one should make them feel ashamed for it now.

“C’mon, it’s not like we did anything wrong,” Sa’id replies. “All we did was plant some dirty and embarrassing photos of a very bad man where they could be found. The only reason we did it was to show we could.”

“Exactly,” Lynette says. “You always liked saying that the one thing that separated us from them was the fact that we could do what they do, we just don’t.”

“Right,” Angie says with a nod.

“I think it’s safe to say that that era has run its course.”

Prad looks at Lynette angrily. It might just be because she’s the oldest of their group, but she’s starting to sound quite pedantic. Those in the opposite camp can’t help but feel chastised. He’s been holding his tongue up until now, but he’s rapidly losing patience for her and her flock of doubting Thomases. But Sa’id and Achebe aren’t done with them yet.

“Hey, we don’t go around hacking people’s databases and selling the information off, alright? We do what we do because we believe in something, because we’re good at it.”

“Right, until now. Now we do what they do.”

“Except for free,” adds Claude.

“Fuck oooooooooff…”

Every eye in the room turns towards Prad. He’s a little surprised himself that the words came from his own mouth, but they’re out now and he can’t exactly put them back in. It’s like breathing wet vapor into cold air, the whole thing crystalizes before he can withdraw it. And at the moment, he’s not sure he wants to either.

“You got something you want to add to this little discussion, Yammie? You sound kinda pissed,” says Lynette.

Prad eyes her next. She did not just call him that! He directs his first response at her.

“Excuse me if I’m tired of all your little barbs and insults.”

“Well, you’re not exactly unbiased in this discussion, are you? After all, you did take part.”

Lynette says this and Tania scoffs, which only angers Prad more. Pedagogical moralizing he can respect, if not stand, but the way these other two are riding her coattails and sitting on their high horses tonight is beyond tolerable. Prad knows he’s only going to make things worse at this point, but something needs to be said in their defense. And since they’ve clearly given him the floor…

“Yeah, I’m biased,” he begins. “But so are you. You all backed out of doing this for personal or legal reasons, you didn’t say shit about the moral implications. And if you had a problem with it, I seem to recall Angie gave you a pass and said no one would think less of you. For you to come here tonight and judge her like you’ve got any right to do so seems kinda hypocritical.”

The three of them are taken aback, and a look over at Angie seems to confirm that she’s agrees. He’s a little impressed with himself right now. He’s got her in her corner and he’s even managing to smack people down in a debate. Amazing how not getting fucked up at this party seems to working in his favour.

“So we’re hypocrites, then?” Tania says. “Because we’ve pointed out that you’ve done something illegal? I mean, forget the morality for one second, you did commit a crime.”

“Since when did that stop us? Do you paid for your music or all those videos you download? Since when have any of you been against using your computers for a little guilty pleasure and social justice?”

“Are you comparing downloads to –”

Prad raises his hand to stop Lynette before she can make her perfectly valid point.

“Okay, not a fair comparison! But honestly, are you gonna’ look me in the eye and tell me you give a damn about the law? Are you really concerned with all that, or are you guys just the slightest bit jealous?”

“You think we’re jealous?” Claude asks directly.

“Yeah, I think you are,” Prad says with just a trace of self-satisfaction. “We did something pretty awesome. Might have been out of character, might have been a little crazy and just a little more illegal, but sometimes you gotta step up. And Sa’id’s right, it’s not like we did anything particularly wrong. All we did was make sure a bad man got a taste of his own medicine. You, me, we always complain about who controls the information, how bad men abuse the media and innocent people suffer. And we always say that the law is stacked against people changing things, don’t we?”

He looks at Tania and uses one of her annoying sentence starters, just to show her once and for all how annoying they are: “I mean, just look at the progression: bad men buy up more and more of the countries print and television media, and the amount of institutionalized evil just goes up and up. We got hijacked elections, illegal wars, civil rights being suspended, the government spying on its people, and no one seems to know how to stop it. We all say ‘if only we could get the truth to people’ –”

“We get the point, Prad!” Claude interrupted with his fiery Haitian baritone. “What the hell does this have to do with what you guys pulled?”

Prad stops for a second and re-marshals his thoughts. He himself is even thankful for the disruption; Lord knows he was beginning to run that particular train off its tracks and make himself look foolish in the process. He was also getting pretty far off topic.

“Sorry, folks. The point is, for once, we did something about it and made sure the right people got egg on their face for once. The only irony is we had to break the law in order to do it. You gotta know the system is fucked if you got to do that.”

“So… you’re Robin Hood now?” Claude asks gingerly. Prad can tell he’s kidding, but he treats the proposition with some seriousness. He’s sure that was the tagline from the movie, might as well work with it.

“We’re always saying how things need to be done, but so far, what have we done to make things better? As I see it, we got nothing to feel guilty about, and who knows, some good might actually come of this. At best, Dangle’s been embarrassed and might even be politically hurt from all this. At worst, we get in trouble and people feel inspired by the example we set.”

“You really think so?” asks Lynette. She sounds semi-serious too when she asks. Prad treats it as such at any rate.

“Yeah, I do. It was peaceful, it was precise, and best of all, it was appropriate. Tell me there aren’t millions of people nationwide who won’t be happy this happened. Hell, we know people hate the cocksucker, and it’s sure to piss off those right-wing assholes that support him.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Sa’id says, raising his bottle in salute. Prad nods and summarizes for them:

“And all we had to do to was pull a little stunt that just happened to be illegal. I don’t know about any of you, but I consider that a pretty sweet deal.”

Well, Prad thinks, how about that? For once, he argued on the eloquent side of things. The opposition group is far from convinced and begin to nitpick some of the points he’s raised, but Prad decides to take a rest to listen from the sidelines. His one man assault has not won anyone over, but it’s clear that the moral tone has been dropped from the debate.

He looks back at Angie. He notices that she’s staying out of the debate too. In fact, she’s looking at him from time to time, bypassing her conversation with Scott to do so. She even looks a little… impressed.

Wandering back to the kitchen to fetch something non-alcoholic to help him sober up some more, he begins to wonder about that very thing. Why should she be impressed that he spoke on her behalf, or the groups for that matter? Does it surprise her that he happens to share her beliefs? He thought that was abundantly clear at this point. But then again, had he ever given her cause to think they had that in common? Come to think of it, have they ever had a conversation that didn’t involve sex positions or porn? Actually, during their last conversation, she brought up the subject of porn. He just threw some innuendo and sexual references her way. But who knows? Maybe if he tried talking to her more about what they do and less of what he wanted to do to her, she might actually show him some respect!

He feels a blow strike his shoulder, startling him and spilling the can of ginger ale he’s just opened. He turns around to see Sa’id again, who also appears mildly impressed. It’s hard to tell though, his expression is kind of disarrayed.

“Dude, that was cool!” he says breathlessly. He has apparently run himself out of breath just making it to the kitchen. “I didn’t know you thought all those things. Man, we should hang out more. I got some websites I think you would enjoy. My sis even runs one of them from back home.”

“Yeah, that sounds cool,” Prad replies.

“I mean it, man! We should definitely hang out more. We don’t do enough together and I think my pals would like you some.”

“I mean it too,” Prad replies insistently.

“Okay, man. And I mean it! I think it was cool what you said. I’ve never heard the fight characterized so perfectly. And what the hell is up with those bitches, anyway? Why are they busting our chops tonight, of all nights?” He leans in close to issue this last part.

“I don’t know,” Prad says, taking a sip of ginger ale to soothe his tired throat. “Guess we just didn’t count on people feeling left out, is all. And I guess Angie did kind of pull an executive decision, didn’t she?”

Sa’id looks at him through half-closed, glassy eyes. His face is still able to register confusion though, even through all the hooch. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing, I…” Prad takes another sip of ginger ale and wonders himself where he was going with that. “Maybe they just wish she consulted them first before accepting the challenge.”

Sa’id ponder it over, staring off drunkenly. He smiles and scoffs, blowing some spittle Prad’s way.

“Eh, man! Everyone’s got to take orders sometimes. Even us DeeMarchists!”

Prad nods and chuckles. He has to concede that. Not everyone can be anarchists and still be functional. He can only imagine how the DeePs do their thing. Probably with a lot of arguing and some bullshit dominance, kind of like they did tonight. Hopefully, this will be the last time they have to deal with those pricks. It’s bad for the group’s Feng shui.

“So whatta you wanna’ do now?” Sa’id asks him finally.

Prad thinks that one over. He sighs and wishes he could crack another beer or smoke a joint. Being responsible doesn’t exactly leave a lot of options. But then again, he’s been good for a few hours now and the urge for mischief is starting to back up inside him.

He casts a look back in the direction of the living room. The sitting circle has broken up and people are performing multiple tasks now. Claude and Tania are playing Xbox, Achebe and Lynette are surfing on Angie’s computer. And on the couch, Angie and Scott appear to be getting all lovey-dovey, talking all close and intimately like, punctuated with the occasional kiss. He thinks ahead to the end of the evening, when everyone else will be gone and Scott will be the last one here… with her. Oh things will start out slow, a few kisses, some petting, and some foreplay as they gradually make their way to Angie’s bedroom and slowly undress each other –

A devilish thought suddenly occurs to Prad. Should he? It seems risky, but then again, what’s playing it safe gotten him lately? And they’re in Angie’s apartment finally, it’s not like he’s going to be here again anytime soon! And now is the ideal time, while she’s totally preoccupied with that Scott fucker! When will he have this chance again?

He leans in close and whispers conspiratorially to Sa’id:

“Let’s go check out Angie’s room.”

“Prad, I don’t know about this.”

Sa’id whispers nervously from behind Prad’s back. His footfalls are remarkably stealthy for a drunken man. He’s obviously had lots of practice, probably from sneaking into such a well-populated house as a teen after a night of binge drinking with his hot-blooded pals.

“Take it easy, dude. I just wanna’ see what kind of digs the boss lady has.”

“You’re in her apartment, isn’t that enough?”

“Hell no, I wanna see where she goes to ground. Can’t understand a woman unless you see where she sleeps.”

Sa’id grumbles. “This is some stalker shit, man. I can’t believe you suckered me into doing this.”

Prad laughs quietly and steps forward, one toe at a time.

All in all, her bedroom is pretty much what he expected. Light blue coat of paint, cool and relaxing. Perfectly conducive to sleep, if you’re the kind of person who likes its cool. There’s a quaint little work desk with a lamp, a book case and armoire in one corner, and a double bed next to the wall. Everything smells like lavender and a hint of familiar smelling perfume, plus the faint scent of fabric softener. His feet inch their way intuitively towards the bed. Something about its size is comforting. Two people could never fit there, comfortably.

Wait, he tells himself. Why is that good for him? It would be bad for Scott, but where would it leave him if…? He shakes the thought off. Not good to let his mind slip in that direction. Not when he’s already trespassing in her room.

“Jesus, it’s not like I’m going through her panty drawer, take er easy.”

“Man, I figured that was next for sure.”

Prad chuckles quietly. He’s sure Angie would blow a gasket to see the two of them rifling through her underwear. And one look at the armoire tells him that they must be in the top drawer. Why is that? What is it about a top drawer that suggests underwear storage? Maybe if he were just to check…

“Dude, if you start jerking off on her pillow, I’m going to freak.”

Prad looks back at him in shock and disgust. What’s he think, that he’s some kind of pervert? This is just for fun, simple curiosity. It’s what the grunts must periodically do, tear the veil off the cool exterior of their superior officer to see what’s behind. Wasn’t it the moral in the Wizard of Oz that everybody needs to pull back the curtain to see where the real wizard resides? It’s totally harmless, provided they don’t get caught!

“I’m out, Prad. Anyone asks, you’re in the john.”

Prad waves him out. What a pussy! At least now he’s free to roam without all the noise to distract him. Drunken Sa’id! Lord knew that if he’d been around much longer, he would have alerted everyone in the apartment as to their whereabouts. His freakish negativity is also something he can do without right now. Angie’s bed is looming before him, and the last thing he needs is perverse suggestions to make him feel guilty. Leaning forward ever so slightly, he opens his nostrils and takes a deep breath. Her pillow is where her long hair is laid out every night. He can see that glorious dark mountain of curls spread out across it, trickling down her shoulders and reaching out to the pillow next to it. Whoever’s there probably thinks it’s a nuisance, but what a lovely nuisance! He doesn’t want to think about that too much, or he’d be forced to acknowledge that someone else has that pleasure.

Too late, he thinks. His mind has gone there, and it’s a mighty sad place, not to mention pathetic. Someone else gets to sleep in that bed; meanwhile, he’s stalking around her room like it’s some kind of exercise in political subversion. Ah, whatever, he hasn’t done anything irredeemable yet. And he can still leave while that’s still true. Straightening up, he eyes the door, his escape route, and starts to inch his way towards it. Just a few feet and he’s free, nothing to answer for and no reason to hang his head in shame. Just a few feet, one foot in front of the other…

Once clear, he spots the bathroom to his left. Away from the living room, where everybody, including Sa’id (who he must thank for planting the suggestion in his head), are busy rambling about stuff. He can hear the music, a song by Tom Morello. He’s heard this one at least twice tonight. Now seems like a good time to void his bladder and justify that alibi.

In contrast to her bedroom, the bathroom is a warm pink. The wall next to the bathtub is tiled up to head level. And the seat cover is pink with fluffy edges. The colour scheme is a little bit outside his comfort range, but it too feels appropriate given the purpose of the room. Nothing like a warm-feeling room to get guests to unclench. He finds it easy to urinate under these circumstances, and is even polite enough to do it sitting down.

And it appears the party is winding down when he returns. Tommy is passed out on the couch, Zuhair sitting next to him, not far behind. The weed they brought appears to have been a little too strong for their taste. Lynette and Claude have split a cab and left while Tania and Achebe are smoking the remains of Tommy and Zuhair’s second joint – the one they couldn’t finish – on the balcony. He looks back at Angie again. That look of newfound respect appears to have faded somewhat, but she’s still looking at him strangely. It’s the kind of look you give someone when you’ve seen a whole different side of them, almost like coming to grips with a whole new person. And she starting to look tired too. So is Scott, he notices. It seems pretty clear they want people to leave so they can have some alone time.

“So…” he says, searching for something appropriate to say. He’s determined to end the night on a good note, go out with a final display of maturity, no matter how small. He can see Sa’id is about ready to fall on the couch, the one occupied by Tommy and Zuhair. He’s quick to grab him by the arm and slink it over his shoulders.

“Ready to go, bud?” he asks.

“Huh? Oh, yeah!” Sa’id mutters. He’s still able to stand on his own, but Prad can tell he’s more than his fare share of weight on his shoulders. “Yer’ the best, man. Taking me home like this.”

“Doesn’t mean we’re married,” Prad replies. Angie and Scott titter. “Alright, let’s go. Goodnight, guys. Thanks for the party.”

“Yeah, goodnight man.”

“Goodnight… Yamal.”

Prad would stop and turn around, but with Sa’id on his arm, the best he can manage is the former. Another first for the night. He can’t recall Angie ever using his first name. If Sa’id weren’t so close to him right now, he’s sure he’d be getting chubby in his pants. Or at least he’d be feeling a warm sense of satisfaction, the kind that’d put a swagger in his step. But that’s not possible either. He smiles and carries on, his left foot, Sa’id right’s foot, their middle foot. It’s a three legged race to get to the door. Once there, Sa’id is able to put his weight on the small table by the closet while Prad gets his jacket and keys from the table. He spots them in a small pile, the auto lock with the Mazda logo identifying them. They’re right on top of a pile of mail, next to a brown box which appears opened at one end. The small piece of twine running down the length of it gives him a curious feeling of déjà vu.

Prad grabs his keys with one hand and pushes the other bits of mail away so he can get a better look at it. The inkling he had a second before becomes a full blown torrent. The box’s edges were secured with duct tape, now torn but neatly folded over. Next to the table, in a wastepaper basket, he spots the telltale bit of crumbled brown paper. He reaches in and grabs hold of it, using the table to unroll it.

“Prad, what are you doing?” It’s Angie asking this. She’s spotted him from the couch, picking through her garbage and examining the contents. On any other day, he might be worried how this looks. Not right now though; he needs to see if the printing is a match. Then he’s sure he’ll feel a lot of worse.

“Prad! Will you answer me please?” She’s up and coming to the door now, Scott not far behind her. The writing is exact, the same block lettering, done with a fine-tipped permanent marker.

“Angie?” he says, the last vowel heavily inflected. “When did you get this?”

“What, that?” She points to the box’s remains. “A few days ago, why?”

“Was there a book inside?”

“Yeah, ‘Ghost in the Machine’.” While Prad is deathly silent, pondering the possible meaning of this, she draws an obvious conclusion. “Did you get one too?”

“And there was a note inside? A yellow sticky? Said something like, ‘Read this’ and ‘learn’?”

“No,” she shakes her head. “If I remember right, it said, ‘Consider this a gift. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it’, or some such thing.”

“Where is it?” Prad demands.

“In my room, on my bookshelf, why?”

Prad is out of the doorway, past Angie and Scott and back down the hallway to her room before anyone can stop him. Hopping back over the threshold that guards her cool little cell of a room, he makes his way for the bookshelf he spotted during his earlier recce and begins rifling through the stacks. Angie is quickly behind him, standing in the doorway and demanding answers.

“Prad, what the fuck are you doing? Get out of my room!”

“Where is it?”

She groans and enters the room. She grabs a book that was on its side, on top of a stack and facing with its pages outward. Checking the cover to be sure, she then thrusts it into Prad’s chest and raising her arms out sideways, palms up. “Satisfied?”

Prad looks it over. Same exact copy, same exact publisher and everything. Only difference appears to be the broken binding, which only proves that Angie has been doing what Prad was instructed to do with his.

“I got one just like it the other day, in the mail.”

“Really?” Angie asks, her tone flat.

“Angie, who’s sending us these?”

Another groan. Her arms are now folded across her breast. He can tell she’s really annoyed. “Did you bother to read the foreword?”

“What? No, why?” Prad asks innocently.

“Because if you did, you might have noticed it’s by Professor Germaine. As in Albert Germaine, the man who educated us and is now sick.” She says all this calmly but emphatically. Flipping open the book, he turns to the aforementioned foreword section. Sure enough, the title reads, Towards a New Understanding: Behaviouralism and Metaphysics in the study of human thought. What more proof does he need that Germaine was behind this?

He looks up at Angie, who is still staring down at him. She’s not seething anymore, but everyone in the room, which now includes Scott and Sa’id, can tell she’s pissed. Prad, for his part, is standing there perfectly still, looking at her with vacant-eyes and a neutral-ish frown. When he finally gets around to saying something, all he can think to say is: “Oh.” A long pause. “Sorry.” An even longer pause. “Guess I should read it, huh?”

“I believe that was what the prof asked you to do.”

Prad smiles nervously. Another pause, this one terribly long. Angie takes back the book and returns it to her shelf. She doesn’t appear all that angry now, just a little disappointed, and expectant for sure. Without waiting to be told, Prad decides to try to salvage whatever dignity he has left and leave before he does anything else stupid.

“Okay! Well, I got to go! Sa’id, we got to go!”

“Sure, right, man.”

“Thanks for everything, and uh, you know, sorry again.”

Data Miners – Chapter 6

Six

Nina was about nine minutes late getting to her desk that morning. Gareth had borrowed the car again last night and casually forgotten to fill the tank up when he dropped it off. Typical Gareth behaviour, but she was forced to take some of the credit. Had she not let him sleep over, he wouldn’t have been around to disrupt her morning routine. She could have superseded him simply by setting her clock, but such behavior is for grunts. Let the new kids greet the day, she decided long ago. Now that she’s got some clout around her office, she refuses to be a slave to an alarm clock.

The drive was pleasant, if a bit rushed. It was a pristine West Virginian morning, the air nice and dewy and mildly warm. It’s the kind of morning that’s pleasant for the first few hours, before the noon sun turns it all into sweltering heat. By then the residents of the sleepy town of Clarksburg were all too happy to retire to a working environment that boasted some kind of air-conditioning. Those that did not enjoy this luxury would just have to suffer or find some other way to stay cool.

Nina had broken a bit of a sweat getting to work and was pleased with herself for making sure her desk was outfitted with a box of Kleenex that was waiting for her on arrival. Grabbing a handful of the tissues, she dabbed at her face and around her neck, letting the AC do its job and cool her down until her pores closed. She looked at her keyboard and noticed there was a note sitting there with a prescriptive message scrawled across it.

Check our surveillance files, following j-pegs:

*TBK.192.jpg

*AU.298,jpg

*ACLU.0098.jpg

Possible forgeries detected! Need to know basis.

Mark J.

Nina was about to get herself a cup of coffee and ease her way into her work, but someone obviously intended to light a fire under her. The note also seems to suggest he got here a lot earlier than her today. What could have been so important as to warrant a really early start? She hops right onto her computer and calls up their surveillance database. Entering the names of each file, she waits as the machine does a search and pulls up each one. She sends each to her desktop for eventual printing and picks up her phone. Punching in Mark’s extension, a quick call ensues. Explanations are necessary, and they better be good! No one starts their morning with something like this without a damned good reason!

Nina looks around to make sure she’s alone. One after the other, the damning photos are rolled off and set down in the printer’s tray, their fresh, glossy surfaces reflecting the room’s fluorescent lighting back at her.

The photos are on the nearest side table a second later and Nina grabs a black and a white marker. She circles the pictures in white, underlines the name at the bottom in black. Grabbing a manila envelope from the shelf, she slides the three photos in and leaves the copy room in great haste. She is at the dark mahogany door with two plaques not a moment later. One reads Dave Griswold, Deputy Director, and the other, Law Enforcement Services Branch. Without announcing herself, she walks right in and slams the envelope down on his desk. He is in the process of finishing a call and looks up at her just in time to hear her speak.

“Sir, I think we’ve been hacked. I was alerted to these forgeries this morning.”

Griswold takes the folder and opens it carefully. Years of dealing with sensitive materials has conditioned the habit in him to treat every file folder as if it were containing anthrax powder or a copy of the constitution. He lays the photos out, and immediately forgets this habit. The three photos spread out around the desk so he can see all three circles that Nina has drawn.

“What the hell are these?”

“Fakes, sir. Found in the surveillance files. Not too convincing ones either.”

“Just what are you saying here, Righetti?”

“I’m saying that Johnson reported that someone hacked into the CJIS and planted these is our files.”

“Johnson came to you with this when?”

“This morning. He says he got a call from some press agent over at the Washington Post, something about these photos being sent to him from an anonymous source within our department. They wanted confirmation that they were real.”

“Confirmation…” Griswold said with a laugh. Trust the good ol’ boys at the WP to actually check first. Unlike most of their liberal counterparts, they knew how to take national security seriously. “So what have we told them?”

“Well, nothing yet sir. First thing I did was pull the photos and send them down to Criminal Investigations, asked if they knew anything about them. They said they had no idea what I was talking about, so I asked them to examine them for us. They all came back as a fake.”

“Jesus clusterfuck!”

Nina clears her throat. There’s something about a boss swearing so openly that makes her want to laugh, which she cannot allow right now. Combining religious obscenity with a compound word that strongly denotes group sex makes that especially hard. Why the hell is that word so popular with government people?

“They do look real enough, don’t they?”

“People can do some amazing things these days with Photoshop, sir.”

Griswold looks up at her. He is the first to admit that he’s not the most technologically literate person in the world. That’s why the Bureau is in the habit of hiring these young ‘uns. They do the leg work while the old workhorses do the thinking.

“Okay, so what else?”

“Well, sir, I asked Johnson to start a more thorough search of our surveillance files, just to see if there’re any more fakes. In the meantime, I think we should consider giving the Post a statement.”

“Forget the Post,” Griswold replies. “A hundred papers must have their hands on these by now. There’s no way this isn’t going to be big news. We can expect to get reamed real good, real soon.”

“Yes, sir.” Nina’s stance tightens up some more. She knows this is serious. He’s using a butt metaphor. He looks down at the photos again and takes a deep breath. Reaching for the phone, he fetches it from its cradle and hits the button to connect him to the Criminal Investigations Branch. As it rings, he issues some new orders for Nina.

“I need to send these up the line. You get over to Johnson and ask him exactly who the hell contacted him at the Post. See if you can’t suck any more information out of them, like who sent them these.” A pause as the phone beeps a few times, waiting for the CIB to pick up. “I need to talk to the Cyber Division on this. Find out how in the hell those bastards let someone get into our files.”

She is about to leave when Griswold stops her for one last reminder.

“And for God sakes, keep this under your hat!”

Nina nods and is waved away as the answering service at the other end picks up his call. She can hear his bawling into the receiver just as she leaves the office.

“Andrei! I’m sending you something my grunts just brought to my attention. We’ve got a fucking leaky ship and I’m putting the blame squarely at the feet of your Cyber Division! PATCH YER FUCKING HOLES!”

The door shuts and all she can hear now are the muffled thuds of the DD’s explosive tirade. The noise follows her down the hall until she is finally back in the vicinity of her office space. Just about everyone she has passed is looking in the direction of the DD’s door.

Data Miners – Chapter 5

Alone in his cubicle again.  The clock is moving so slowly it’s almost running backwards.  The memory of some weird dream has been taunting him all day.  It was one of those cut offs, when you wake up suddenly and your mind is able to hang on to the tail end of it for a few minutes, but every waking minute makes it that much duller.  He received a shock of déjà vu when he came to his desk at 9:08 (late again, but no one really noticed).  The dream had to do with work.  He was at his desk, people were crowded around.  The woman who works in the cubicle a few blocks down was sitting on top of his desk.  Her short skirt was hiked up and she was clearing Prad for a landing.  He was just about to get into that skirt when she clocked him.  Remembering that part wasn’t too nice.  Prad had been just settling into his chair, hoping he might be recalling a nice sex dream when that embarrassing detail emerged.  Then he remembered the rest, how everyone else in the office was pointing and laughing at him, and how his teeth started to fall out.  One by one, the molars, the incisors, the front two.  They all just seemed to painlessly come loose and he began pulling them out.  Tiny shards of the rest followed.  He looked in a mirror at the remainders and saw that they were chipped beyond repair.  Not a nice dream.  He was happy to have forgotten it and tries to do so again.

Coffee’s better today, and Prad makes sure he sneaks a few cups while the current batch is still hot and fresh.  Artificial stimulation is necessary given the mood he’s in.  He’s somewhere in the hump of the week, it feels like Thursday but its damn near impossible to tell. The anticipation that comes with the late afternoon, so close to Friday, which in turn is so close to the weekend, has not yet hit him.  Still feels like a Wednesday.  But at least he has the six o’clock report to look forward to.  It might be early, hard to tell.  Any day now they are expecting their little “story” to break.  Every night since Tuesday, Prad and the others have been waiting on the press conference.  They figured it would take until Friday, just in time for the weekend edition on every network in the country.

The anticipation is making him uneasy.  He can barely acknowledge the stripper who’s filling the Youtube screen with her massive rack.  His other task, the matter of sorting through lines and lines of code, is moving at a rate of about one key a minute.  Were it not for the anonymity of the modern office space, he would have been fired several times over by now.  Once he’s done with a scheduled task, he pulls up the template form for a task report and fills in the idiot boxes.  He then attaches it to an email for the people down at filing.

That reminds him.  He hasn’t dropped in on Rohit lately.  MSN is forbidden during work hours, so he can’t send him a message to join him in the rec room.  But a quick pass by his cubicle is always permissible.  He finds Rohit with his back to the room, filling in some forms that look like they should mean something to him.

“Hey, Roti!  How are your caffeine levels?”

Rohit turns around in his seat and checks his pulse.  “I could stand a top up.”

“Great, come on.  I got something to tell you –  Oh shit!”

Prad remembers that he left the stripper running on his machine.  He jets back to his cubicle and shuts down the internet, runs a quick clean to erase the web directory’s memory and all temporary internet files.  He does this every day, his way of staying ahead of the corporate snoops.  Now is as good a time as any, and he jets back to the break room to find Rohit already waiting for him.

“Hey, sorry.  Okay, so what’s up?”

“What do you mean?  You called me in here.”

“Oh yeah,” Prad needs a second to remember what he wants to talk about.  Then he remembers Angie’s orders.  No bragging.  He needs something else to talk about, quick!

“So how’s the layoff talk?”

Well done, he tells himself.  It’s the perfect diversion, and something he probably should care about.

“There’s supposed to be a big meeting this Friday with HR.  The execs are going to be reviewing people’s files.”

“Uh-oh.  What are they looking for specifically?”

“Complaints.  Indications of bad work ethics, unprofessional attitudes.”

The way he says it leaves little doubt who he is talking about.  Prad sneers at him for the self-righteous attitude.

“It’s so hypocritical.  Why do they even file those things anyway.  No one ever reads them, not until it’s time to fire people.”

“Same with all the work logs.  Which, by the way, they’re going to be sorting through the day before.”

Prad nods.  So between a bad attitude and poor work performance, the brass will have their one-two layoff punch ready.

“Well, I know I’m up to date on my task reports.  HR might be a problem.”

“Now you take me seriously?” Rohit asks.

“Guess I’ll have to hack into their files and wipe my record clean.”

Rohit chokes on his coffee and looks at the door again.  He can’t tell Prad to shut up in words right now, so puts his hands on his shoulders and gives them a hard squeeze.  Taking a few breaths, he clears his wind pipe and is able to speak again.

“Are you fucking kidding me?  Never mind, I don’t want to know.  Don’t even talk like that.”

“C’mon, Roti!” Prad says, shaking loose from Rohit’s grip.  “No one ever reads those things anyway.  Who’s gonna’ know?  I could fix your file too.”

“Last thing I need is another excuse for them to fire me.”

“No one will know, Roti.  I got the skills to make it happen.  All you need to do is give me the green light.”

“You know, you keep saying that, but I’ve never seen you do anything that proves you have any skills whatsoever.”

Angie’s orders are ringing in Prad’s ears.  His mouth desperately wants to open but his lips are clamped shut and refuse to budge.  Her wrath would be terrible, should she ever find out.

“I mean, you work here, man.  What’s that say about you?”

Prad needs to talk.  The words are bulging in his throat like a log jam and threatening to break it open.  Rohit’s taunts are deeply distressing to him and it’s overriding his orders.

“Top of the line white hats make software companies, man.  They design computers in their garage and take the world by storm with new innovations.  They’re not second rate programmers working in a cubicle.”

“Second rate!” Prad’s voice has broken free.  “Hey, I don’t need this job.  This is a pathetic waste of my abilities.”

“Then why are you still here?”

“You’re here.  What’s that say about you?”

“And I’m your superior,” Rohit reminds him.

“Oh, sorry, sir.”  Prad does a mock salute.  “You know, maybe my days here are numbered but I’ll have opportunities afterward.”

“Oh yeah?” Rohit’s grinning at him now.  More acid-tongued words are coming, Prad can sense it.  What the hell?  He’ll never meet Angie.

“Yeah,” Prad replies.  “Just ask Congressman Dangle.  He’ll tell you just how fucking good I am.  Oh, actually he can’t, because he has no fucking idea it was me!”

Rohit’s looking down at him with unbelievable incredulity.  He has no idea what he’s talking about, and can’t fathom how he’s come up with such a tale.  They’ve been joined too by Donna, cream lady, who is not to be talked loudly around.  This complicates matters further.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he whispers to Prad.

“Wait and see, I’m sure it’ll be in the news real soon.”

Prad leaves Rohit standing at the counter with his fresh cup of coffee.  He tries to follow him but his coffee spills from the sudden forward momentum, forcing him to go to the sink and wash his burnt fingers.  When he finally manages to clean up the mess he’s made and place his cup safely on the counter, he storms after Prad.  They end up in the men’s room, which at the moment is slightly more private.

“What are you talking about, Prad?  Did you do something illegal?”

The words are whispered and one of his ears is kept open for sounds of flushes or people coming in behind them.  Prad meanwhile has both eyes on the road and both hands on his wheel, smiling like he just got it waxed by some hottie in the supply closet.  He says nothing as he goes to wash his hands and Rohit is still hanging on him.

“I’m serious, man!  If you did anything that’s going to threaten your job here, or mine, I’ll fucking squeal on you.  I’m not going down as an accessory for anything.”

“Calm down,” Prad says as he shakes his hands off and grabs a paper towel from the dispenser.  “I told you, no one knows I had anything to do with it.  I shouldn’t even have said anything to you, you’ll probably squeal on me anyway.  God knows you can’t keep anything a secret.”

“Hey, we’re not talking about the usual crap you pull around here that I’m always covering for.  If you’re doing something on the side that could wind you in jail, I’m not going to protect you.”

“Like you could!”

Prad leaves and has Rohit following him back to his cubicle now.  He is extremely self-conscious about all the people who might hear them, but refuses to let the topic go.  Already Prad is feeling stupid for bringing it up.  Not for fear of his job or the law, but because of the trust he might have betrayed.  No one needs to know that the Society did something it wouldn’t ordinarily do.  That’s the whole point of a one time thing.  You do it once, and forget about it.  Those who wouldn’t understand are kept in the dark for just that reason.

“Prad, just tell me what you’ve done and maybe I can help get you out of it.”

“Nothing serious,” he says finally.  Taking his seat, he swivels in it a bit to make sure the gears are still sliding just right.  “Just had a little fun with some government resources.  That’s all.  And no one is going to know about it, provided everyone who now knows keeps their fricking mouth shut!”

“Who else knows about this?”

“Only a couple people, but they helped.  So it’s just us, and you.”  Prad admits with a shrug.  “And I wasn’t exactly supposed to share it with anyone, so consider yourself part of my inner circle,” he finishes uncomfortably.

Rohit shakes his head mournfully.  “Breaking your conspirators trust should be the least of your worries, man.”

“Yeah, but it isn’t.  So, can I count on you not to say anything?”

“I don’t know,” Rohit confesses.  “You sure this can’t be traced back to you?”

“Positive, Roti.  You and I both know the system’s ins and outs, which is why it’s an insult for the both of us to be working here.  Speaking of which, were you done telling me about layoffs?”

Rohit looks relieved to be talking about that again.  Only comparatively is the thought of being laid off not a source of stress for him anymore.  “Well, next week they’re thinking of starting up interviews.”

“Interviews?  What, for like new people?”

Rohit chuckles sardonically.  “No, I mean that’s when they drag all of us in, one by one, and ask us to explain how we’re productive and useful around here.  They start with the senior people and then work their way down, section by section.  You’re asked to explain, in your own words, what you bring to the company.”

“Lazy shits!  They want us to do their work for them!”

“Yeah, basically.  It’s easier than taking an interest in what your employees actually do on company time.”

“And they’ve got our HR files and our work reports to compare it against?”

“It’s so they catch you in lie.  If you say you work hard, they pull up your reports and demand to know why it took so long to do this, why you haven’t finished that, etc.  And then they ask about your fellow employees, and if you say you get along, they point out how people have complained.”

“Fucking inquisition.”

Rohit leans in and looks all self-conscious again.  “Keep your voice down.  And don’t say I didn’t warn you.  You’re going to have some serious explaining to do come next week.”

Rohit is about to leave, but Prad stops him with a little reminder.  “Dude, just remember, I can have a look at the files HR’s got on you and me.”  He illustrates with his fingers, playing air keyboard.  “Few strokes, all complaints are gone!”

Rohit leans into his cubicle again.  “Just do me one favour, Prad.  If you have to start looking for a new job, don’t list me as a reference.”

Data Miners – Chapter 4

Tuesday night, t-minus five and a half minutes.

Puget campus is virtually deserted, at least in the vicinity of the main student residence.  Prad and the rest have dressed accordingly for an evening of felony hacking; dressy casual, all dark tones.  No hoods or black toques, those would bring campus security running faster than a plea of rape or assault.  Their best approach is to walk right in, playing it cool, set down to do their work then walk out like they just had a nice evening of gaming.  That’s still the cover story, and Achebe has the Warlords disks to back it up.  Prad, meantime, has the ICE breaker on his decorative flash drive, the one he’s been working on all week.  Sa’id and Angie have been in regular contact with him, plus a few black hats he knows, letting him know everything they can about the FBI d-base.  If they were wrong, they’ll know soon when the FBI boots them and does a trace to find where they’re working from.

But if things go well, Achebe’s lovely little creations will be circulating in the FBI’s files.  That way, when the press gets a hold of them, a gift from an “anonymous source”, they’ll be able to confirm that the evidence is real.  Angie’s anonymizer site, whichever she’s selected for this op, will come into play then.

All the bases are covered, all they need is for Angie’s “friend” to show up.

Their synchronized watches indicate that it is now midnight.  Feet are getting itchy and nerves are on edge.  Prad waits a few seconds before saying what he’s sure everyone must be thinking at this point.

“Where the hell is this guy?”

“He’ll be here, just wait!”

Prad grumbles, then realizes he has inadvertently confirmed that Angie’s friend is in fact a dude.  He is further disappointed when the dude proves punctual and darkens the front foyer of the building they intend to enter.  He does a little circular scan of the foyer and walkway leading up the front door, then pushes it open.  He leans back against the door to hold it open, trying to appear calm for all the cams that are able to see him now that he’s outside.

“So who is this guy anyway?  Some kind of grad student or something?”

“Yeah, looks a little old for living in residence, Ange.”

Angie looks at Achebe and Sa’id with daggers.  She further corrects them on that a few facts.  “He’s a doctoral student and I never said he lives here, he just has an ID.”

“You two dating?”

No sooner are the words out of his mouth than Prad wishes he could shove them back in.  But like a wet vapour in a very cold room, it’s out there and frozen solid.  Nothing in the world could erase it now.  “We’re friends,” she says defensively.

“I’m not hearing nooooo,” Sa’id interjects.

“It’s time, you dickheads.  Okay now, nice and cool,” Angie commands, and they walk nonchalantly towards the door.  The cameras only scan the front and until now they’ve been beneath the shade of a tree.  Prad thinks that such blind spots must be the subject of a lot of complaints.  There’s enough room in the area they’ve been standing in for the last few minutes for several assaults or rapes to occur.  For most people, this would be considered a strange observation.  To Prad, its just plain fact, much like how the cameras are hopelessly out of date.  No one is fooled by those tinted glass domes that cover them.  Everyone knows they only point one direction.

Another observation:  Scott is actually kind of handsome, in a starving artist, student-for-life kind of way.  Sa’id’s description was bang on.  The beard, button down plaid shirt and blue jeans, not to mention the glasses, all scream mature student.

“Everyone, this is Scott. Scott, this is everyone,” Angie says by way of introduction.

“Hi,” he says coolly as he closes the door behind them and takes the lead in their little procession.  The lounge is just a few corridor lengths ahead, on the ground floor underneath layers of student residences.  They round a corner and enter a gleaming white computer lounge and Prad feels like he stepped into a hospital.  The colour, cleanliness, and availability of technology are all consistent with an operating room, a communal one at that.  As predicted, there are only a few students there, the keeners or poor kids who are busy working or too poor to afford a laptop so they can check their MSN at home.

That’s certainly what the one redhead in the corner is doing.  She types, pauses to read, laughs, types again.  The Asian dude in the other corner only takes his eyes off the screen long enough to blink.  Not a casual computer lounger.

They get to work occupying four computers side by side.  Prad takes a moment to familiarize himself with his machine, which is clearly the same as all the others.  Dell PC, 54.0 Mbps wireless connection, 2.0 GHz, Windows Vista operating system; not up to the latest of Mr. Pradchaphet’s standards, but enough to do tonight’s deed.  Meanwhile Scott walks down the row to distribute pieces of paper with names and logins for them to enter.  Prad looks at his with some scepticism.

Arlene Tomkins.  Atomkins098.

“Come up with that on your own?” he asks the character Scott.  Scott smiles from beneath his red beard and moves on to give Angie hers.  She smiles at him when she takes it, sending more bristles up Prad’s back.  With their fake student logins entered, Achebe passes around the copies of Warlords Online. Waiting for the computers to install it proves to be a test of patience.  Bloody college computers.  It takes a few minutes, then Prad calls up the FBI database and downloads his icebreaker.

Ten minutes have elapsed, putting them past midnight.  The lounger is done doing her thing and gets up to leave.  The icebreaker is still being downloaded into Prad’s machine, a small window showing the progress while the gleaming red, white and blue of the FBI homepage sits in the background.  With only one person left in the room, and being far away and consumed by work, Sa’id thinks it’s safe to talk.

“Now we’ll know for sure whether or not all those years staying one step ahead of the NSA was worth it,” Sa’id says.

“Don’t toot your own horn too soon,” Angie reminds him.  “Get into the game everyone except Prad, and lets look like we’re doing something non-threatening.”

Prad continues to wait.  Finally, he is told that the piece of program he helped craft has finished downloading.  He calls up the file and orders the computer to execute the executable file.  That takes a little more time.  While the others are busy designing custom characters for Warlords, he is waiting for his program to get to work and looking over his shoulder at the Asian dude.  The Warlords program is minimized in his tray just in case he needs to call it up in a hurry to fill the screen.  On the screen next to him, a dwarf in leather armour brings his battleaxe down to split the head of an adventurer, and his screen changes as the FBI site opens up to him.  The CJIS, Criminal Justice Information System, for which his ICE was specifically designed to crack.

“I’m in,” he whispers.  His fingers get to work typing while the others get to work on clearing the room.  For the next minute or so, the boys make a lot of noise while Angie yells at them to shut up.  When they finally notice that they’ve caught they eye of the young man in the corner, they add to the annoyance level.

“Are we bothering you, fellow?” Achebe yells in a loud, done up West African accent.

The Asian fellow is mortified to look up and see people talking to him so directly, being rude and forcing him to point it out.  “No, its okay,” he says politely.

“Cuz if so, we can move,” Sa’id says, adding a little slur to sound just a little drunk.  A loud crazy laugh follows and he turns back to his keyboard to notice he’s being killed by a level 10 Elf archer.  “Fuck me!  You pointy eared cocksucker!”

“Shut up, dude’s trying to work!” Prad yells.

By now the dutiful student has gotten the message and packs up to leave.  Prad minimizes the FBI screen and looks like he’s playing with his buds.  As the guy walks by, he offers a few more polite dismissals as Achebe calls after him with feigned apologies.  But he’s gone at last.  They nod at Angie.  Prad’s console becomes the focal point of all attention and seats slide over on their wheels to join him.  He flips back to the FBI site and begins navigating the CJIS’s database. Achebe produces the third and final flash drive from his pocket and slips it to Prad who shoves it in the only USB slot the computer has left.  He pops open the file on the drive marked Photos (next to the one marked rejects) and begins opening them up onto the computers desktop, arranged in order.

“Okay, let’s start with the honourable Reverend Fred P. Johnston and his whacked out ministry,” he says and types in the name.

He gets a series of files the FBI has been keeping on him since the 50s.  As predicted, the files are grouped based on the FBI’s surveillance of the outspoken preacher from Topeka, Kansas.  Ironically, they begin with his involvement in the civil rights movement.  There’s a few years of relative inactivity, then they move onto his more recent work assailing gay marriage and denouncing Muslims and illegal immigrants.  Prad decides to insert Achebe’s first creation into the former area of pictures – a mock-up of the Congressman attending a service in the Westboro Baptist church.  The topic of the day, in all likelihood, is why God hates fags and revels in the death of soldiers.  The picture they used to duplicate the Congressman’s image is a few years out of date compared to the picture of the congregation, but they’re pretty satisfied with their work overall.  No one is likely to notice it’s a fake until they take the time to examine it more closely.  An annotation at the bottom is provided, making sure his name is provided in full along with other noteworthy members of the congregation.

“That ought to confuse the hell out of people who think he supports the troops,” Sa’id says.

“Yep.  Now how about the Aryan union?” Achebe asks.

“Okay, one sec.” Prad begins a new search in the database for anything they might have on these fellows.  The file is voluminous, and from the looks of it, updated on an almost weekly basis.  Finding a single file of photo surveillance proves to be difficult.  They are seen outside of Southern Baptist churches, funerals, federal and gubernatorial buildings, marching in protests, and having cook outs, any form of organization that would place them within the bounds of the law.  Prad searches for a while before he finds a series of photos that look like they might be innocuous enough to support their own contribution.  Then, Achebe’s second creation is inserted, a photo of Dangle shaking hands with Butler in a parking lot in his home riding.  A black leather bag is in Butler’s other hand.  No bills are leaking out the side, but the implication is clear.  An illegal, off-the-books financial contribution is taking place, and they got it all on film.

“Done!  Next.”

“Last we got the good Congressman visiting a porn boutique.  Arguably, my best work,” says Achebe.

“It’s just him darkening the doorway,” Prad smirks.

“Still good work.”

Prad finds a random place for this one.  It really doesn’t fall under security issues.  It’ll just look good, and ironic, come the six o’clock news.

“Alright, crumbs are placed.  Now let’s just pray the techies can find ‘em all.”

“And do the right thing by reporting it,” Angie adds.

Prad leaves the site, erases the photos from the desktop, clears the web browsers history, and raises both hands.  Low fives and a few laughs follow.  Now it’s Angie’s turn.  Passing Achebe’s flash drive to her, she moves the photos onto her desktop and calls up Firefox to make some emails.  Getting onto the anonymizer’s web page, she opens three windows in Yahoo and types in the email addresses for the press desk at the New York Times, the Washington Post, and the Seattle Times.  A simple cut and paste email, stressing how the source of these photos is anonymous and no explanation of how she came across them.  Then a nice little line about how they want “the truth to come out.”  She attaches Achebe’s files from the desktop to each one, and then hits send.  She wipes the desktop clean, erases the anonymizer, and ejects the flash drives.

“And-we-are-finished!” she declares and raises her hands above her head to receive some high-fives.

And then… a weird silence.  No one is sure what they should be feeling exactly, but everyone agrees it’s a bit anticlimactic. They just hacked the FBI and incriminated a terrible, though for all intents and purposes, innocent old man.  They ought to be feeling something.  And yet, there’s really nothing to it.  No fireworks or overwhelming sense of relief, just the quiet drone of computers and the room’s air conditioning.

“Wow, so what do we do now?” Sa’id asks.

“Anybody actually want to do some gaming?” Prad suggests.

“Naw, lets look at those rejects, just for fun.”

Prad calls up the photos Achebe made that didn’t quite make the cut.  In truth, everyone suspects he made them just for fun seeing how over the top they are.  There’s Ahmadinejad and Dangle sitting together in a carriage sharing a laugh, Kim Jong Il and him playing polo, and international bogeyman Osama Bin Laden and him holding hands like young lovers back in the 1980s.  The backdrop is some sunny hillside in Afghanistan, the faint blur of a Russian Hind in the background pushing up smoke with its rockets.

“Class, all class,” Prad says.

“How about we send these to the media too?  I mean, you know, after the story breaks… if it breaks.”

It’s Angie suggesting this, surprising seeing as how this was her challenge.  Strange to think she’s actually unsure of success this late in the game.

“That’d just be like adding insult to injury.” Achebe replies.  “We wanna’ make sure we can string them along for a bit first before we burst their bubble.”

Sa’id agrees.  “Yeah, seriously.  The idea here was to just cause some trouble, right?  I mean, no ones going to actually believe the Congressman’s this dirty are they?”

“Right,” Angie nods.  “Silly idea.  I guess I’m just feeling squirrelly.”

“Still…” announces Achebe, arms raised.  “Kudos to our fearless leader and organizer for preparing this little smearjob.”  He points to Angie.  People begin to crowd around her and exchange high fives.  This goes on for a few minutes as Angie receives and returns different variations of them.

“Ahem!” Prad finally says, looking around at them.  “All due credit to the Captain, but who exactly was the pilot of this here frickin’ operation?”

The boys pat him on the back.  Angie screws up her face in such a way that says she knows he did well, but will be damned to admit it.  By way of diversion, she looks over at Scott who’s been standing there with his arms crossed and a placid smile on his face the whole time.

“And let’s not forget our boy Scotty.  He did get us in here, in more ways that one.”

“Yeah, how did you come up with those student logins?  You got a friend at student services or something?”

“Nope, all me,” he says blithely.  Sa’id and Achebe look at him with newfound respect.

“Well, grad student by day, hacker by night.  A black hat pretending to be a beret, huh?”

“He’s not a black hat,” Angie corrects them.  “He’s actually…”

“Hatless.”  Scott finishes the sentence.  They share a laugh, and Prad wants to puke.  The way she’s shifting from foot to foot and looking antsy just screams intimacy.  Everyone can smell the awkwardness and sexual tension.  She looks like she just wants them to leave so they can celebrate privately.  Prad would rather see Scott’s head hit by a semi and tries to stall.

“I say we celebrate!  Who’s up for hitting the pub?”

He’s hit by a wave of indecisive shrugs.  “We really should…” Angie begins. The other boys get the hint and decide to pull Prad away.

“Yeah, why don’t we save that ‘til later?  We got day jobs to think about and I’m sure Scott needs to study.”

Angie laughs again and Scott just smiles.  Sa’id and Achebe remove the Warlords program from their machines and log off.  Prad takes a little longer.  He needs to wipe the web directory clean and erase all downloaded copies of their programs, then there’s the desktop pics to trash.  He cleans out the recycle bin and logs off before saying his own goodbyes.

“Next Tuesday?” he asks her.

“I’ll let you know.  We ought to all meet to let the others know how it went.  But no talking about it online with anyone, okay?”

“Okay.  Well, goodnight,” he says to her and nods at Scott.

At the front, Sa’id and Achebe are waiting and looking pretty pleased overall.  Once they are out of the well-lit and surveillanced foyer, they begin to feel something welling up inside them.  It’s as if what they’ve done has finally hit them now that they’ve left the scene.  Hoots and hollers begin to spew forth.  More low fives and slaps on the shoulder are exchanged too before words of congratulations are passed around.

“We did it!  I mean you did it, Prad!  I mean, we helped, but you did it!”

“Ah, I can’t believe how easy that was!  God I wish I could have done something to help you out there!”

“Oh yeah, like what?” Prad asks.

“I dunno,” Sa’id replies.  “Like maybe let the fuckers know exactly what I think of them.  Maybe even crash their wiretapping software while I was at it.”

“I’m sure they’ll figure it out,” Prad says.

“Oh, they’ll figure out they’ve been had.  Then it’s just a matter of time before they figure out how…” Achebe pauses as another rush of enthusiasm hits him.  “But they aint gonna’ know who did it because we’re so fucking good!  AM I RIGHT?!”

Sa’id and Achebe bump chests and laugh some more.  Prad stands there quietly for a second before they realize he’s not joining in.  That’s when it hits them and they start to calm down and show him some sympathy.

“Hey, tough break, man.”

“Yeah, sorry about that, but you know how it is.”

“The lady was sure to have friends, sooner or later.”

“I know,” Prad says coolly.  “It’s fine.  Really, it is.”  A pause, then he renews his suggestion for beers at the pub.  The offer receives the same cool response it did back in the lab.

“We were actually serious about getting home, man,” Sa’id says diplomatically.

“Oh, yeah, that’s cool too.  I guess it is a work night after all, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, sorry.  We’ll all hook up next week though right?”

“Yeah, Angie said she’d let us know about that.  I guess she wants us all to meet in person again to let the others know how it went.”

“Yup, bragging rights.” Sa’id says, summing it up succinctly.

“Right.  Oh, and remember that we’ve got a gag order put on us in the meantime.  No bragging ‘til everyone’s around to hear about it… in private.”

“I’m always discreet,” Sa’id declares.

They have a final laugh and Prad says goodnight to them one last time before heading off to the parking lot.  His Miata is there waiting for him, its seasonal protection undeployed against the dewy evening air.  He is suddenly annoyed by this and the number of obstructions strewn across the seats as he gets in.  A half-smoked joint is sitting on top of a few cases in his disk holder, a small burn mark from where it burnt itself out a few nights ago.  He puts it to his lips before starting the car.  A quick press of the lighter to get it burning, and he’s off.  Looks like it’s partying alone for him again tonight.

It’s strange, he thinks as he comes to a stop at the intersection just outside the college property.  He should be flying.  He should be a mile high right now.  If anything, the pot should be evening him out.  But it isn’t.  The pot is kicking in and the red light seems to drag on into infinity.  He sits there looking ahead and resting his chin on his left fist, propped up against the armrest.  The warm wind blowing across the nearby grassy fields makes him think of the end of summer.  It’s that time that calls to him from his deepest memory when summer was coming to an end and the cold winds began to roll in from the north pacific, announcing the coming of winter… with its rains and monster storms.  That’s about what it feels like right now, except that the wind is from the south, and it’s the beginning of spring.

All he can think about is how alone he really is.  No warm body to keep him company in his spacious bed and his cool linens.  Not even the thought of Brianna Banks or his adult dating site seems to hold any appeal for him right now.  All he can think about is how Angie will be with someone else tonight, how she likes this man and gets all nervous around him, and how his presence seems to break her poise and cool demeanor.  Most of all, he thinks about how it’s this other man, and not him that does that to her.

Data Miners – Chapter 3

Warning! Explicit and suggestive language follows (Like that ever scared anyone away!)…

It’s Friday night and Prad feels like doing something while he’s out of the house.  He couldn’t rope Angie into coming with them, but Sa’id and Achebe took him up on the offer.  They needed a chance to discuss strategy before returning to their daily lives.  Already Sa’id has a few people in mind that he would like to see associated with Dangle.  He plans to email the list to Angie as soon as he gets home.  He even thinks a few photo shop pics for the file would be nice.  It seems a little overkill, but who the hell cares?  All they need to do is create the illusion of something illicit, nothing that’ll survive investigation.  All that’s really necessary is for the press to pick up on the scent of a possible scandal, a little something to make the Congressman’s life more interesting before the next election.

They discuss the anonymizer Angie’s planning on implementing.  For a man like Dangle, who approved email surveillance for government employees, it seems like a fitting irony.  The only question is which site she’ll use.  Prad knows she’s partial to the Norwegians, though Russia has become good at producing such sites due to all the domestic spying they had to endure under Putin and Medvedev.  Then again, there are plenty of Puget Sound services who offer similar services, thanks in no small part to eight years of Tom Ridge and Homeland Security spying on people’s emails.  After their first pitcher, they get into specifics of their own work.

“You and me can come up with some Icebreakers for the FBI, no problem, Prad,” Sa’id says over his sudsy glass.  “I got plenty of friends who would be more than willing to help.  It’s a dream come true, you know.  I gotta thank Angie for giving me this chance.”

“Assuming we don’t get of course,” Achebe says.

“It’s just a one time thing right?  And even if we fail, they won’t know it was us.”

“They could always find out the old fashioned way.”  Achebe looks over his shoulder at the other patrons.  “Maybe we should be doing this from home… separately?”

“Naw, we need all our brains to do this.  Angie did say our collaboration was key.”

Prad is saying this.  He has surprised his fellow members on more than one occasion by demonstrating his willingness to take orders from a girl.  It surprises him too sometimes, but none of them seem to think of Angie as a girl.  Achebe’s concern seems more directed towards her methods though.

“All of us can do this from home and still stay connected, it’s called a conference call.”

“You trust your phone?” Sa’id scoffs.

“Then how about some MSN or Skype, Mr. Arab fucking nationalist?”

“Yeah, that’s smart.  The feds are a hell of a lot likelier to tap your computer than your phone, dude!  Public places are way safer.”

“Just wait til they start putting up cameras.  This country will create its own version of the London Eye any day now.”

Prad slaps the counter.  “This is all fine and good, but it was Angie’s call and we all said we were down, right?  If you’ve got problems, Achebe, why did you agree to this?”

Achebe swills a little beer and his mouth and appears to be giving the questions some thought.  “I don’t know.  Maybe I just don’t like the idea of sitting things out while the boss lady is busy doing something dangerous.”

“And because you like a challenge.”  Prad raises his glass and taps it against Achebe’s.  Sa’id joins them from the other side.  At the very least, they agree that they can pull this off.  No federal tracker is as good as any one of them.  How could they possibly fare against three of them combined?

It all sounds too simple.  With a little lubricant and enough testosterone, just about anything does.  Sa’id and Kingdome turn down Prad’s recommendation for a third pitcher and decide to call it a night.  They have families and lives to get back to, which invariably forces Prad to go pick up his where he left off.  He hops the el-train back to the Empire State towers and decides some television and a fat puff will be his entertainment for the remainder of the evening.  Perhaps he’ll even call up mom and dad for his weekly update.

Need to make some more friends, Prad reminds himself.  Life has become incredibly monotonous since moving to Puget Sound.  The Society has not filled the void just yet, nor has lusting after Angie taken care of the vacuum that is his love life.  As he passes through the revolving doors to his building, he realizes he scarcely needs to speak to his parents at all.  He’s already telling himself everything they are going to. At least his mother at any rate, who will be concentrating on his love life.  All he needs to do before getting to his apartment is lecture himself on finding a secure job and he’ll have both parents covered.  Such is the breakdown of his parents’ advice; his mother covers love and companionship, his father career and finances.

“Mr. Pradchaphet?”

It is the doorman calling to him.  Prad is surprised, mainly because the guy finally said it right.  He looks over at the old man in the monkey suit with a look that says “what the hell do you want?”

“A package came for you sir.  I was going to bring it to your apartment, but seeing as how you’re here…”

“It’s okay, I guess. What is it?”

Prad is escorted over to the front desk and eyes a square box wrapped in brown paper and tied shut with binder twine.  His address is written in large black letters in what appears to be permanent marker.  There is no return address.

“Who sent it?”

“I do not know, sir.  It was left at the desk while I was on my break and no one remembers seeing who dropped it off.  It was just here.”

“Don’t suppose you gave it a shake?  Checked it to see it was vibrating?”

“Vibrating, sir?”

Prad shakes his head at him and places his ear to the package.  It’s not vibrating, or ticking, or emitting a funny scent.  Could still be anthrax or some other crazy biological weapon.  Or maybe it’s a pipe bomb, courtesy of the local Minutemen who think he’s a terrorist.  Prad has always wondered why the heat Sa’id complains so bitterly about has never been directed at him.  He’s dark enough that some dumb hick might get it into their head to call the NSA or FBI on him.  For years he’s been waiting for a knock on the door or a kindly meet and greet with some cloaked figure in a dark alley.  It’s like waiting for a shoe to drop.  But alas, he is beginning to sense that maybe they’ve caught on to the fact that neither of his heritages are particularly suspect.  He eyes the package and tries to decide whether he’s going to open it here or upstairs.

“I’ll take it with me.  If it’s anything weird, I’ll phone down.”

“Are you expecting it to be something weird?” the old man asks.

“Uh…no.  Never mind.”

Prad leaves the front lobby and wonders where the doorman has been for the last decade. Blissfully unaware that paranoia has become a national canon.  The package clunks a bit as he hoists it under his arm and boards the elevator.  Whatever it is is not secured too well inside, and is clearly a few sizes too small for the box itself.  His nerves are on high alert as he expects the contents to blow up or start leaking from the little thump.  He pushes the button for the fourteenth floor (thirteen in reality) and the doors close.

The elevator hums to life and rolls upwards.  He can hear the motors purring gently and feels his heart beating pleasantly fast.  When the elevator stops on the seventh, it skips a beat and he’s made all the more nervous when an older man steps on with him.

“Going up?” the man asks needlessly.  Prad nods and tries not to look nervous, and fails.  The man eyes him ever so suspiciously and steps in.

Hot date?  Prad looks him over and thinks he’s going upstairs to see some nice widow.  He’s decked out in a dapper black suit with a white shirt that looks to be faux-silk, possibly real.  He has a dapper jacket on too, so he’s probably picking someone up in addition to taking them out.  Or maybe he’s just stopping in for a booty call.  Do men his age still do that?  He smiles as he speculates as to the content of his wallet.  Condoms, in addition to his platinum and senior citizen’s discount card?

Prad checks the numbers again.  They’ve reached floor ten.  That’s when it hits him.  The doors are polished brass and highly reflective.  The man has been watching him in the reflection the entire time.  He could not have failed to notice how Prad was looking him up and down.  And what’s this under his arm?  A big brown package with no return address?  Well now Prad is feeling the sting of paranoid eyes on him.  Or maybe he thinks Prad is one of the buildings many nubile queers, the up and coming boys who are moving into the valley and taking over prime real estate from old fag bashers like him.  He feels strangely empowered.

The doors open on twelve and the man politely gets out.  Prad is let down.  Unless he’s making a call to the authorities, Prad’s been imaging the whole thing.  Ah whatever, it was fun while it lasted.  And guiltily, he realizes he forgot that by even being in the same tight, confining space with the man, he might have been risking his life.  If the package is indeed some leaking biotoxin, then he just killed the poor fellow, or possibly made him and his date very sick.  At least he won’t be alone in the emergency room tonight.

The elevator passes the phantom thirteenth floor, reaches fourteen and dings.  It takes less than a minute for Prad to make it to his apartment, get inside and fetch the pair of industrial scissors that came with his knife set. Taking a deep breath, he cuts through the twine and starts making a seam along the paper.  Once he’s cut the box from one end to the other, he gently tears it off and peaks underneath.  It’s a shoebox, Merrell’s from REI, which is indicative of something, he thinks.  But it’s still just a shoebox, and he hasn’t even risked a peek at the true contents yet.  He feels strangely let down and relieved again. No one would ever pack a bomb or a bio-agent into a shoe box.  If the Anarchist cookbook doesn’t contain a section on that, well then it damn well should!

The edges of the box are secured with duct tape, which renews his sense of worry for just a second.  If he were packing this box with something that wasn’t supposed to get out until opened, he would be using duct tape to seal it.  The scissors come into play again.  It’s an old habit that he can’t just rip the tape of something or tear into a package.  Not being subjected to Christmas while growing up can do that to a person.  They just don’t know how to devour a package.  Nevertheless, his efforts are rewarded when he finally slits down the length of the last piece of tape.  The eight pieces are easily removed and lay in a heap on his table.  Eight silver strips in six and twelve inch lengths.

He takes a deep breath and removes the top.

It’s a book… shit.

Not just any book.  A copy of Koestler’s “Ghost in the Machine” is staring up at him from inside.  There was a note attached to it, a yellow sticky with cryptic instructions scrawled in fine ink.

Read it.  Learn!

Already Prad is starting to feel annoyed.  There is something inherently unsavoury about being instructed to learn.  It takes all the fun out of it.  Learning is most enjoyable when it goes against the grain, when it’s something you’re not supposed to be doing because it threatens the establishment.  And the ultimate letdown of knowing that no one considers him important enough to kill him makes it worse.

He picks the book up and looks it over, just to make sure its not somehow rigged or booby trapped.  He sniffs the pages, musty but harmless.  The spine is intact, the cover not lined with some tactile poison.  Nothing’s wrong with it at all.  It actually looks like it’s in fine shape, like whoever sent it had the good graces to order a good copy through Amazon.com.

Who the hell sent this, he thinks as he opens it and flips through the pages.  Probably Angie, he thinks.  Something involving dating tips would probably be more appropriate given the tenor of their last conversation, but getting him to learn is something she would not pass up.  The subject matter in undeniably Society as well.

The phone rings, causing his heart to jump again.  He puts the book down and grabs the wireless from its cradle on the kitchen counter.

“Hello?”

There’s no answer, just dead air and the almost imperceptible sense of something breathing in the background.  His paranoia is starting to tingle again.

“Hello.  Who is this?”

Another long pause.  He strains to hear the presence of breathing but can’t be sure.

“Who the fuck is this?  Answer me, you sick cunt!”

“Yamal?” an overtly feminine, high-pitched voice says.

Oh double shit! he screams internally.  All the way from Bangkok, the one person he can never allow himself to say “shit” to has just heard the worst he’s got.

“Yamal?!  What are doing talking like that?!” she demands.

“Sorry, ma,” he says sheepishly.  “Thought you were someone else…”

And Friday night becomes the night from hell.  What should have been a routine conversation about his inadequacies has become a full-fledged double-barrelled denunciation.  He estimates, as his mother tears into him with fire and brimstone, exactly how many angry calls he will be getting from relatives, coupled with the amount of time it will take to live this down.  He gives it about a year, six months at best.

When at last the conversation is over, he ear feels hot and swollen.  His dignity is similarly flayed, having been subjected to every bashing his mother could manage.  Time for a smoke!  Locating his vaporizer and his baggie, he loads a nice fat piece into the chamber, grabs his torch and then heads for the balcony.  Another nice feature of the Empire Towers, the lovely terraces overlooking the emerald city at night.  It’s actually quite pretty tonight, the air cleansed by the wave of ocean air that’s finally sent it all to Tacoma and Olympia.

He settles into one of the chairs that came with the patio set, the one with the glass table that has the natural bumps and imperfections in it.  He settles his feet onto the glass, lights the torch and puts it to his vaporizer.  He sips the sweet, cloudy nectar that forms in the chamber, knowing that in a moment, he will have forgotten all about the day and its debacles.  At least for a little while…

You were warned ;)…