But I couldn’t do it.
Hell, maybe my room was wiretapped. Maybe there was a camera spying on me now.
I’d been feeling paranoid when I got home. Now I was nearly out of my skin. It felt like I was back in jail, back in the interrogation room, stalked by entities who had me utterly in their power. It made me want to cry.
Only one thing for it.
I went into the bathroom and took off the toilet paper roll and replaced it with a fresh one. Luckily, it was almost empty already. I unrolled the rest of the paper and dug through my parts box until I found a little plastic envelope full of ultrabright white LEDs I’d scavenged out of a dead bike lamp. I punched their leads through the cardboard tube carefully, using a pin to make the holes, then got out some wire and connected them all in series with little metal clips. I twisted the wires into the leads for a nine-volt battery and connected the battery. Now I had a tube ringed with ultrabright, directional LEDs, and I could hold it up to my eye and look through it.
I’d built one of these last year as a science fair project and had been thrown out of the fair once I showed that there were hidden cameras in half the classrooms at Chavez High. Pinhead video cameras cost less than a good restaurant dinner these days, so they’re showing up everywhere. Sneaky store clerks put them in changing rooms or tanning salons and get pervy with the hidden footage they get from their customers—sometimes they just put it on the net. Knowing how to turn a toilet paper roll and three bucks’ worth of parts into a camera-detector is just good sense.
This is the simplest way to catch a spy-cam. They have tiny lenses, but they reflect light like the dickens. It works best in a dim room: stare through the tube and slowly scan all the walls and other places someone might have put a camera until you see the glint of a reflection. If the reflection stays still as you move around, that’s a lens.
There wasn’t a camera in my room—not one I could detect, anyway. There might have been audio bugs, of course. Or better cameras. Or nothing at all. Can you blame me for feeling paranoid?
I loved that laptop. I called it the Salmagundi, which means anything made out of spare parts.
Once you get to naming your laptop, you know that you’re really having a deep relationship with it. Now, though, I felt like I didn’t want to ever touch it again. I wanted to throw it out the window. Who knew what they’d done to it? Who knew how it had been tapped?
I put it in a drawer with the lid shut and looked at the ceiling. It was late and I should have been in bed. There was no way I was going to sleep now, though. I was tapped. Everyone might be tapped. The world had changed forever.
“I’ll find a way to get them,” I said. It was a vow, I knew it when I heard it, though I’d never made a vow before.
I couldn’t sleep after that. And besides, I had an idea.
Somewhere in my closet was a shrink-wrapped box containing one still-sealed, mint-in-package Xbox Universal. Every Xbox has been sold way below cost—Microsoft makes most of its money charging games companies money for the right to put out Xbox games—but the Universal was the first Xbox that Microsoft decided to give away entirely for free.
Last Christmas season, there’d been poor losers on every corner dressed as warriors from the Halo series, handing out bags of these game machines as fast as they could. I guess it worked—everyone says they sold a whole butt-load of games. Naturally, there were countermeasures to make sure you only played games from companies that had bought licenses from Microsoft to make them.
Hackers blow through those countermeasures. The Xbox was cracked by a kid from MIT who wrote a best-selling book about it, and then the 360 went down, and then the short-lived Xbox Portable (which we all called the “luggable”—it weighed three pounds!) succumbed. The Universal was supposed to be totally bulletproof. The high school kids who broke it were Brazilian Linux hackers who lived in a favela—a kind of squatter’s slum.
Never underestimate the determination of a kid who is time-rich and cash-poor.
Once the Brazilians published their crack, we all went nuts on it. Soon there were dozens of alternate operating systems for the Xbox Universal. My favorite was ParanoidXbox, a flavor of ParanoidLinux. ParanoidLinux is an operating system that assumes that its operator is under assault from the government (it was intended for use by Chinese and Syrian dissidents), and it does everything it can to keep your communications and documents a secret. It even throws up a bunch of “chaff” communications that are supposed to disguise the fact that you’re doing anything covert. So while you’re receiving a political message one character at a time, ParanoidLinux is pretending to surf the Web and fill in questionnaires and flirt in chat rooms. Meanwhile, one in every five hundred characters you receive is your real message, a needle buried in a huge haystack.
I’d burned a ParanoidXbox DVD when they first appeared, but I’d never gotten around to unpacking the Xbox in my closet, finding a TV to hook it up to and so on. My room is crowded enough as it is without letting Microsoft crashware eat up valuable workspace.
Tonight, I’d make the sacrifice. It took about twenty minutes to get up and running. Not having a TV was the hardest part, but eventually I remembered that I had a little overhead LCD projector that had standard TV RCA connectors on the back. I connected it to the Xbox and shone it on the back of my door and got ParanoidLinux installed.
Now I was up and running, and ParanoidLinux was looking for other Xbox Universals to talk to. Every Xbox Universal comes with built-in wireless for multiplayer gaming. You can connect to your neighbors on the wireless link and to the Internet, if you have a wireless Internet connection. I found three different sets of neighbors in range. Two of them had their Xbox Universals also connected to the Internet. ParanoidXbox loved that configuration: it could siphon off some of my neighbors’ Internet connections and use them to get online through the gaming network. The neighbors would never miss the packets: they were paying for flat-rate Internet connections, and they weren’t exactly doing a lot of surfing at 2 A.M.
The best part of all of this is how it made me feel: in control. My technology was working for me, serving me, protecting me. It wasn’t spying on me. This is why I loved technology: if you used it right, it could give you power and privacy.
My brain was really going now, running like sixty. There were lots of reasons to run ParanoidXbox—the best one was that anyone could write games for it. Already there was a port of MAME, the Multiple Arcade Machine Emulator, so you could play practically any game that had ever been written, all the way back to Pong—games for the Apple ][+ and games for the Cole-covision, games for the NES and the Dreamcast, and so on.
Even better were all the cool multiplayer games being built specifically for ParanoidXbox—totally free hobbyist games that anyone could run. When you combined it all, you had a free console full of free games that could get you free Internet access.
And the best part—as far as I was concerned—was that ParanoidXbox was paranoid. Every bit that went over the air was scrambled to within an inch of its life. You could wiretap it all you wanted, but you’d never figure out who was talking, what they were talking about or who they were talking to. Anonymous Web, email and IM. Just what I needed.
All I had to do now was convince everyone I knew to use it, too.
Chapter 6
Believe it or not, my parents made me go to school the next day. I’d only fallen into feverish sleep at three in the morning, but at seven the next day, my dad was standing at the foot of my bed, threatening to drag me out by the ankles. I managed to get up—something had died in my mouth after painting my eyelids shut—and into the shower.
I let my mom force a piece of toast and a banana into me, wishing fervently that my parents would let me drink coffee at home. I could sneak one on the way to school, but watching them sip down their black gold while I was drag-assing around the house, getting dressed and putting my books in my bag—it was awful.
I’ve walked to school a thousand times, b
ut today it was different. I went up and over the hills to get down into the Mission, and everywhere there were trucks. I saw new sensors and traffic cameras installed at many of the stop signs. Someone had a lot of surveillance gear lying around, waiting to be installed at the first opportunity. The attack on the Bay Bridge had been just what they needed.
It all made the city seem more subdued, like being inside an elevator, embarrassed by the close scrutiny of your neighbors and the ubiquitous cameras.
The Turkish coffee shop on 24th Street fixed me up good with a go-cup of Turkish coffee. Basically, Turkish coffee is mud, pretending to be coffee. It’s thick enough to stand a spoon up in, and it has way more caffeine than the kiddee-pops like Red Bull. Take it from someone who’s read the Wikipedia entry: this is how the Ottoman Empire was won: maddened horsemen fueled by lethal jet-black coffee-mud.
I pulled out my debit card to pay and he made a face. “No more debit,” he said.
“Huh? Why not?” I’d paid for my coffee habit on my card for years at the Turk’s. He used to hassle me all the time, telling me I was too young to drink the stuff, and he still refused to serve me at all during school hours, convinced that I was skipping class. But over the years, the Turk and me have developed a kind of gruff understanding.
He shook his head sadly. “You wouldn’t understand. Go to school, kid.”
There’s no surer way to make me want to understand than to tell me I won’t. I wheedled him, demanding that he tell me. He looked like he was going to throw me out, but when I asked him if he thought I wasn’t good enough to shop there, he opened up.
“The security,” he said, looking around his little shop with its tubs of dried beans and seeds, its shelves of Turkish groceries. “The government. They monitor it all now, it was in the papers. PATRIOT Act II, the Congress passed it yesterday. Now they can monitor every time you use your card. I say no. I say my shop will not help them spy on my customers.”
My jaw dropped.
“You think it’s no big deal maybe? What is the problem with government knowing when you buy coffee? Because it’s one way they know where you are, where you been. Why you think I left Turkey? Where you have government always spying on the people, is no good. I move here twenty years ago for freedom—I no help them take freedom away.”
“You’re going to lose so many sales,” I blurted. I wanted to tell him he was a hero and shake his hand, but that was what came out. “Everyone uses debit cards.”
“Maybe not so much anymore. Maybe my customers come here because they know I love freedom, too. I am making sign for window. Maybe other stores do the same. I hear the ACLU will sue them for this.”
“You’ve got all my business from now on,” I said. I meant it. I reached into my pocket. “Um, I don’t have any cash, though.”
He pursed his lips and nodded. “Many peoples say the same thing. Is okay. You give today’s money to the ACLU.”
In two minutes, the Turk and I had exchanged more words than we had in all the time I’d been coming to his shop. I had no idea he had all these passions. I just thought of him as my friendly neighborhood caffeine dealer. Now I shook his hand and when I left his store, I felt like he and I had joined a team. A secret team.
I’d missed two days of school but it seemed like I hadn’t missed much class. They’d shut the school on one of those days while the city scrambled to recover. The next day had been devoted, it seemed, to mourning those missing and presumed dead. The newspapers published biographies of the lost, personal memorials. The Web was filled with these capsule obituaries, thousands of them.
Embarrassingly, I was one of those people. I stepped into the schoolyard, not knowing this, and then there was a shout and a moment later there were a hundred people around me, pounding me on the back, shaking my hand. A couple girls I didn’t even know kissed me, and they were more than friendly kisses. I felt like a rock star.
My teachers were only a little more subdued. Ms. Galvez cried as much as my mother had and hugged me three times before she let me go to my desk and sit down. There was something new at the front of the classroom. A camera. Ms. Galvez caught me staring at it and handed me a permission slip on smeary xeroxed school letterhead.
The Board of the San Francisco Unified School District had held an emergency session over the weekend and unanimously voted to ask the parents of every kid in the city for permission to put closed circuit television cameras in every classroom and corridor. The law said they couldn’t force us to go to school with cameras all over the place, but it didn’t say anything about us volunteering to give up our Constitutional rights. The letter said that the Board was sure that they would get complete compliance from the city’s parents, but that they would make arrangements to teach those kids whose parents objected in a separate set of “unprotected” classrooms.
Why did we have cameras in our classrooms now? Terrorists. Of course. Because by blowing up a bridge, terrorists had indicated that schools were next. Somehow that was the conclusion that the Board had reached anyway.
I read this note three times and then I stuck my hand up.
“Yes, Marcus?”
“Ms. Galvez, about this note?”
“Yes, Marcus.”
“Isn’t the point of terrorism to make us afraid? That’s why it’s called terrorism, right?”
“I suppose so.” The class was staring at me. I wasn’t the best student in school, but I did like a good in-class debate. They were waiting to hear what I’d say next.
“So aren’t we doing what the terrorists want from us? Don’t they win if we act all afraid and put cameras in the classrooms and all of that?”
There was some nervous tittering. One of the others put his hand up. It was Charles. Ms. Galvez called on him.
“Putting cameras in makes us safe, which makes us less afraid.”
“Safe from what?” I said, without waiting to be called on.
“Terrorism,” Charles said. The others were nodding their heads.
“How do they do that? If a suicide bomber rushed in here and blew us all up—”
“Ms. Galvez, Marcus is violating school policy. We’re not supposed to make jokes about terrorist attacks—”
“Who’s making jokes?”
“Thank you, both of you,” Ms. Galvez said. She looked really unhappy. I felt kind of bad for hijacking her class. “I think that this is a really interesting discussion, but I’d like to hold it over for a future class. I think that these issues may be too emotional for us to have a discussion about them today. Now, let’s get back to the suffragists, shall we?”
So we spent the rest of the hour talking about suffragists and the new lobbying strategies they’d devised for getting four women into every congresscritter’s office to lean on him and let him know what it would mean for his political future if he kept on denying women the vote. It was normally the kind of thing I really liked—little guys making the big and powerful be honest. But today I couldn’t concentrate. It must have been Darryl’s absence. We both liked Social Studies and we would have had our SchoolBooks out and an IM session up seconds after sitting down, a back channel for talking about the lesson.
I’d burned twenty ParanoidXbox discs the night before and I had them all in my bag. I handed them out to people I knew were really, really into gaming. They’d all gotten an Xbox Universal or two the year before, but most of them had stopped using them. The games were really expensive and not a lot of fun. I took them aside between periods, at lunch and study hall, and sang the praises of the ParanoidXbox games to the sky. Free and fun—addictive social games with lots of cool people playing them from all over the world.
Giving away one thing to sell another is what they call a “razor blade business”—companies like Gillette give you free razor blade handles and then stiff you by charging you a small fortune for the blades. Printer cartridges are the worst for that—the most expensive champagne in the world is cheap when compared with inkjet ink, which costs all of a penny a g
allon to make wholesale.
Razor blade businesses depend on you not being able to get the “blades” from someone else. After all, if Gillette can make nine bucks on a ten-dollar replacement blade, why not start a competitor that makes only four bucks selling an identical blade: an 80 percent profit margin is the kind of thing that makes your average businessguy go all drooly and round-eyed.
So razor blade companies like Microsoft pour a lot of effort into making it hard and/or illegal to compete with them on the blades. In Microsoft’s case, every Xbox has had countermeasures to keep you from running software that was released by people who didn’t pay the Microsoft blood money for the right to sell Xbox programs.
The people I met didn’t think much about this stuff. They perked up when I told them that the games were unmonitored. These days, any online game you play is filled with all kinds of unsavory sorts. First there are the pervs who try to get you to come out to some remote location so they can go all weird and Silence of the Lambs on you. Then there are the cops, who are pretending to be gullible kids so they can bust the pervs. Worst of all, though, are the monitors who spend all their time spying on our discussions and snitching on us for violating their Terms of Service, which say no flirting, no cussing and no “clear or masked language which insultingly refers to any aspect of sexual orientation or sexuality.”
I’m no 24/7 horn-dog, but I’m a seventeen-year-old boy. Sex does come up in conversation every now and again. But God help you if it came up in chat while you were gaming. It was a real buzz-kill. No one monitored the ParanoidXbox games, because they weren’t run by a company: they were just games that hackers had written for the hell of it.
So these game-kids loved the story. They took the discs greedily, and promised to burn copies for all their friends—after all, games are most fun when you’re playing them with your buddies.
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