“Where are they taking me?” I cry out to Santa.
“To Antarctica,” he replied.
“B-but… I thought you lived in the North Pole?”
“Greenland, boy. But our toy factory is down south. I run a complex global operation and need to keep costs down.”
His voice faded as they dragged me into the darkness. “Who knows, if you perform well enough and live long enough, I’ll transfer you to our bicycle division in Guangzhou. Ho! Ho!”
“The Off Season” copyright © 2007 by Michael A.R. Co. First published in the Christmas edition of the Digest of Philippine Genre Stories, 2007.
IN THE EYES OF MANY
In the eyes of many, he was “paranoid about privacy, passionate about porn, and”—as his public profile made plain—“prevalently peppered his phrases with P’s.” Later, when the police finally caught up with him, he was prosecuted for “perverse and predatory behavior” in an indictment that was also written, on purpose no doubt, in preposterous purple prose. The judge was not amused and dismissed the charges for lack of merit. The prosecutor was also cited for contempt.
But for now, Pete Portacio enjoyed what seemed like perfect anonymity. Almost. Every morning, after checking his cell phone for text messages, using the toilet, and abusing himself in the shower, he’d switch on his PC screen, check his torrents, access his inbox, and ritually delete half a dozen or so emails from the wife/daughter/son of a very important, but recently deceased, government official. Then he’d make himself a cup of 3-in-1 instant coffee, a cup of instant noodles, return to his workstation, and read the rest of his emails. On this particular morning, however, he received no word from his Nigerian pen pals, but more disconcertingly, none from his online friends.
This was strange because one of his online identities, pinoy_playboy69, was a popular professional blogger, moderator of several adult-only social networking websites, and the best "friend of a friend" anyone could have. He was tolerant of queers but very hetero; liberal in his politics but staunchly anti-commie. He was a lurker who didn’t offend anybody and didn’t make any demands. Although he had more pet peeves than guilty pleasures, he never imposed his opinions on anyone, and he knew the difference between revelation and denial. He also loved to chat with strangers, especially bored housewives, teenage girls, or even guys who pretended to be girls. After all, he was a tolerant man.
Kittycutie15 was currently online. He met her three weeks ago while lurking in a singles group, and they’ve chatted a number of times. He instant messaged her: “Hiya! wazzap :)” Seconds later, her smiley icon went to sleep, indicating that she had gone offline. He would’ve felt slighted if he had actually met her in person. Instead, he shrugged and assumed she wasn’t in the mood.
He checked out the blogosphere (no updates in the last 12 hours), logged on to his Friendster, Facebook, and MySpace accounts as “Pedro Potenciano” (nothing new there either), then scanned the news: Terror plot foiled in Germany - Beijing police to patrol the web - EU official seeks to ban access to bomb-making websites - Russia and China deny cyberattacks -YouTube no longer banned in Thailand - Burma blocks Internet - Facebook adds safety measures -
A dialog box popped up. Koji Hentai’s Bathroom Spy vol. 19 in .avi format had just finished downloading. He ran the video, and after a few minutes of un-subtitled opening credits that featured a blue-haired man installing a hidden camera behind a two-way mirror, the scene dissolved to a still shot of a buxom Japanese girl in lingerie. Her name (in hiragana and romaji) was Midori Sutomo, 20 years old, 5’1", 35-22-34, blood type B, a sure indication of a “wild” personality. The scene cut to hidden camera footage of Midori in her birthday suit stepping into a shower room, expressing perky shock over the lack of hot water. Pete knew that the whole set up was a sham, but the illusion was convincing and sadistically funny. He lusted after her flawless skin, watched as cold water fell against her chest, dripped down her abdomen, into her navel, between her slender legs. Her scene was over in less than ten minutes, and Mr. Hentai introduced his next victim.
Pete launched a new browser window and, as Bathroom Spy continued playing in the background, he Googled her name. From one fan site, he learned that she’s only half-Japanese, “Sutomo” being an Indonesian surname. Hoping to find more explicit videos of her, he narrowed his search: “Midori Sutomo” +video
The top search was a website called Ogle but the actual URL was much longer. He clicked the link. A video played automatically, showing a pair of delicate hands awkwardly massaging a muscled back covered with green and red dragon tattoos. It looked like a phony reality TV show except the scene was shot entirely from the girl’s point of view as she straddled her partner. Pete toggled to full screen mode and increased the volume. He heard the grunts of the man as the girl’s hands turned into fists and pressed down between his shoulder blades. Occasionally, her tan breasts would peek from the lower edge of the screen.
Being an amateur filmmaker himself, Pete was impressed with the camera work, particularly the POV. He imagined that she had a special camera mounted on her forehead like a human version of National Geographic’s “Crittercam.”
The scene panned up. Midori was staring at herself in a large mirror above the bed. She was nude, and so was her partner. She adjusted her hair, checked if her ponytail was still in place.
Amazing, Pete thought. But where’s the camera?
He paused the video but the status bar continued to show the seconds ticking by, as if the site was buffering. He tried to fast forward but the interface wouldn’t allow him to view beyond the time already elapsed. The video kept playing and all he could do was watch it in real time. The scene panned down as Midori examined her partner’s face; he seemed to have fallen asleep. Then she got out of bed, walked to the bathroom, sat on the toilet, and did her business. Hardcore porn caters to all fetishes, he concluded.
Bored now, Pete returned to the site’s homepage. Ogle had a remarkably simple interface: a search box with advanced options to filter the results. There were links that allowed him to search not only by name, but also by location and proximity to user. Proximity? That didn’t make sense. A drop down list under proximity allowed him to select the radius - 10m, 50m, 100m, 500m, and 1000m. He chose “10m,” out of curiosity, naturally assuming that “m” meant meters.
Two hyperlinks appeared:
Peter Portacio / Pedro Potenciano / pinoy_playboy69…
Tricia Martinez
Thinking that the first link pointed to one of his own websites, he considered the second. Tricia was the name of his next door neighbor. He had noticed her a few times. Chinky-eyed, slightly plump, quite a looker. He stared at his wall, stared at his screen. Beads of sweat formed over his upper lip. He clicked on her name.
Another video loaded. Tricia was sitting in bed, clipping her toenails; like Midori’s video, he watched entirely from her POV. Was this a new trend? First person vlogging? Pete hoped she’d eventually take a shower. Instead, she gave herself a pedicure. He watched and waited, learning much about cuticles, French tips, and acetone in the process. Then, while waiting for her nails to dry, she leaned back in bed and cracked open a dog-eared copy of Pride and Prejudice.
The resolution was remarkably fine. If he wanted to, he could read along with her. Why anyone would produce a vlog like this was beyond him.
Frustrated, Pete hit the Back button. Tricia’s link had turned purple, while his was still blue. This time, he clicked on his name.
A new video loaded: an image of his computer screen. Or more accurately, a video of his computer screen displaying his computer screen displaying his computer screen… like it went on forever. He slowly lowered his eyelids; the scene started to narrow, a dark shadow falling from the upper edge.
He choked on a noodle and nearly slipped off his chair. Pete stood up, looked behind him. He was alone in the room. He stared at the ceiling; nothing there either. Before returning to his workstation, he looked out his window, inspected his webcam, ran hi
s fingers through his hair, pinched his forearm, and rubbed his eyes. Throughout all this, the video moved along with his eyes. He looked left, right, and winked; the video had panned left, right, and bounced slightly off center. He put his hand in front of his face; he could see the hand appear on the screen behind it. His heart pounded like a trapped gorilla. Pete had made an awesome discovery and his mind worked on how he might profit from it.
That’s when he noticed a link that read: View people who have viewed you.
He froze.
He clicked the link, and a long list of names appeared; beside each entry were the date, time, duration, and whether the person was currently online. There were about seventy names, all of them online. Bathroom Spy vol. 19 continued playing on his other window.
* * *
Pete wasn’t the first to discover the Ogle website. Within 24 hours, the link to the homepage had been emailed, forwarded, blogged about, and posted in e-groups around the world. In 48 hours, the site hit the mainstream media and the Dow dropped 3000 points sending the world financial system into a tailspin. After 72 hours, ten nations had declared martial law, and the number of reported suicides in South Korea and Japan quadrupled from the usual daily average.
Jon Lorenzo waited outside the college for his ride, notebook computer snugly stowed in a backpack. He wore contact lenses instead of eyeglasses and a baller band instead of a wristwatch, but his khakis and loafers betrayed his maturity and announced that he was a teacher of some sort. He entered the heavily tinted SUV when it pulled up to the curb. The Undersecretary of the Department of Science and Technology was waiting for him in the back seat.
“Are we meeting with the entire NSC?” asked Jon.
“Just the Executive Committee.”
They rode the rest of the way in silence. The SUV made a right turn instead of a left and Jon knew that they weren’t going to Malacañang. He looked out the window from the corner of his eye. They were passing one of the city’s crowded slums. Three naked children, two boys and one girl, maybe six to eight years old, ran about with soap in their hair, as a woman, presumably their mother, scolded one of the boys to keep still while she rinsed his skinny body with what little water she had. Jon wondered when these children would start bathing on their own. In private. As the entire squatter community flashed by the window, he wondered how anyone could have time alone at all.
Thirty minutes later, the SUV entered a compound in Quezon City surrounded by a high perimeter wall and guarded by men wearing barongs and sunglasses. The vehicle ground to a halt, and without a word, two security men escorted Jon and the Undersecretary into the house. Guards frisked them for weapons but did not confiscate their cellphones. They were led down a hall.
“She’ll be expecting simple answers,” said the Undersecretary.
“Sir, the problem isn’t that simple,” said Jon.
“Just your answers, Jon. Keep them short and honest. Speak only when spoken to. Don’t stall. Hesitation implies uncertainty.”
“These are uncertain times, sir.”
They paused in front of a mahogany door. Another man in a barong motioned for Jon to go right in.
“Aren’t you coming with me?” Jon asked the Undersecretary. The latter nodded and Jon felt ashamed for even asking.
The room was cool, almost cold, the air-con humming and hissing, indicating it needed cleaning. All the lights were off except for a small desk lamp illuminating a sheaf of papers on a dark brown dinner table. Jon had to adjust his eyes to the dim light conditions. At the head of the table, he could make out the petite form of the President. There were several men seated around the table, some of whom he could still recognize despite the gloom: the disheveled hair of the Secretary of the Department of Interior and Local Government, the semi-bald pate of the Defense Secretary, the grim head of the Justice Secretary, and the bulky mass of the National Security Advisor who sat immobile, silent as stone. Jon nearly jumped when the thing spoke.
“Gentlemen, please take your seats.”
Jon pulled back a chair, but the Undersecretary, thinking that Jon was offering him the seat, promptly took it. Jon was forced to sit at the end of the table, directly across the President.
“Another day, another scandal,” she said, her voice unmistakable. “I looked over your initial report. You should have used less technical language.” She closed a folder labeled Top Secret: For Your Eyes Only.
“I’m sorry Madam President, I…”
She raised her hand and continued, “Never mind. You’re here now. Share your findings. And please, Jon, keep it simple.”
Jon Lorenzo cleared his throat. As senior consultant to the Presidential Task Force on Cybersecurity, he found it unfair that he was expected to work miracles when he was as much in the dark as everyone else. “From what we can determine, the website appeared just three days ago,” he began. “It’s called ‘Ogle’ except that the initial character is actually a zero. The domain name is not registered in any DNS server yet it can be accessed by anyone, anywhere. You don’t even need an Internet connection, just a computer and a browser. All our efforts to trace the host and track down the webmaster have been futile. Measures to block the URL are useless as the site doesn’t have a valid IP address. The domain name itself consists of sixty-one zeros followed by the letters g, l, and e. ICANN currently restricts names to sixty-three characters—”
“English, Jon, English,” the President interrupted.
Jon sighed. “The website shouldn’t even exist,” he said. “It violates the rules of the Internet and the laws of physics.”
“It violates our privacy, that’s what it does!” said the Justice Secretary.
“To what extent, we’ll soon find out,” said the President. “Jon, please go on.”
“Ogle gives its users the unprecedented ability to look through other people’s eyes and listen through their ears. No one knows how this is done or why this is even possible, who did it, and from where. Although it hasn’t recorded anything older than three days,”—there was a faint sigh of relief—“it hasn’t stopped recording everything since. To our knowledge, the videos cannot be deleted.” Jon thought he heard a collective gasp but it might have been the old air-con unit.
Jon continued. “This is a global phenomenon. The Ogle website consistently ranks number one every time you search for someone’s name along with the word ‘video’ regardless of which search engine you use. If a hundred others shared your name, all of you will appear at the top one hundred. Videos can also be searched by popularity. Vying for first place are Bush and bin Laden. Obama, a close third. That’s just the English version; Ogle supports multiple languages.”
“The end of privacy,” said the Interior Secretary, shaking his head. “We should wear masks, work through intermediaries, impose a ban on the use of computers…”
“The U.S. response so far was to declare martial law, hours ahead of China and Russia,” said the Defense Secretary. “We should do the same.”
“I think a state of emergency would be in order,” the Justice Secretary chimed in. "Martial law would be political suicide.”
“Martial law is our only choice!” countered the Defense Secretary. “This website poses a grave threat to our national security. Martial law is a far better option than either a coup or impeachment. We should shut down the grid. Cut the power. No electricity, no computers.”
“Sir, with all due respect,” said Jon, “that won’t solve the problem.” He pulled out his cellphone, accessed the Ogle homepage, typed in his own name, and loaded the video. He flipped the screen around and showed it to the Defense Secretary. “Millions of people own a cellphone, and most models today have a built-in browser. I can recharge mine with my car battery. A blackout now would only empower criminals, rebels, terrorists, and foreign governments.”
The Defense Secretary looked convinced and so did the President.
“There’s more.” Jon tapped a few more links. “We don’t know how it does this, but Ogle d
isplays highly personal data on every individual account. There are a total of sixty-four parameters. Full name, aliases, e-mail addresses, date of birth, weight, height, current location in longitude and latitude, all liquid assets in local currency, the names of your children, the names of those that you’ve killed or ordered killed in or out of the line of duty, the people you’ve had intercourse with…"
“That’s enough, Jon,” said the President. “Please put that away.”
But before Jon could log out, he noticed that someone else was viewing him: kittycutie15. He switched off his phone and tucked it away.
Rubbing her temples, the President said, “Is there anything Ogle can’t do?”
“Ogle cannot read minds,” Jon replied. “And it can only track the living. Each video is literally a live feed.”
The air-con’s hum switched to a low drone like a car changing gears.
At last the President said, “What would you do?” It took Jon a few seconds to realize the question was still directed at him. He looked at the Undersecretary for guidance and got a blank stare, and the men in the shadows remained in the shadows.
“I’m not asking you to formulate policy, Jon. I’m asking for your personal opinion. What would you do?”
The air-con’s drone seemed deafening. Then he found the courage to speak his mind.
“Ogle gives users absolute access to anyone in the planet, and can search for people within a radius of ten meters to one kilometer from the original subject. I can enter your name, location, association, race or religion. Ogle will find you. I can even upload your scanned fingerprint. Ogle will find you. Therefore, I would choose my words and actions carefully from now on. I won’t do anything illegal or embarrassing and I’d tell everyone to do the same. I’d beef up my security detail. And as a public servant, I wouldn’t worry about being watched by the people I serve. I would not be a coward in a brave new world.”
The God Equation and Other Stories Page 6