Alias

by Tracy Alexander

  ‘That’s fine by me,’ said Hugo.

  ‘It’ll be an excellent thing to write on your personal statement,’ she said, looking at me. ‘University applications come round in no time.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said.

  She waited for my excuse. Anything would have done, but …

  ‘I can’t bear to be anywhere near him, I’m afraid.’

  I left, cross with myself for letting Hugo see that I was still bruised. Worse still, Mrs Abrahms came to find me later, ‘concerned’, and keen for me to see the school counsellor.

  I told Sayge all about it.

  I don’t need a shrink – I need to put a missile up America – I typed.

  if GCHQ are any good they’re watching you

  He suggested we meet in our own IRC channel where no one could listen in. Sounded good to me, whatever it was.

  Away from the eyes and ears of the security services, he asked:

  How would you get back at the Americans if you could do anything?

  I’d find the guy who did it and vaporise his whole family – I typed.

  I didn’t mean it. Or at least, I didn’t bother to think about whether I did or not.

  I asked him the same. His answers were stupid.

  Nail Obama on the cross

  Nuke Washington

  Pump nerve gas into the subway

  But it was the start of a game. The sort of game that would get you in front of a judge accused of inciting violence, but a game just the same.

  I’d always been good at picking things up – plotting revenge attacks was no different. I researched ways around security procedures at airports and the pros and cons of petrol, pipe, nail and pressure-cooker bombs. I watched YouTube videos showing how to make a remote detonator and, by accident, a cake in the shape of a grenade. One day I bunked off school and by the time Sayge came online at six I’d become a firearms expert.

  We pretended to be snipers with a mission to take down a US senator, working through the stages from recces of targets to choice of ammo and getaway car. We orchestrated a lethal-gas attack on the New York subway, poisoned the President’s food on Air Force One and took a whole army base hostage. It was harmless, but intensely satisfying.

  I didn’t see it coming, but wasn’t surprised, when Sayge asked:

  would you kill innocent people to get your own back?

  I didn’t reply immediately. I knew I was meant to say that I wouldn’t … but my grandma was an innocent person, murdered not by a lone maniac, which would be sad but bearable, but by the world’s greatest superpower.

  well? – Sayge typed.

  Jaddah and Lamyah were collateral damage. Only by making collateral damage of my own would anyone take any notice. Like Frederick Douglass said, there had to be a cost or nothing would change.

  if by killing some random Americans I could guarantee the drone wars would stop – YES – I’d do it

  good – he typed.

  I don’t know if making a statement to a stranger in a chatroom marked the moment I considered becoming a bona fide activist. After all, they were just words. I do know that Sayge made it his business to encourage me.

  the drone wars will carry on unless the Americans are forced to stop

  only someone personally affected cares enough to force the change

  you are that person

  He helped me understand that it only took one person to start a whole movement. Made me realise that the person who feels the injustice most is the one who finds a way to stop it. History had example after example of individuals who fought back against a more powerful enemy, and great things followed – slavery was abolished, women got the vote, the white South African government was overturned.

  I’d tried asking for help … I’d tried raising the profile of the drone wars … Direct action was the next logical step.

  I drifted off to sleep at night, fantasising about putting together an act of retribution that would make the world stop and stare in shock. Although many people would condemn me, there would be others who would applaud my determination to shame the pilots who fired the missiles, and the ones who ordered them to be fired. The military’s increasing use of drones had enemies as well as fans. I loved the idea of taking a stand and having a whole load of strangers with weird usernames support my cause.

  We stopped saying if, and started saying when.

  11

  The shops in Buckingham were rubbish, and I needed new jeans, so I got the bus to Milton Keynes. Mum offered to drive me but I didn’t want to have to go for lunch and be chummy, so I lied and said I was going with Lucy. It was the Sunday after my seventeenth birthday, 4th February, aka Rosa Parks Day. Rosa Parks was on a bus when she was arrested for refusing to give her seat to a white man – she was ‘coloured’, which in Alabama in 1955 was on a par with being a dog. Her action that day sparked protests led by the one and only Martin Luther King – someone else Sayge liked to quote.

  For years now, I have heard the word ‘wait’. This ‘wait’ has almost always meant ‘never’.

  I hoped, with all my heart, that for me the wait was nearly over.

  I bought two pairs of jeans in New Look, one black, one grey. By one thirty I was done but in no hurry to go home, so I went to a café and bought a hot chocolate and a brownie. Sugar overload.

  I chose a table by the window – always interested in people-watching. The teenage boy in a huff, the kid in the pushchair swaddled in too many layers, the fashion-obsessed shopper strutting in high heels.

  ‘Is this chair free?’

  I looked up and nodded at the much younger version of my dad I’d noticed in the queue.

  He dragged the chair to the table next to me, where he was joined by a friend – best guess, Pakistani. As they tucked into their cinnamon swirls, the conversation darted about from football to work to 4G. I kept an ear on them, and an eye on the window.

  Someone had left a paper, which the Dad-lookalike started to flick through while his mate described his shift at the hospital – sounded like he was a nurse.

  ‘Have you seen this?’ said the Dad-lookalike.

  He read the headline out loud.

  ‘Anti-drone activists’ anger at Obama’s “kill” policy.’

  I was pleased to see the story had been picked up by the newspapers. The protests had started in New York, and were moving to a different American city every day for the whole month of February. There was loads about the campaign online. But I hadn’t heard anyone mention it until now …

  ‘It won’t make any difference,’ said the nurse. ‘The drones fly over Waziristan for hours and hours. The locals don’t even look up – they’re used to it. They know they can be shot at any moment. But what can they do?’

  ‘A missile isn’t like a gun, Amir. It’s like a bomb.’

  ‘I know. What right do the Americans have to even be there?’

  ‘They’re the ones that turn people into terrorists. Bullies, harassing people trying to go about their normal lives.’

  ‘Someone should give them a taste of their own medicine. How would they like that?’ said the nurse. ‘If drones hovered over Washington.’

  ‘Launching a missile at the Oval Office – that would bring it home to them for sure.’ The lookalike laughed. ‘Serve them right for killing people for being Muslims.’

  Their words bounced around inside my head.

  An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. A drone attack for a drone attack. It was perfect.

  They started talking about their plans for the rest of the day, but I didn’t listen. I had plans of my own.

  I arrived home, keen to get in front of my laptop, to find that Mum had chosen exactly that moment to try to rebuild our relationship.

  ‘Samiya, I know things have been difficult since Jaddah and Lamyah were murdered.’

  Finally she was using an appropriate word, rather than trying to make things better by saying ‘lost’ or ‘passed’.

  ‘Dad and I want you to kn
ow that we’re proud of you … really we are. We know how hard you’ve tried to get justice.’ She paused. I could see she was working up to something by the way she kept shifting her weight from foot to foot. I wondered if she was going to offer to help …

  ‘But maybe it’s time to let it go. All the blogging and everything. Maybe the best thing you can do for them is work hard and get a good degree.’

  It’s a terrible feeling to despise your mum, but I did. She was so feeble, when I needed her to be strong. So keen to jolly me along, when all I wanted was to see that she was upset, like I was. I may only have known Jaddah and Lamyah for six weeks of my sixteen years, but we’d formed a bond. I didn’t want to ‘let it go’.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ I said, because that was the quickest way to escape. Every truthful answer in my head would have caused a massive row.

  ‘I’m going to have a bath. It’s freezing out.’

  As I tried to walk past, Mum reached out and gave me a hug – it felt as uncomfortable as the one I got from the Father Christmas in Milton Keynes shopping centre when I was seven.

  While the water was running I found Sayge, desperate to share.

  got a brilliant idea

  go on

  steal an American drone

  is that even possible?

  no idea – thought hackers could do pretty much anything

  assuming it is – do what with it? – he asked.

  fly it to somewhere it can do the most damage then fire its missiles – Washington?

  Drones were the enemy – vehicles for killing without conscience. Drones should be the tool. America should be the target. It fitted.

  He was, as expected, enthusiastic.

  like it

  But full of questions.

  how far can they fly?

  how much damage can they do?

  how big are they?

  can a hacker really do that?

  About to find out – I typed, and logged out.

  I knew all about drone strikes, but not that much about drones themselves. With my laptop propped up on a towel by the side of the bath, I had a long soak, Googling madly. By the time Mum called me for dinner my knowledge base was much improved.

  Drones were hackable. The Iranians claimed to have stolen a US drone by breaking into its control system.

  A stolen drone could stay hidden. Air traffic control wasn’t designed to spot UAVs – they’re small and slow compared to planes.

  Drones could be piloted or pre-programmed to fly on autopilot.

  Pilots were trained using video games. (Made me wonder whether they realised the victims couldn’t respawn.)

  Predator drones fly for up to forty-two hours.

  I levered myself out of the water, threw on my pyjamas even though it was only six o’clock, and went to play happy families.

  The conversation was a bit strained, but the lamb chops with mint sauce and thick salty gravy were delicious, as was the feeling that I had, at last, found a way to put right a wrong.

  I went to school on Monday, but came home after lunch knowing Mum would be at work. Sayge didn’t pop up until six o’clock, at which point I swamped him with information. He’d obviously been researching stuff too.

  video feed would show if drone going on wrong course

  if feed fails drone is meant to return to base – I typed.

  could replace the video feed with fake footage to delay discovery of hijack – he suggested.

  good job – time for drone to get well away – I replied.

  we could issue a warning with a message about drone wars

  I hadn’t thought of that.

  yes – need to get the maximum publicity

  I was fired up by it all. If we announced we had a drone flying low over Washington, surely we could rely on journalists to do the rest? They’d dig up all the filth about missile strikes, and collateral murder would be the subject of every headline.

  Flying Serial Killers

  On the day itself, the man on the sidewalk would get to experience the same fear as they had in my grandma’s village, and then, with drones top of the agenda – bang! The great U S of A would get the same medicine as Pakistan, Yemen, Afghanistan and Somalia – a flipping huge missile in their backyard.

  People think that bombers, arsonists, murderers, bank robbers and the like are a different species, but I don’t think they are. Successful bombers, arsonists, murderers and bank robbers are planners. I was a planner.

  I took the preparation of my maiden political act more seriously than the organisers of the 2012 Olympics, even downloading an app used for project management. In free periods I worked in the library or went home, and every evening I buried myself in my room. Mum thought I was cramming to get into Cambridge.

  I broke the plan down into a series of tasks – most of which we didn’t have the skills for. That didn’t worry me. As long as we kept our ultimate goal a secret, I didn’t imagine it would be too hard to recruit some keen hackers to help out. It was nice to think of our project being crowdsourced.

  My only worry was whether, out there in the community of grey and black hats, we’d manage to find the one that had the talent to hack a drone. Assuming we did, I was sure I’d find a way to persuade him … or her. All those years spent watching the kids at school to make sure I fitted in hadn’t been wasted. If anyone could befriend an elite hacker and encourage him to show off, I could.

  12

  Three weeks after I first had the idea, Sayge and I met online to decide what to do next.

  it’s definitely doable with the right l33ts – messaged Sayge.

  I agree – I typed.

  time to start recruiting then – typed Sayge.

  I didn’t expect to have second thoughts. Having someone by my side, urging me on, albeit virtually, had made all the difference. Yet I suddenly got cold feet. The talk, the planning, visualising Washington in a panic with an armed drone circling overhead had made me feel alive … but it had never felt real.

  There was a long interval – by online messaging standards – while I tried to work out what I was thinking. I wanted revenge. I understood the need for drastic action. But …

  we could steal the drone – send a warning but not fire – I typed.

  Sayge didn’t like my sudden attack of conscience.

  nothing will change unless we make it – remember frederick douglass and malcolm x – he typed.

  if I kill a grandma I’m as bad as them – threats are enough – I typed.

  if someone attacks you and you respond you are not the same because they are the aggressor – your move is self-defence

  but both sides have done wrong – I typed.

  what exactly did your grandma do wrong?

  I meant jihadists and americans have both done wrong – me.

  since when was this about world politics?

  The online discussion carried on, with us both typing at the same time so the replies made no sense.

  a drone strike on American soil will highlight the complete injustice of the stealth war targeting exclusively Muslim tribal communities – he typed.

  I ran out of things to say. He didn’t –

  violence is a legitimate tool in the fight for human rights

  He said there was one rule for western lives, and another for non-western ones. He said that there would only be a reaction if we vaporised a ‘White Anglo-Saxon Protestant’. Society has changed for the better because of people willing to stand up and make waves. My actions would make the world reconsider its use of drones. Once the public appreciated the true horror of the high-tech assassinations, the intolerable killing of innocents would be stopped and its perpetrators brought to account.

  It was a strange sensation. I was, in some ways, already committed, and yet a fundamental part of me was reluctant. Maybe it was the speed – we’d pushed the idea over the top of the hill and now it was careering down the other side, out of control, the momentum all its own.

&nbs
p; ‘Grub’s up!’ shouted Mum. For once I was delighted to be dragged away.

  I need to think – I typed.

  thinking won’t help – nor will writing silly little letters to your MP

  Something grated. It might only have been twelve words, but he could hardly have been more condescending. The tone rang a bell …

  I read the words aloud.

  I didn’t remember mentioning the letter to my Tory MP to Sayge.

  The ringing in my head got louder, blocking out everything else. It wasn’t a bell – it was a church tower full of bells.

  got to go – talk tomorrow – I typed.

  I went offline.

  If what I suspected was true, I’d been incredibly stupid.

  13

  I got up early to escape the voices in my head, smothered some toast with Nutella, then left the house, desperate for some air. I sat in the park and, for the nth time, went back over my relationship with Sayge –

  Who was he?

  Why was he so keen to help?

  How had he so easily gained my trust?

  The same answer satisfied all the questions.

  He knew me. He knew what made me tick.

  It was laughable – me, the arch-manipulator, had almost certainly been manipulated.

  But I had to be sure.

  When I got home, Mum was about to go and watch Dad play football – he hardly ever got selected for the reserves, so it was a big deal.

  ‘Want to come?’

  ‘OK,’ I said, which surprised her.

  The more you think, the less clear things become. I concentrated on the game, cringed when Mum shouted out helpful advice and talked to a man with a nice black Labrador who was standing next to us.

  Dad’s team won, 3–0. Mum took him to the pub to celebrate.

  By the time I went online on Sunday I knew exactly what I had to do.

  Just like the paper chase that led the runners along the tracks and under the tunnel in The Railway Children, I needed Sayge to follow my scraps, without realising where they were heading.