[[This chapter is dedicated to Pages Books in Toronto, Canada. Long a
fixture on the bleedingly trendy Queen Street West strip, Pages is
located over the road from CityTV and just a few doors down from the
old Bakka store where I worked. We at Bakka loved having Pages down the
street from us: what we were to science fiction, they were to
everything else: hand-picked material representing the stuff you'd
never find elsewhere, the stuff you didn't know you were looking for
until you saw it there. Pages also has one of the best news-stands I've
ever seen, row on row of incredible magazines and zines from all over
the world.]]
[[Pages Books http://pagesbooks.ca/ 256 Queen St W, Toronto, ON M5V 1Z8
Canada +1 416 598 1447]]
They left me and Barbara alone in the room then, and I used the working
shower head to rinse off -- I was suddenly embarrassed to be covered in
piss and barf. When I finished, Barbara was in tears.
"Your parents --" she began.
I felt like I might throw up again. God, my poor folks. What they must
have gone through.
"Are they here?"
"No," she said. "It's complicated," she said.
"What?"
"You're still under arrest, Marcus. Everyone here is. They can't just
sweep in and throw open the doors. Everyone here is going to have to be
processed through the criminal justice system. It could take, well, it
could take months."
"I'm going to have to stay here for *months*?"
She grabbed my hands. "No, I think we're going to be able to get you
arraigned and released on bail pretty fast. But pretty fast is a
relative term. I wouldn't expect anything to happen today. And it's not
going to be like those people had it. It will be humane. There will be
real food. No interrogations. Visits from your family.
"Just because the DHS is out, it doesn't mean that you get to just walk
out of here. What's happened here is that we're getting rid of the
bizarro-world version of the justice system they'd instituted and
replacing it with the old system. The system with judges, open trials
and lawyers.
"So we can try to get you transferred to a juvie facility on the
mainland, but Marcus, those places can be really rough. Really, really
rough. This might be the best place for you until we get you bailed
out."
Bailed out. Of course. I was a criminal -- I hadn't been charged yet,
but there were bound to be plenty of charges they could think of. It
was practically illegal just to think impure thoughts about the
government.
She gave my hands another squeeze. "It sucks, but this is how it has to
be. The point is, it's *over*. The Governor has thrown the DHS out of
the State, dismantled every checkpoint. The Attorney General has issued
warrants for any law-enforcement officers involved in 'stress
interrogations' and secret imprisonments. They'll go to jail, Marcus,
and it's because of what you did."
I was numb. I heard the words, but they hardly made sense. Somehow, it
was over, but it wasn't over.
"Look," she said. "We probably have an hour or two before this all
settles down, before they come back and put you away again. What do you
want to do? Walk on the beach? Get a meal? These people had an
incredible staff room -- we raided it on the way in. Gourmet all the
way."
At last a question I could answer. "I want to find Ange. I want to find
Darryl."
I tried to use a computer I found to look up their cell-numbers, but it
wanted a password, so we were reduced to walking the corridors, calling
out their names. Behind the cell-doors, prisoners screamed back at us,
or cried, or begged us to let them go. They didn't understand what had
just happened, couldn't see their former guards being herded onto the
docks in plastic handcuffs, taken away by California state SWAT teams.
"Ange!" I called over the din, "Ange Carvelli! Darryl Glover! It's
Marcus!"
We'd walked the whole length of the cell-block and they hadn't
answered. I felt like crying. They'd been shipped overseas -- they were
in Syria or worse. I'd never see them again.
I sat down and leaned against the corridor wall and put my face in my
hands. I saw Severe Haircut Woman's face, saw her smirk as she asked me
for my login. She had done this. She would go to jail for it, but that
wasn't enough. I thought that when I saw her again, I might kill her.
She deserved it.
"Come on," Barbara said, "Come on, Marcus. Don't give up. There's more
around here, come on."
She was right. All the doors we'd passed in the cellblock were old,
rusting things that dated back to when the base was first built. But at
the very end of the corridor, sagging open, was a new high-security
door as thick as a dictionary. We pulled it open and ventured into the
dark corridor within.
There were four more cell-doors here, doors without bar codes. Each had
a small electronic keypad mounted on it.
"Darryl?" I said. "Ange?"
"Marcus?"
It was Ange, calling out from behind the furthest door. Ange, my Ange,
my angel.
"Ange!" I cried. "It's me, it's me!"
"Oh God, Marcus," she choked out, and then it was all sobs.
I pounded on the other doors. "Darryl! Darryl, are you here?"
"I'm here." The voice was very small, and very hoarse. "I'm here. I'm
very, very sorry. Please. I'm very sorry."
He sounded... broken. Shattered.
"It's me, D," I said, leaning on his door. "It's Marcus. It's over --
they arrested the guards. They kicked the Department of Homeland
Security out. We're getting trials, open trials. And we get to testify
against *them*."
"I'm sorry," he said. "Please, I'm so sorry."
The California patrolmen came to the door then. They still had their
camera rolling. "Ms Stratford?" one said. He had his faceplate up and
he looked like any other cop, not like my savior. Like someone come to
lock me up.
"Captain Sanchez," she said. "We've located two of the prisoners of
interest here. I'd like to see them released and inspect them for
myself."
"Ma'am, we don't have access codes for those doors yet," he said.
She held up her hand. "That wasn't the arrangement. I was to have
complete access to this facility. That came direct from the Governor,
sir. We aren't budging until you open these cells." Her face was
perfectly smooth, without a single hint of give or flex. She meant it.
The Captain looked like he needed sleep. He grimaced. "I'll see what I
can do," he said.
They did manage to open the cells, finally, about half an hour later.
It took three tries, but they eventually got the right codes entered,
matching them to the arphids on the ID badges they'd taken off the
guards they'd arrested.
They got into Ange's cell first. She was dressed in a hospital gown,
open at the back, and her cell was even more bare than mine had been --
just padding all over, no sink or bed, no light. She emerged blinking
into the corridor and the police camera was on her, its bright lights
in her face. Barbara stepped protectively between us and it. Ange
stepped tentatively out of her cell, shuffling a little. There was
something wrong with her eyes, with her face. She was crying, but that
wasn't it.
"They drugged me," she said. "When I wouldn't stop screaming for a
lawyer."
That's when I hugged her. She sagged against me, but she squeezed back,
too. She smelled stale and sweaty, and I smelled no better. I never
wanted to let go.
That's when they opened Darryl's cell.
He had shredded his paper hospital gown. He was curled up, naked, in
the back of the cell, shielding himself from the camera and our stares.
I ran to him.
"D," I whispered in his ear. "D, it's me. It's Marcus. It's over. The
guards have been arrested. We're going to get bail, we're going home."
He trembled and squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm sorry," he whispered, and
turned his face away.
They took me away then, a cop in body-armor and Barbara, took me back
to my cell and locked the door, and that's where I spent the night.
I don't remember much about the trip to the courthouse. They had me
chained to five other prisoners, all of whom had been in for a lot
longer than me. One only spoke Arabic -- he was an old man, and he
trembled. The others were all young. I was the only white one. Once we
had been gathered on the deck of the ferry, I saw that nearly everyone
on Treasure Island had been one shade of brown or another.
I had only been inside for one night, but it was too long. There was a
light drizzle coming down, normally the sort of thing that would make
me hunch my shoulders and look down, but today I joined everyone else
in craning my head back at the infinite gray sky, reveling in the
stinging wet as we raced across the bay to the ferry-docks.
They took us away in buses. The shackles made climbing into the buses
awkward, and it took a long time for everyone to load. No one cared.
When we weren't struggling to solve the geometry problem of six people,
one chain, narrow bus-aisle, we were just looking around at the city
around us, up the hill at the buildings.
All I could think of was finding Darryl and Ange, but neither were in
evidence. It was a big crowd and we weren't allowed to move freely
through it. The state troopers who handled us were gentle enough, but
they were still big, armored and armed. I kept thinking I saw Darryl in
the crowd, but it was always someone else with that same beaten,
hunched look that he'd had in his cell. He wasn't the only broken one.
At the courthouse, they marched us into interview rooms in our shackle
group. An ACLU lawyer took our information and asked us a few questions
-- when she got to me, she smiled and greeted me by name -- and then
led us into the courtroom before the judge. He wore an actual robe, and
seemed to be in a good mood.
The deal seemed to be that anyone who had a family member to post bail
could go free, and everyone else got sent to prison. The ACLU lawyer
did a lot of talking to the judge, asking for a few more hours while
the prisoners' families were rounded up and brought to the court-house.
The judge was pretty good about it, but when I realized that some of
these people had been locked up since the bridge blew, taken for dead
by their families, without trial, subjected to interrogation,
isolation, torture -- I wanted to just break the chains myself and set
everyone free.
When I was brought before the judge, he looked down at me and took off
his glasses. He looked tired. The ACLU lawyer looked tired. The
bailiffs looked tired. Behind me, I could hear a sudden buzz of
conversation as my name was called by the bailiff. The judge rapped his
gavel once, without looking away from me. He scrubbed at his eyes.
"Mr Yallow," he said, "the prosecution has identified you as a flight
risk. I think they have a point. You certainly have more, shall we say,
*history*, than the other people here. I am tempted to hold you over
for trial, no matter how much bail your parents are prepared to post."
My lawyer started to say something, but the judge silenced her with a
look. He scrubbed at his eyes.
"Do you have anything to say?"
"I had the chance to run," I said. "Last week. Someone offered to take
me away, get me out of town, help me build a new identity. Instead I
stole her phone, escaped from our truck, and ran away. I turned over
her phone -- which had evidence about my friend, Darryl Glover, on it
-- to a journalist and hid out here, in town."
"You stole a phone?"
"I decided that I couldn't run. That I had to face justice -- that my
freedom wasn't worth anything if I was a wanted man, or if the city was
still under the DHS. If my friends were still locked up. That freedom
for me wasn't as important as a free country."
"But you did steal a phone."
I nodded. "I did. I plan on giving it back, if I ever find the young
woman in question."
"Well, thank you for that speech, Mr Yallow. You are a very well spoken
young man." He glared at the prosecutor. "Some would say a very brave
man, too. There was a certain video on the news this morning. It
suggested that you had some legitimate reason to evade the authorities.
In light of that, and of your little speech here, I will grant bail,
but I will also ask the prosecutor to add a charge of Misdemeanor Petty
Theft to the count, as regards the matter of the phone. For this, I
expect another $50,000 in bail."
He banged his gavel again, and my lawyer gave my hand a squeeze.
He looked down at me again and re-seated his glasses. He had dandruff,
there on the shoulders of his robe. A little more rained down as his
glasses touched his wiry, curly hair.
"You can go now, young man. Stay out of trouble."
I turned to go and someone tackled me. It was Dad. He literally lifted
me off my feet, hugging me so hard my ribs creaked. He hugged me the
way I remembered him hugging me when I was a little boy, when he'd spin
me around and around in hilarious, vomitous games of airplane that
ended with him tossing me in the air and catching me and squeezing me
like that, so hard it almost hurt.
A set of softer hands pried me gently out of his arms. Mom. She held me
at arm's length for a moment, searching my face for something, not
saying anything, tears streaming down her face. She smiled and it
turned into a sob and then she was holding me too, and Dad's arm
encircled us both.
When they let go, I managed to finally say something. "Darryl?"
"His father met me somewhere else. He's in the hospital."
"When can I see him?"
"It's our next stop," Dad said. He was grim. "He doesn't --" He
stopped. "They say he'll be OK," he said. His voice was choked.
"How about Ange?"
"Her mother took her home. She wanted to wait here for you, but..."
I understood. I felt full of understanding now, for how all the
families of all the people who'd been locked away must feel. The
courtroom was full of tears and hugs, and even the bailiffs couldn't
stop it.
"Let's go see Darryl," I said. "And let me borrow your phone?"
I called Ange on the way to the hospital where they were keeping Darryl
-- San Francisco General, just down the street from us -- and arranged
to see her after dinner. She talked in a hurried whisper. Her mom
wasn't sure whether to punish her or not, but Ange didn't want to tempt
fate.
There were two state troopers in the corridor where Darryl was being
held. They were holding off a legion of reporters who stood on tiptoe
to see around them and get pictures. The flashes popped in our eyes
like strobes, and I shook my head to clear it. My parents had brought
me clean clothes and I'd changed in the back seat, but I still felt
gross, even after scrubbing myself in the court-house bathrooms.
Some of the reporters called my name. Oh yeah, that's right, I was
famous now. The state troopers gave me a look, too -- either they'd
recognized my face or my name when the reporters called it out.
Darryl's father met us at the door of his hospital room, speaking in a
whisper too low for the reporters to hear. He was in civvies, the jeans
and sweater I normally thought of him wearing, but he had his service
ribbons pinned to his breast.
"He's sleeping," he said. "He woke up a little while ago and he started
crying. He couldn't stop. They gave him something to help him sleep."
He led us in, and there was Darryl, his hair clean and combed, sleeping
with his mouth open. There was white stuff at the corners of his mouth.
He had a semi-private room, and in the other bed there was an older
Arab-looking guy, in his 40s. I realized it was the guy I'd been
chained to on the way off of Treasure Island. We exchanged embarrassed
waves.
Then I turned back to Darryl. I took his hand. His nails had been
chewed to the quick. He'd been a nail-biter when he was a kid, but he'd
kicked the habit when we got to high school. I think Van talked him out
of it, telling him how gross it was for him to have his fingers in his
mouth all the time.
I heard my parents and Darryl's dad take a step away, drawing the
curtains around us. I put my face down next to his on the pillow. He
had a straggly, patchy beard that reminded me of Zeb.
"Hey, D," I said. "You made it. You're going to be OK."
He snored a little. I almost said, "I love you," a phrase I'd only said
to one non-family-member ever, a phrase that was weird to say to
another guy. In the end, I just gave his hand another squeeze. Poor
Darryl.
&&&
Epilogue
[[This chapter is dedicated to Hudson Booksellers, the booksellers that
are in practically every airport in the USA. Most of the Hudson stands
have just a few titles (though those are often surprisingly diverse),
but the big ones, like the one in the AA terminal at Chicago's O'Hare,
are as good as any neighborhood store. It takes something special to
bring a personal touch to an airport, and Hudson's has saved my mind on
more than one long Chicago layover.]]
[[Hudson Booksellers
http://www.hudsongroup.com/HudsonBooksellers_s.html]]
Barbara called me at the office on July 4th weekend. I wasn't the only
one who'd come into work on the holiday weekend, but I was the only one
whose excuse was that my day-release program wouldn't let me leave
town.
In the end, they convicted me of stealing Masha's phone. Can you
believe that? The prosecution had done a deal with my lawyer to drop
all charges related to "Electronic terrorism" and "inciting riots" in
exchange for my pleading guilty to the misdemeanor petty theft charge.
I got three months in a day-release program with a half-way house for
juvenile offenders in the Mission. I slept at the halfway house,
sharing a dorm with a bunch of actual criminals, gang kids and druggie
kids, a couple of real nuts. During the day, I was "free" to go out and
work at my "job."
"Marcus, they're letting her go," she said.
"Who?"
"Johnstone, Carrie Johnstone," she said. "The closed military tribunal
cleared her of any wrongdoing. The file is sealed. She's being returned
to active duty. They're sending her to Iraq."
Carrie Johnstone was Severe Haircut Woman's name. It came out in the
preliminary hearings at the California Superior Court, but that was
just about all that came out. She wouldn't say a word about who she
took orders from, what she'd done, who had been imprisoned and why. She
just sat, perfectly silent, day after day, in the courthouse.
The Feds, meanwhile, had blustered and shouted about the Governor's
"unilateral, illegal" shut-down of the Treasure Island facility, and
the Mayor's eviction of fed cops from San Francisco. A lot of those
cops had ended up in state prisons, along with the guards from
Gitmo-by-the-Bay.
Then, one day, there was no statement from the White House, nothing
from the state capitol. And the next day, there was a dry, tense
press-conference held jointly on the steps of the Governor's mansion,
where the head of the DHS and the governor announced their
"understanding."
The DHS would hold a closed, military tribunal to investigate "possible
errors in judgment" committed after the attack on the Bay Bridge. The
tribunal would use every tool at its disposal to ensure that criminal
acts were properly punished. In return, control over DHS operations in
California would go through the State Senate, which would have the
power to shut down, inspect, or re-prioritize all homeland security in
the state.
The roar of the reporters had been deafening and Barbara had gotten the
first question in. "Mr Governor, with all due respect: we have
incontrovertible video evidence that Marcus Yallow, a citizen of this
state, native born, was subjected to a simulated execution by DHS
officers, apparently acting on orders from the White House. Is the
State really willing to abandon any pretense of justice for its
citizens in the face of illegal, barbaric *torture*?" Her voice
trembled, but didn't crack.
The Governor spread his hands. "The military tribunals will accomplish
justice. If Mr Yallow -- or any other person who has cause to fault the
Department of Homeland Security -- wants further justice, he is, of
course, entitled to sue for such damages as may be owing to him from
the federal government."
That's what I was doing. Over twenty thousand civil lawsuits were filed
against the DHS in the week after the Governor's announcement. Mine was
being handled by the ACLU, and they'd filed motions to get at the
results of the closed military tribunals. So far, the courts were
pretty sympathetic to this.
But I hadn't expected this.
"She got off totally Scot-free?"
"The press release doesn't say much. 'After a thorough examination of
the events in San Francisco and in the special anti-terror detention
center on Treasure Island, it is the finding of this tribunal that Ms
Johnstone's actions do not warrant further discipline.' There's that
word, 'further' -- like they've already punished her."
I snorted. I'd dreamed of Carrie Johnstone nearly every night since I
was released from Gitmo-by-the-Bay. I'd seen her face looming over
mine, that little snarly smile as she told the man to give me a
"drink."
"Marcus --" Barbara said, but I cut her off.
"It's fine. It's fine. I'm going to do a video about this. Get it out
over the weekend. Mondays are big days for viral video. Everyone'll be
coming back from the holiday weekend, looking for something funny to
forward around school or the office."
I saw a shrink twice a week as part of my deal at the halfway house.
Once I'd gotten over seeing that as some kind of punishment, it had
been good. He'd helped me focus on doing constructive things when I was
upset, instead of letting it eat me up. The videos helped.
"I have to go," I said, swallowing hard to keep the emotion out of my
voice.
"Take care of yourself, Marcus," Barbara said.
Ange hugged me from behind as I hung up the phone. "I just read about
it online," she said. She read a million newsfeeds, pulling them with a
headline reader that sucked up stories as fast as they ended up on the
wire. She was our official blogger, and she was good at it, snipping
out the interesting stories and throwing them online like a short order
cook turning around breakfast orders.
I turned around in her arms so that I was hugging her from in front.
Truth be told, we hadn't gotten a lot of work done that day. I wasn't
allowed to be out of the halfway house after dinner time, and she
couldn't visit me there. We saw each other around the office, but there
were usually a lot of other people around, which kind of put a crimp in
our cuddling. Being alone in the office for a day was too much
temptation. It was hot and sultry, too, which meant we were both in
tank-tops and shorts, a lot of skin-to-skin contact as we worked next
to each other.
"I'm going to make a video," I said. "I want to release it today."
"Good," she said. "Let's do it."
Ange read the press-release. I did a little monologue, synched over
that famous footage of me on the water-board, eyes wild in the harsh
light of the camera, tears streaming down my face, hair matted and
flecked with barf.
"This is me. I am on a waterboard. I am being tortured in a simulated
execution. The torture is supervised by a woman called Carrie
Johnstone. She works for the government. You might remember her from
this video."
I cut in the video of Johnstone and Kurt Rooney. "That's Johnstone and
Secretary of State Kurt Rooney, the president's chief strategist."
*"The nation does not love that city. As far as they're concerned, it
is a Sodom and Gomorrah of fags and atheists who deserve to rot in
hell. The only reason the country cares what they think in San
Francisco is that they had the good fortune to have been blown to hell
by some Islamic terrorists."*
"He's talking about the city where I live. At last count, 4,215 of my
neighbors were killed on the day he's talking about. But some of them
may not have been killed. Some of them disappeared into the same prison
where I was tortured. Some mothers and fathers, children and lovers,
brothers and sisters will never see their loved ones again -- because
they were secretly imprisoned in an illegal jail right here in the San
Francisco Bay. They were shipped overseas. The records were meticulous,
but Carrie Johnstone has the encryption keys." I cut back to Carrie
Johnstone, the footage of her sitting at the board table with Rooney,
laughing.
I cut in the footage of Johnstone being arrested. "When they arrested
her, I thought we'd get justice. All the people she broke and
disappeared. But the president --" I cut to a still of him laughing and
playing golf on one of his many holidays "-- and his Chief Strategist
--" now a still of Rooney shaking hands with an infamous terrorist
leader who used to be on "our side" "-- intervened. They sent her to a
secret military tribunal and now that tribunal has cleared her.
Somehow, they saw nothing wrong with all of this."
I cut in a photomontage of the hundreds of shots of prisoners in their
cells that Barbara had published on the Bay Guardian's site the day we
were released. "We elected these people. We pay their salaries. They're
supposed to be on our side. They're supposed to defend our freedoms.
But these people --" a series of shots of Johnstone and the others
who'd been sent to the tribunal "-- betrayed our trust. The election is
four months away. That's a lot of time. Enough for you to go out and
find five of your neighbors -- five people who've given up on voting
because their choice is 'none of the above.'
"Talk to your neighbors. Make them promise to vote. Make them promise
to take the country back from the torturers and thugs. The people who
laughed at my friends as they lay fresh in their graves at the bottom
of the harbor. Make them promise to talk to their neighbors.
"Most of us choose none of the above. It's not working. You have to
choose -- choose freedom.
"My name is Marcus Yallow. I was tortured by my country, but I still
love it here. I'm seventeen years old. I want to grow up in a free
country. I want to live in a free country."
I faded out to the logo of the website. Ange had built it, with help
from Jolu, who got us all the free hosting we could ever need on
Pigspleen.
The office was an interesting place. Technically we were called
Coalition of Voters for a Free America, but everyone called us the
Xnetters. The organization -- a charitable nonprofit -- had been
co-founded by Barbara and some of her lawyer friends right after the
liberation of Treasure Island. The funding was kicked off by some tech
millionaires who couldn't believe that a bunch of hacker kids had
kicked the DHS's ass. Sometimes, they'd ask us to go down the peninsula
to Sand Hill Road, where all the venture capitalists were, and give a
little presentation on Xnet technology. There were about a zillion
startups who were trying to make a buck on the Xnet.
Whatever -- I didn't have to have anything to do with it, and I got a
desk and an office with a storefront, right there on Valencia Street,
where we gave away ParanoidXbox CDs and held workshops on building
better WiFi antennas. A surprising number of average people dropped in
to make personal donations, both of hardware (you can run ParanoidLinux
on just about anything, not just Xbox Universals) and cash money. They
loved us.
The big plan was to launch our own ARG in September, just in time for
the election, and to really tie it in with signing up voters and
getting them to the polls. Only 42 percent of Americans showed up at
the polls for the last election -- nonvoters had a huge majority. I
kept trying to get Darryl and Van to one of our planning sessions, but
they kept on declining. They were spending a lot of time together, and
Van insisted that it was totally nonromantic. Darryl wouldn't talk to
me much at all, though he sent me long emails about just about
everything that wasn't about Van or terrorism or prison.
Ange squeezed my hand. "God, I hate that woman," she said.
I nodded. "Just one more rotten thing this country's done to Iraq," I
said. "If they sent her to my town, I'd probably become a terrorist."
"You did become a terrorist when they sent her to your town."
"So I did," I said.
"Are you going to Ms Galvez's hearing on Monday?"
"Totally." I'd introduced Ange to Ms Galvez a couple weeks before, when
my old teacher invited me over for dinner. The teacher's union had
gotten a hearing for her before the board of the Unified School
District to argue for getting her old job back. They said that Fred
Benson was coming out of (early) retirement to testify against her. I
was looking forward to seeing her again.
"Do you want to go get a burrito?"
"Totally."
"Let me get my hot-sauce," she said.
I checked my email one more time -- my PirateParty email, which still
got a dribble of messages from old Xnetters who hadn't found my
Coalition of Voters address yet.
The latest message was from a throwaway email address from one of the
new Brazilian anonymizers.
> Found her, thanks. You didn't tell me she was so h4wt.
"Who's *that* from?"
I laughed. "Zeb," I said. "Remember Zeb? I gave him Masha's email
address. I figured, if they're both underground, might as well
introduce them to one another."
"He thinks Masha is *cute*?"
"Give the guy a break, he's clearly had his mind warped by
circumstances."
"And you?"
"Me?"
"Yeah -- was your mind warped by circumstances?"
I held Ange out at arm's length and looked her up and down and up and
down. I held her cheeks and stared through her thick-framed glasses
into her big, mischievous tilted eyes. I ran my fingers through her
hair.
"Ange, I've never thought more clearly in my whole life."
She kissed me then, and I kissed her back, and it was some time before
we went out for that burrito.
&&&
Afterword by Bruce Schneier
I'm a security technologist. My job is making people secure.
I think about security systems and how to break them. Then, how to
make them more secure. Computer security systems. Surveillance
systems. Airplane security systems and voting machines and RFID chips
and everything else.
Cory invited me into the last few pages of his book because he wanted
me to tell you that security is fun. It's incredibly fun. It's cat
and mouse, who can outsmart whom, hunter versus hunted fun. I think
it's the most fun job you can possibly have. If you thought it was fun
to read about Marcus outsmarting the gait-recognition cameras with
rocks in his shoes, think of how much more fun it would be if you were
the first person in the world to think of that.
Working in security means knowing a lot about technology. It might
mean knowing about computers and networks, or cameras and how they
work, or the chemistry of bomb detection. But really, security is a
mindset. It's a way of thinking. Marcus is a great example of that
way of thinking. He's always looking for ways a security system fails.
I'll bet he couldn't walk into a store without figuring out a way to
shoplift. Not that he'd do it -- there's a difference between knowing
how to defeat a security system and actually defeating it -- but he'd
know he could.
It's how security people think. We're constantly looking at security
systems and how to get around them; we can't help it.
This kind of thinking is important no matter what side of security
you're on. If you've been hired to build a shoplift-proof store, you'd
better know how to shoplift. If you're designing a camera system that
detects individual gaits, you'd better plan for people putting rocks in
their shoes. Because if you don't, you're not going to design anything
good.
So when you're wandering through your day, take a moment to look at the
security systems around you. Look at the cameras in the stores you
shop at. (Do they prevent crime, or just move it next door?) See how
a restaurant operates. (If you pay after you eat, why don't more
people just leave without paying?) Pay attention at airport security.
(How could you get a weapon onto an airplane?) Watch what the teller
does at a bank. (Bank security is designed to prevent tellers from
stealing just as much as it is to prevent you from stealing.) Stare at
an anthill. (Insects are all about security.) Read the Constitution,
and notice all the ways it provides people with security against
government. Look at traffic lights and door locks and all the security
systems on television and in the movies. Figure out how they work,
what threats they protect against and what threats they don't, how they
fail, and how they can be exploited.
Spend enough time doing this, and you'll find yourself thinking
differently about the world. You'll start noticing that many of the
security systems out there don't actually do what they claim to, and
that much of our national security is a waste of money. You'll
understand privacy as essential to security, not in opposition. You'll
stop worrying about things other people worry about, and start worrying
about things other people don't even think about.
Sometimes you'll notice something about security that no one has ever
thought about before. And maybe you'll figure out a new way to break a
security system.
It was only a few years ago that someone invented phishing.
I'm frequently amazed how easy it is to break some pretty big-name
security systems. There are a lot of reasons for this, but the big one
is that it's impossible to prove that something is secure. All you can
do is try to break it -- if you fail, you know that it's secure enough
to keep *you* out, but what about someone who's smarter than you?
Anyone can design a security system so strong he himself can't break
it.
Think about that for a second, because it's not obvious. No one is
qualified to analyze their own security designs, because the designer
and the analyzer will be the same person, with the same limits.
Someone else has to analyze the security, because it has to be secure
against things the designers didn't think of.
This means that all of us have to analyze the security that other
people design. And surprisingly often, one of us breaks it. Marcus's
exploits aren't far-fetched; that kind of thing happens all the time.
Go onto the net and look up "bump key" or "Bic pen Kryptonite lock";
you'll find a couple of really interesting stories about seemingly
strong security defeated by pretty basic technology.
And when that happens, be sure to publish it on the Internet somewhere.
Secrecy and security aren't the same, even though it may seem that way.
Only bad security relies on secrecy; good security works even if all
the details of it are public.
And publishing vulnerabilities forces security designers to design
better security, and makes us all better consumers of security. If you
buy a Kryptonite bike lock and it can be defeated with a Bic pen,
you're not getting very good security for your money. And, likewise,
if a bunch of smart kids can defeat the DHS's antiterrorist
technologies, then it's not going to do a very good job against real
terrorists.
Trading privacy for security is stupid enough; not getting any actual
security in the bargain is even stupider.
So close the book and go. The world is full of security systems. Hack
one of them.
Bruce Schneier http://www.schneier.com
&&&
Afterword by Andrew "bunnie" Huang, Xbox Hacker
Hackers are explorers, digital pioneers. It's in a hacker's nature to
question conventions and be tempted by intricate problems. Any complex
system is sport for a hacker; a side effect of this is the hacker's
natural affinity for problems involving security. Society is a large
and complex system, and is certainly not off limits to a little
hacking. As a result, hackers are often stereotyped as iconoclasts and
social misfits, people who defy social norms for the sake of defiance.
When I hacked the Xbox in 2002 while at MIT, I wasn’t doing it to rebel
or to cause harm; I was just following a natural impulse, the same
impulse that leads to fixing a broken iPod or exploring the roofs and
tunnels at MIT.
Unfortunately, the combination of not complying with social norms and
knowing “threatening” things like how to read the arphid on your credit
card or how to pick locks causes some people to fear hackers. However,
the motivations of a hacker are typically as simple as “I’m an engineer
because I like to design things.” People often ask me, “Why did you
hack the Xbox security system?” And my answer is simple: First, I own
the things that I buy. If someone can tell me what I can and can’t run
on my hardware, then I don’t own it. Second, because it’s there. It’s a
system of sufficient complexity to make good sport. It was a great
diversion from the late nights working on my PhD.
I was lucky. The fact that I was a graduate student at MIT when I
hacked the Xbox legitimized the activity in the eyes of the right
people. However, the right to hack shouldn’t only be extended to
academics. I got my start on hacking when I was just a boy in
elementary school, taking apart every electronic appliance I could get
my hands on, much to my parents’ chagrin. My reading collection
included books on model rocketry, artillery, nuclear weaponry and
explosives manufacture -- books that I borrowed from my school library
(I think the Cold War influenced the reading selection in public
schools). I also played with my fair share of ad-hoc fireworks and
roamed the open construction sites of houses being raised in my
Midwestern neighborhood. While not the wisest of things to do, these
were important experiences in my coming of age and I grew up to be a
free thinker because of the social tolerance and trust of my community.
Current events have not been so kind to aspiring hackers. Little
Brother shows how we can get from where we are today to a world where
social tolerance for new and different thoughts dies altogether. A
recent event highlights exactly how close we are to crossing the line
into the world of Little Brother. I had the fortune of reading an early
draft of Little Brother back in November 2006. Fast forward two months
to the end of January 2007, when Boston police found suspected
explosive devices and shut down the city for a day. These devices
turned out to be nothing more than circuit boards with flashing LEDs,
promoting a show for the Cartoon Network. The artists who placed this
urban graffiti were taken in as suspected terrorists and ultimately
charged with felony; the network producers had to shell out a $2
million settlement, and the head of the Cartoon Network resigned over
the fallout.
Have the terrorists already won? Have we given in to fear, such that
artists, hobbyists, hackers, iconoclasts, or perhaps an unassuming
group of kids playing Harajuku Fun Madness, could be so trivially
implicated as terrorists?
There is a term for this dysfunction -- it is called an autoimmune
disease, where an organism's defense system goes into overdrive so much
that it fails to recognize itself and attacks its own cells.
Ultimately, the organism self-destructs. Right now, America is on the
verge of going into anaphylactic shock over its own freedoms, and we
need to inoculate ourselves against this. Technology is no cure for
this paranoia; in fact, it may enhance the paranoia: it turns us into
prisoners of our own device. Coercing millions of people to strip off
their outer garments and walk barefoot through metal detectors every
day is no solution either. It only serves to remind the population
every day that they have a reason to be afraid, while in practice
providing only a flimsy barrier to a determined adversary.
The truth is that we can't count on someone else to make us feel free,
and M1k3y won’t come and save us the day our freedoms are lost to
paranoia. That's because M1k3y is in you and in me--Little Brother is a
reminder that no matter how unpredictable the future may be, we don't
win freedom through security systems, cryptography, interrogations and
spot searches. We win freedom by having the courage and the conviction
to live every day freely and to act as a free society, no matter how
great the threats are on the horizon.
Be like M1k3y: step out the door and dare to be free.
&&&
Bibliography
No writer creates from scratch -- we all engage in what Isaac Newton
called "standing on the shoulders of giants." We borrow, plunder and
remix the art and culture created by those around us and by our
literary forebears.
If you liked this book and want to learn more, there are plenty of
sources to turn to, online and at your local library or bookstore.
Hacking is a great subject. All science relies on telling other people
what you've done so that they can verify it, learn from it, and improve
on it, and hacking is all about that process, so there's plenty
published on the subject.
Start with Andrew "Bunnie" Huang's "Hacking the Xbox," (No Starch
Press, 2003) a wonderful book that tells the story of how Bunnie, then
a student at MIT, reverse-engineered the Xbox's anti-tampering
mechanisms and opened the way for all the subsequent cool hacks for the
platform. In telling the story, Bunnie has also created a kind of Bible
for reverse engineering and hardware hacking.
Bruce Schneier's "Secrets and Lies" (Wiley, 2000) and "Beyond Fear"
(Copernicus, 2003) are the definitive lay-person's texts on
understanding security and thinking critically about it, while his
"Applied Cryptography" (Wiley, 1995) remains the authoritative source
for understanding crypto. Bruce maintains an excellent blog and mailing
list at schneier.com/blog. Crypto and security are the realm of the
talented amateur, and the "cypherpunk" movement is full of kids,
home-makers, parents, lawyers, and every other stripe of person,
hammering away on security protocols and ciphers.
There are several great magazines devoted to this subject, but the two
best ones are 2600: The Hacker Quarterly, which is full of
pseudonymous, boasting accounts of hacks accomplished, and O'Reilly's
MAKE magazine, which features solid HOWTOs for making your own hardware
projects at home.
The online world overflows with material on this subject, of course. Ed
Felten and Alex J Halderman's Freedom to Tinker
(www.freedom-to-tinker.com) is a blog maintained by two fantastic
Princeton engineering profs who write lucidly about security,
wiretapping, anti-copying technology and crypto.
Don't miss Natalie Jeremijenko's "Feral Robotics" at UC San Diego
(xdesign.ucsd.edu/feralrobots/). Natalie and her students rewire toy
robot dogs from Toys R Us and turn them into bad-ass toxic-waste
detectors. They unleash them on public parks where big corporations
have dumped their waste and demonstrate in media-friendly fashion how
toxic the ground is.
Like many of the hacks in this book, the tunneling-over-DNS stuff is
real. Dan Kaminsky, a tunneling expert of the first water, published
details in 2004 (www.doxpara.com/bo2004.ppt).
The guru of "citizen journalism" is Dan Gillmor, who is presently
running Center for Citizen Media at Harvard and UC Berkeley -- he also
wrote a hell of a book on the subject, "We, the Media" (O'Reilly,
2004).
If you want to learn more about hacking arphids, start with Annalee
Newitz's Wired Magazine article "The RFID Hacking Underground"
(www.wirednews.com/wired/archive/14.05/rfid.html). Adam Greenfield's
"Everyware" (New Riders Press, 2006) is a chilling look at the dangers
of a world of arphids.
Neal Gershenfeld's Fab Lab at MIT (fab.cba.mit.edu) is hacking out the
world's first real, cheap "3D printers" that can pump out any object
you can dream of. This is documented in Gershenfeld's excellent book on
the subject, "Fab" (Basic Books, 2005).
Bruce Sterling's "Shaping Things" (MIT Press, 2005) shows how arphids
and fabs could be used to force companies to build products that don't
poison the world.
Speaking of Bruce Sterling, he wrote the first great book on hackers
and the law, "The Hacker Crackdown" (Bantam, 1993), which is also the
first book published by a major publisher that was released on the
Internet at the same time (copies abound; see
stuff.mit.edu/hacker/hacker.html for one). It was reading this book
that turned me on to the Electronic Frontier Foundation, where I was
privileged to work for four years.
The Electronic Frontier Foundation (www.eff.org) is a charitable
membership organization with a student rate. They spend the money that
private individuals give them to keep the Internet safe for personal
liberty, free speech, due process, and the rest of the Bill of Rights.
They're the Internet's most effective freedom fighters, and you can
join the struggle just by signing up for their mailing list and writing
to your elected officials when they're considering selling you out in
the name of fighting terrorism, piracy, the mafia, or whatever bogeyman
has caught their attention today. EFF also helps maintain TOR, The
Onion Router, which is a real technology you can use *right now* to get
out of your government, school or library's censoring firewall
(tor.eff.org).
EFF has a huge, deep website with amazing information aimed at a
general audience, as do the American Civil Liberties Union (aclu.org),
Public Knowledge (publicknowledge.org), FreeCulture (freeculture.org),
Creative Commons (creativecommons.org) -- all of which also are worthy
of your support. FreeCulture is an international student movement that
actively recruits kids to found their own local chapters at their high
schools and universities. It's a great way to get involved and make a
difference.
A lot of websites chronicle the fight for cyberliberties, but few go at
it with the verve of Slashdot, "News for Nerds, Stuff That Matters"
(slashdot.org).
And of course, you *have to* visit Wikipedia, the collaborative,
net-authored encyclopedia that anyone can edit, with more than
1,000,000 entries in English alone. Wikipedia covers hacking and
counterculture in astonishing depth and with amazing,
up-to-the-nanosecond currency. One caution: you can't just look at the
entries in Wikipedia. It's really important to look at the "History"
and "Discussion" links at the top of every Wikipedia page to see how
the current version of the truth was arrived at, get an appreciation
for the competing points-of-view there, and decide for yourself whom
you trust.
If you want to get at some *real* forbidden knowledge, have a skim
around Cryptome (cryptome.org), the world's most amazing archive of
secret, suppressed and liberated information. Cryptome's brave
publishers collect material that's been pried out of the state by
Freedom of Information Act requests or leaked by whistle-blowers and
publishes it.
The best fictional account of the history of crypto is, hands-down,
Neal Stephenson's Cryptonomicon (Avon, 2002). Stephenson tells the
story of Alan Turing and the Nazi Enigma Machine, turning it into a
gripping war-novel that you won't be able to put down.
The Pirate Party mentioned in Little Brother is real and thriving in
Sweden (www.piratpartiet.se), Denmark, the USA and France at the time
of this writing (July, 2006). They're a little out-there, but a
movement takes all kinds.
Speaking of out-there, Abbie Hoffman and the Yippies did indeed try to
levitate the Pentagon, throw money into the stock exchange, and work
with a group called the Up Against the Wall Motherf_____ers. Abbie
Hoffman's classic book on ripping off the system, "Steal This Book," is
back in print (Four Walls Eight Windows, 2002) and it's also online as
a collaborative wiki for people who want to try to update it
(stealthiswiki.nine9pages.com).
Hoffman's autobiography, "Soon to Be a Major Motion Picture" (also in
print from Four Walls Eight Windows) is one of my favorite memoirs
ever, even if it is highly fictionalized. Hoffman was an incredible
storyteller and had great activist instincts. If you want to know how
he really lived his life, though, try Larry Sloman's "Steal This Dream"
(Doubleday, 1998).
More counterculture fun: Jack Kerouac's "On the Road" can be had in
practically any used bookstore for a buck or two. Allan Ginsberg's
"HOWL" is online in many places, and you can hear him read it if you
search for the MP3 at archive.org. For bonus points, track down the
album "Tenderness Junction" by the Fugs, which includes the audio of
Allan Ginsberg and Abbie Hoffman's levitation ceremony at the Pentagon.
This book couldn't have been written if not for George Orwell's
magnificent, world-changing "1984," the best novel ever published on
how societies go wrong. I read this book when I was 12 and have read it
30 or 40 times since, and every time, I get something new out of it.
Orwell was a master of storytelling and was clearly sick over the
totalitarian state that emerged in the Soviet Union. 1984 holds up
today as a genuinely frightening work of science fiction, and it is one
of the novels that literally changed the world. Today, "Orwellian" is
synonymous with a state of ubiquitous surveillance, doublethink, and
torture.
Many novelists have tackled parts of the story in Little Brother.
Daniel Pinkwater's towering comic masterpiece, "Alan Mendelsohn: The
Boy From Mars" (presently in print as part of the omnibus "5 Novels,"
Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1997) is a book that every geek needs to
read. If you've ever felt like an outcast for being too smart or weird,
READ THIS BOOK. It changed my life.
On a more contemporary front, there's Scott Westerfeld's "So Yesterday"
(Razorbill, 2004), which follows the adventures of cool hunters and
counterculture jammers. Scott and his wife Justine Larbalestier were my
partial inspiration to write a book for young adults -- as was Kathe
Koja. Thanks, guys.
&&&
Acknowledgments
This book owes a tremendous debt to many writers, friends, mentors, and
heroes who made it possible.
For the hackers and cypherpunks: Bunnie Huang, Seth Schoen, Ed Felten,
Alex Halderman, Gweeds, Natalie Jeremijenko, Emmanuel Goldstein, Aaron
Swartz
For the heroes: Mitch Kapor, John Gilmore, John Perry Barlow, Larry
Lessig, Shari Steele, Cindy Cohn, Fred von Lohmann, Jamie Boyle, George
Orwell, Abbie Hoffman, Joe Trippi, Bruce Schneier, Ross Dowson, Harry
Kopyto, Tim O'Reilly
For the writers: Bruce Sterling, Kathe Koja, Scott Westerfeld, Justine
Larbalestier, Pat York, Annalee Newitz, Dan Gillmor, Daniel Pinkwater,
Kevin Pouslen, Wendy Grossman, Jay Lake, Ben Rosenbaum
For the friends: Fiona Romeo, Quinn Norton, Danny O'Brien, Jon Gilbert,
danah boyd, Zak Hanna, Emily Hurson, Grad Conn, John Henson, Amanda
Foubister, Xeni Jardin, Mark Frauenfelder, David Pescovitz, John
Battelle, Karl Levesque, Kate Miles, Neil and Tara-Lee Doctorow, Rael
Dornfest, Ken Snider
For the mentors: Judy Merril, Roz and Gord Doctorow, Harriet Wolff, Jim
Kelly, Damon Knight, Scott Edelman
Thank you all for giving me the tools to think and write about these
ideas.
&&&$
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