The Rabbi stood behind his pulpit and surveyed the crowd. He had the eyes of a man of wisdom - a man of age. But his face, framed by a full beard and healthy masses of dark hair, appeared youthful. His body, sheathed in a tight layer of white skin, was strong and healthy.
But his eyes, his eyes were old.
As he looked around the assembled crowd, he remembered days of old. He remembered days when his synagogue routinely drew such crowds. Where the singing would seem to push against the seams of the synagogue's roof, threatening to burst out and carry the world upward with it. There was still a small group that came, but they met in a smaller room. The room still burst with song, but it was not the same. The days of the great chapel, with seating for 500, were passed.
The room was a model of past glory. The structure was decaying, paint was flaking, water damage threatened the Aron Hakodesh (the Holy Ark), and seats neared collapse. A smell of mildew and rot filled the air.
But despite it all, today the place was full. There was standing room only. Faces long slumbering seemed awake, aware and engaged.
Sadly, the Rabbi noted that there were few children.
He spoke.
"It has been a long time since I've conducted something like this."
He paused, letting the significance of the moment sink in.
"The passing of a life offers an opportunity for reflection. It is an opportunity for reflection upon the life that has passed. And in the case of a woman like Miriam Leibowitz, it is also an opportunity for reflection on our own lives. Miriam impacted our world as few have done. She was far from the only architect of our age, and she was far from the most prominent, but she played a role in every aspect of what we experience. Her life is a metaphor for our own.
"For me, Miriam was more than a great achiever. She was a dear friend, and a deeply troubled one.
"Miriam was born on January 5th, 2010 - in New York City. The world then was a world of chaos. A world of change. It was a world of fear, and a world of opportunity and excitement. And it was a world, although few seemed to notice it, of war. Miriam started life in Queens, but - overwhelmed by the catastrophic American economy of the day - her parents decided to emigrate. It was 2015 when they moved to Israel. In 2017, they were killed in what was called a Peguah - a suicide bombing. They were eating at a cafeteria, enjoying a night out without their daughter - when the bomber struck. And at the age of 7, Miriam became an orphan."
The Rabbi took a drink from his water.
"Miriam came back to New York to live in the care of her father's parents. She was relatively privileged. Her grandfather and grandmother had government jobs and were secure but not wealthy. But, perhaps because she was an orphan, she was rebellious and aggressive. She was a poor student. She moved from school to school. Nothing was going well.
"And then, at the age of 15, she began to experiment. In those days, people were just beginning to put physical devices in their bodies. There were pills that would photograph the digestive tract. There were implants to restore hearing and provide a direct link to phones. There were mechanical hearts. There were tiny devices that monitored and provided insulin on a continual basis. These were approved, legal, devices.
"During those terrible economic times, a growing number of people had taught themselves to build their own robots and machines. For the productive, it was an antidote to enforced boredom. For many, it was an avenue of hope. These were tinkerers extraordinaire. And among them was a tiny, illegal, minority called 'body punks.' These were tinkerers who would create devices to place in their bodies.
"At the age of 15, Miriam joined them.
"Her first experiment was, in concept, nothing special. It was a lens for her eye that would enable her to zoom in on far-away objects. But the design was elegant, the execution flawless and the results reliable, effective and safe.
"Miriam had found her calling.
"Before long, she dropped out of school entirely. She realized she could have a future in her trade, but not in the US. What she was doing was illegal. So she followed in the footsteps of her parents and returned to Israel. I met her then, a rambunctious and hopeful teen. I helped her with her first steps here in Israel. It wasn't long before joining a start-up specializing in implantable devices. They were focusing on the healthcare market. It was called Yamim Medical Devices. The founders are now world famous. They have joined that elite cast that requires no last names. They included Miriam, who was a natural engineer, Yoram who specialized in nano-technology and Avital who was a medical doctor.
"Their first device was a failure. It hit the market with a thud. It was too similar to products being developed by larger and wealthier companies. I can tell you, Miriam was crushed. But there was really nothing else she wanted to do. There was nothing else she could. So as a group, they decided to have another go. In 2021, they conceived of, created and launched the VRS, the Vessel Repair System.
"The concept was beautifully simple. Powered by the flow of blood through veins and arteries, the tiny VRS units would crawl through the bloodstream, examining and repairing damaged veins and arteries on a continual basis. When their supplies were used up or their life expired, they would dissolve themselves and let their waste be captured by the liver.
"You know what happened. This device was not a failure. It greatly reduced the risks of high cholesterol, aneurysms, and strokes. And it was the first step in what we have today - a fleet of tiny units crawling through our bodies repairing what they see as they move. It was as if the body suddenly learned to maintain itself.
"At the same time that Miriam was helping to launch the VRS, another group in India was working on solving the degradation of cells due to age. Their products launched together. While there have been many additional innovations, 2031 was the pivot of human history. Since that time, anybody with a little money was suddenly able to buy immortality.
"And a lot of people discovered they had a little money."
A nervous laugh rippled through the crowd.
The Rabbi continued.
"The impacts were not immediately obvious. I remember the years that followed. There wasn't a sudden thunderclap of change. But there was a rolling, unstoppable, tide of change. It was as if day-by-day, more and more people realized that they really weren't going to die. And so they started to live differently. Blessed with long life and wealth, those in the West were already extremely risk averse. But soon, everybody was. The equation of life had been changed.
"With immortality granted, the fear of death grew in all of our minds. A mistake would sacrifice forever. The West sent robots to fight their wars - unwilling to risk any of their own. The terrorists were forced to lay down their arms by their neighbors, who wanted a paradise in this world. Trains and cars ran slower - nobody was in a rush anymore and the risks of speed were too high. Fearing a never-ending stream of new people and a lack of resources, women stopped having children. Fearing unending economic ruin, they stopped taking gambles. Business died. Innovation died. Hunger became endemic. People only worked enough to feed themselves and to buy more VRS, not to create anything new."
Motioning around the decaying synagogue the Rabbi continued,
"This all remains true. Miriam, however, seemed to exist in a different world. Miriam was drawn to G-d not because of the fear of death, but because of the opportunities of life. With the change, her faith grew stronger, her desire to do grew greater. She spoke often of a debt to her parents - an obligation to keep moving and creating where they had been stopped.
"So Miriam had children. Despite tickets, suspended licenses and even jail time, Miriam's car never slowed down. She grew wealthy and she spent her money building, creating and pushing humanity's boundaries forward. She believed space exploration would open new worlds for ourselves and our children. But she could find few to join her. Few were motivated enough to help make her dreams reality and, in the end, none were motivated enough to risk flight in the pursuit of new frontiers.
"In many ways, Miriam mourned what she had helped create. She prayed that we would rediscover life. I pray that we rediscover life. But I know that the prospects are dim. Even her children did not follow in her path. She was a mother with almost no prospects for her line continuing. But because of what she created, she could be her own continuation.
"And then, just yesterday, that possibility came to an end. We'll never know if Miriam was pushed from that balcony or if, G-d forbid, she chose to end her own life. But it ended. Miriam was 83, brimming with youth, but overwhelmed by age. She was a bundle of contradictions. I, for one, will miss her.
"She was a rare spark of life in a world gone dead.
"And she has passed."
The Rabbi placed his hands on the pulpit and closed his eyes.
And in a mournful voice he chanted, "Yitgadal, v'Yitkadash, Shmai Rabba...."
The world was still.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Manifesto
With a scratch, the ink was laid into the paper.
"A Manifesto."
The author leaned back, reflecting on the possibilities.
He would write a manifesto, a screed, a call to arms.
First, he had to begin by stating the problem:
"We are an ancient people. Our traditions and cultures have survived for thousands of years. Today, we find ourselves at the brink of annihilation."
So far he was just stating the obvious and the true. But he needed to excite his readers.
"Many would say our predicament is no fault of our own. Our enemies hunt us and display our bodies aloft as trophies. And every day, they grow stronger. But while they sin against us, our predicament is indeed our responsibility. Because while we have resisted them, we have done so half-heartedly - bound by the chains of convention. We must recognize that in times such these, resistance of any sort lays within the bounds, not only of moral possibility, but of moral obligation."
The author pondered. It was time to divide the enemy.
"It is true that our enemies hunt us. But our true enemies are only a fraction of those pushing against us. Our true enemies are only their rulers: poolers of wealth and creators of serfs, they crush and oppress their own people as surely as they do ours."
Another pause as the author considered.
"Our kind wants only to trade. When we take without trade, it is through necessity alone. We mean no ill to anyone. But our way if life is being undermined. Our regions are being colonized by those not native to them. Our culture is under threat from marauders who would steal our ancestral treasures in the dead of the night. They may be condemned, but our sporadic acts of resistance are natural outpourings of our pride being daily trod underfoot and of our way of life being eaten away by the unrelenting cultural, social and ultimately physical advance of our enemies. Sadly, our sporadic acts of resistance do nothing to stem this tide. It would seem that our path is set, our future determined, our fate sealed."
And now, the author would provide hope.
"But it need not be so. We can coordinate and fight against our oppressors. By throwing off the chains of conscience, we can slaughter our enemies indiscriminately. With that, they will be stopped. Indeed, with every act of resistance, we will free two souls - the oppressor from his sins, and the victim from the mental prison of his oppression."
The author took in a long breath and then charged forward.
"Fear will our enemies' ever-present companion. And when his slaves rises up against him, we will be there as brothers, ready to join the battle against our common enemy. Together, we can cast off the colonizer's heavy hand. We are the vanguard of freedom, stealing the wealth of our enemies of equality. Rather than facing a certain defeat, we now require only the power of the masses to secure our final victory."
Now, for a dramatic ending.
"That power shall be ours. As surely as the sun rises, the oppressed of the world will throw off their chains and join us. They will regain the pride of men, they will be free, and a new era will await them."
The author reviewed his work. When he was satisfied, he handed it to his niece for review. "What do you think?" he asked.
She read it slowly and carefully, and then looked up at her uncle.
"None of it is really true," she said.
"Perhaps," said her uncle, "But perception is more important than reality."
"Do you think it will work?" she asked.
"I believe it will." he answered, "It will strengthen our backbone, weaken our enemies and split them from one another."
His niece shook her head. "Nobody will believe any of this."
"And why not?" asked her uncle.
"Uncle," said his niece patiently, as if she considered her uncle delusional, "It's the year 800 and we're dragons."
"A Manifesto."
The author leaned back, reflecting on the possibilities.
He would write a manifesto, a screed, a call to arms.
First, he had to begin by stating the problem:
"We are an ancient people. Our traditions and cultures have survived for thousands of years. Today, we find ourselves at the brink of annihilation."
So far he was just stating the obvious and the true. But he needed to excite his readers.
"Many would say our predicament is no fault of our own. Our enemies hunt us and display our bodies aloft as trophies. And every day, they grow stronger. But while they sin against us, our predicament is indeed our responsibility. Because while we have resisted them, we have done so half-heartedly - bound by the chains of convention. We must recognize that in times such these, resistance of any sort lays within the bounds, not only of moral possibility, but of moral obligation."
The author pondered. It was time to divide the enemy.
"It is true that our enemies hunt us. But our true enemies are only a fraction of those pushing against us. Our true enemies are only their rulers: poolers of wealth and creators of serfs, they crush and oppress their own people as surely as they do ours."
Another pause as the author considered.
"Our kind wants only to trade. When we take without trade, it is through necessity alone. We mean no ill to anyone. But our way if life is being undermined. Our regions are being colonized by those not native to them. Our culture is under threat from marauders who would steal our ancestral treasures in the dead of the night. They may be condemned, but our sporadic acts of resistance are natural outpourings of our pride being daily trod underfoot and of our way of life being eaten away by the unrelenting cultural, social and ultimately physical advance of our enemies. Sadly, our sporadic acts of resistance do nothing to stem this tide. It would seem that our path is set, our future determined, our fate sealed."
And now, the author would provide hope.
"But it need not be so. We can coordinate and fight against our oppressors. By throwing off the chains of conscience, we can slaughter our enemies indiscriminately. With that, they will be stopped. Indeed, with every act of resistance, we will free two souls - the oppressor from his sins, and the victim from the mental prison of his oppression."
The author took in a long breath and then charged forward.
"Fear will our enemies' ever-present companion. And when his slaves rises up against him, we will be there as brothers, ready to join the battle against our common enemy. Together, we can cast off the colonizer's heavy hand. We are the vanguard of freedom, stealing the wealth of our enemies of equality. Rather than facing a certain defeat, we now require only the power of the masses to secure our final victory."
Now, for a dramatic ending.
"That power shall be ours. As surely as the sun rises, the oppressed of the world will throw off their chains and join us. They will regain the pride of men, they will be free, and a new era will await them."
The author reviewed his work. When he was satisfied, he handed it to his niece for review. "What do you think?" he asked.
She read it slowly and carefully, and then looked up at her uncle.
"None of it is really true," she said.
"Perhaps," said her uncle, "But perception is more important than reality."
"Do you think it will work?" she asked.
"I believe it will." he answered, "It will strengthen our backbone, weaken our enemies and split them from one another."
His niece shook her head. "Nobody will believe any of this."
"And why not?" asked her uncle.
"Uncle," said his niece patiently, as if she considered her uncle delusional, "It's the year 800 and we're dragons."
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
ADMIN: Comment Moderation
Due to an offensive comment on the Dr. Rajiv Chaudry story (which I discovered I could not delete), I have added comment moderation. I was hoping not to have to do this.
When commenting, keep in mind that this is meant to be a fun blog. Yes, there is a political tint to parts of it - but in the main those entries are meant to provoke questions and not suggest policy. When commenting, feel free to disagree, agree, praise or decry. But use your noodle. I want this to be a place where anybody can feel comfortable reading stories, even if they disagree with them. In future (and the past, if I could), comments that do things like suggest the elimination of racial, ethnic or religious groups will simply never appear.
When commenting, keep in mind that this is meant to be a fun blog. Yes, there is a political tint to parts of it - but in the main those entries are meant to provoke questions and not suggest policy. When commenting, feel free to disagree, agree, praise or decry. But use your noodle. I want this to be a place where anybody can feel comfortable reading stories, even if they disagree with them. In future (and the past, if I could), comments that do things like suggest the elimination of racial, ethnic or religious groups will simply never appear.
Monday, January 4, 2010
The Cult
Zachary Yarba sat at his desk, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. A small desk lamp illuminated his workspace.
The darkness outside was just beginning to lift.
As his brown eyes scanned the pages of the book in front of him, his hands scribbled away at a small notebook to his side. Occasionally, he would run his fingers through his black hair as he stopped to think about the task that was facing him.
The book was a perennial classic: How to Become a Cult Leader by Edgar Dampier and Zachary was fully immersed.
As he read, Zachary was distilling a checklist from the pages and pages of helpful advice. He had already identified that he had the tools necessary to become a cult leader: He was exceedingly intelligent, he was good looking, he took pleasure in the manipulation of others and he was fantastically charismatic.
Now he was deciding how exactly to turn possibility into reality.
After days of reading, his guiding checklist was almost complete.
He was relieved. He had only hours to prepare.
After a final burst of scribbling, Zachary closed the book.
His checklist was ready.
He methodically moved the book to the side and placed his notebook directly in front of him.
With small and tapered fingers, he carefully removed a sheet of blank paper from the notebook.
And then he read the first item on his checklist.
1. Choose the type of followers you want.
2. Long-term aims
The choices were world domination, mass suicide, fame, and of course, money. Mass suicide was of limited use and Zachary had no need for money or fame. That left world domination. It was an ambitious goal, but Zachary had no limits to his ambition. He had always been told he could achieve what he set his mind to - and his mind was set.
He inscribed: "World domination."
He now knew his goal: World domination through a nut-job faith.
The next step was to define behavior and tactics that would get him there.
1. Choose a type of 'revelation'.
There were ample choices for each of the cult types. Old Nazis memoirs and David Irving books for the white racists (other races had other choices). Hallucinogens, imaginary 'energies' and even rocks for the new age types. And for the religious nutjobs, prophecy from God, hidden texts and communication with aliens.
Each type of revelation required its own delicate balancing act. Prophecy required faux-epileptic seizures, hidden texts required perfect mental consistency (no notes could ever be found) and communication with aliens required long periods of absence and unusual scars.
Zachary considered the possible angles to success. Just to be sure, he chose all three.
4. Target area of operations
Somehow it had fallen to #4 on the list. Zachary thought it quite important, and closely related to the first item. He scolded himself. And then he realized why he had let it slip. He really had no options. He had one population to work - it had been chosen for him.
5. Signature look
A signature look had to reinforce the cult image. Religious nutjobs loved a beard and unkempt hair. He believed he could manage it. He could reinforce the image with color changing contacts and lots of practice losing focus in his eyes.
6. Personality
The book only really recommended one: Bi-polar, occasionally violent, often distant, but always keenly aware of the anxieties of those around him. The awareness would inspire love. The distance would inspire awe. And the violence and unpredictability would inspire fear. It was, without fail, the complete package.
7. Method of social exclusion
The last item on the list was key. His followers had to feel important. Zachary decided to find Apostles. A core group of followers who would seemingly have the secrets of the world before them. From the apostles, the circles of secrets would expand, growing ever larger - until the edges of the faith were reached. It would require time to develop mysteries upon mysteries - but they could be developed in lock-step with the faith. He didn't need to start with a complete revelation.
His choices made, Zachary believed that he was ready.
To be safe, he reviewed the generally recommended action plan one last time:
The darkness outside was just beginning to lift.
As his brown eyes scanned the pages of the book in front of him, his hands scribbled away at a small notebook to his side. Occasionally, he would run his fingers through his black hair as he stopped to think about the task that was facing him.
The book was a perennial classic: How to Become a Cult Leader by Edgar Dampier and Zachary was fully immersed.
As he read, Zachary was distilling a checklist from the pages and pages of helpful advice. He had already identified that he had the tools necessary to become a cult leader: He was exceedingly intelligent, he was good looking, he took pleasure in the manipulation of others and he was fantastically charismatic.
Now he was deciding how exactly to turn possibility into reality.
After days of reading, his guiding checklist was almost complete.
He was relieved. He had only hours to prepare.
After a final burst of scribbling, Zachary closed the book.
His checklist was ready.
He methodically moved the book to the side and placed his notebook directly in front of him.
With small and tapered fingers, he carefully removed a sheet of blank paper from the notebook.
And then he read the first item on his checklist.
The options were fresh in Zachary's mind.
- Flaky new-age types. This type of follower offered free-love, exotic drugs and sadistic erotica. Zachary was generally uninterested.
- Racists. This type of follower offered loud rhetoric and a propensity for occasional violent outbreaks. But the size of this sort of cult was severely limited. Zachary decided to pass.
- Religious nutjobs. By creating a new religion, Zachary could inspire his followers to offer him the entire package: boundless devotion, a private army, worshipful service - and unlimited possibilities.
Zachary leaned over to the blank sheet of paper and carefully inscribed: "Type of followers: religious nutjobs."
Having made his choice, he came to the next item on the list:
2. Long-term aims
The choices were world domination, mass suicide, fame, and of course, money. Mass suicide was of limited use and Zachary had no need for money or fame. That left world domination. It was an ambitious goal, but Zachary had no limits to his ambition. He had always been told he could achieve what he set his mind to - and his mind was set.
He inscribed: "World domination."
He now knew his goal: World domination through a nut-job faith.
The next step was to define behavior and tactics that would get him there.
1. Choose a type of 'revelation'.
There were ample choices for each of the cult types. Old Nazis memoirs and David Irving books for the white racists (other races had other choices). Hallucinogens, imaginary 'energies' and even rocks for the new age types. And for the religious nutjobs, prophecy from God, hidden texts and communication with aliens.
Each type of revelation required its own delicate balancing act. Prophecy required faux-epileptic seizures, hidden texts required perfect mental consistency (no notes could ever be found) and communication with aliens required long periods of absence and unusual scars.
Zachary considered the possible angles to success. Just to be sure, he chose all three.
4. Target area of operations
Somehow it had fallen to #4 on the list. Zachary thought it quite important, and closely related to the first item. He scolded himself. And then he realized why he had let it slip. He really had no options. He had one population to work - it had been chosen for him.
5. Signature look
A signature look had to reinforce the cult image. Religious nutjobs loved a beard and unkempt hair. He believed he could manage it. He could reinforce the image with color changing contacts and lots of practice losing focus in his eyes.
6. Personality
The book only really recommended one: Bi-polar, occasionally violent, often distant, but always keenly aware of the anxieties of those around him. The awareness would inspire love. The distance would inspire awe. And the violence and unpredictability would inspire fear. It was, without fail, the complete package.
7. Method of social exclusion
The last item on the list was key. His followers had to feel important. Zachary decided to find Apostles. A core group of followers who would seemingly have the secrets of the world before them. From the apostles, the circles of secrets would expand, growing ever larger - until the edges of the faith were reached. It would require time to develop mysteries upon mysteries - but they could be developed in lock-step with the faith. He didn't need to start with a complete revelation.
His choices made, Zachary believed that he was ready.
To be safe, he reviewed the generally recommended action plan one last time:
- Start off within the cult-leader personality and never leave it.
- Very slowly let people in on the secrets gleaned through prophecy, secret texts and alien communication.
- Amp up the personality 'disorders' when dealing with those closest to you.
- Interact with natural followers first. He could find them easily, they were fundamentally gullible.
- Understand that psychological manipulation could develop loyalty and salesmanship later.
Satisfied with his prospects for success, Zachary watched the sun pull up over the horizon.
Dawn had come, and he was out of time.
Carefully, he placed his notes and his book back in his desk drawer.
Then he slid into his bed and feigned sleep.
Moments later there was a soft knock at the door. A woman opened it slightly and whispered in: "Wake up Zach."
Zachary stirred slightly.
"Wake up," said the woman, "Or you'll miss your very first day of school."
Sunday, January 3, 2010
The Perfect Weapon
The modest house at 1953 Pine St. in Elk Grove was like any other house on the block. A ranch built in the post-war period, it had the same off-white aluminum siding as all of its neighbors. A tidy and perfectly squared-off lawn led to a small staircase, a tiny porch, and a plain white front door. A large living-room window looked out over the street. As with every other house on the block, the shades were drawn. It was occupied by a husband, a wife and two teenage children. All in all, it was not a noticeable house.
On a street full of gossips, nobody talked about it.
The family did have the occasional visitors. Bland-looking men and women in bland-looking rental cars. They always came during the day, when the husband and children were out. But otherwise, nothing seemed the least bit amiss.
But on January 27th, 2010, all of that changed.
On that day, at 11:14am, 1953 Pine Street became the talk of the town. In a rush, a fleet of bland-looking rental cars with bland-looking drivers and passengers jammed the street. And one after another those visitors walked up to and knocked on the front door. It opened, they walked in, and it closed.
The rumors began to fly. Was the woman in the house dealing drugs? If so, why did she live in such a modest home? How did so visitors fit in such a small house? And how come nobody ever saw who opened the front door?
There was no way the neighbors could have known the truth.
Just that previous night thousands and thousands of small black creatures had appeared in various cities around the world. The creatures were just two inches long. They flew on micro-wings and appeared to be nothing more than over-sized flying cockroaches. But a few, in Cairo and Damascus, had been noticed by men and women who could tell something was different about them.
They recognized the creatures for what they were. Not insects, but robots.
Through secure communications channels that connected the spies of the world, their discovery laboriously traveled upstream. Notes were conceived, and hand transcribed on one-time pads. They were then transmitted by shortwave radio or satellite phone to central operations organizations in Washington, Tel Aviv, London, Paris and more. And in each of those stations, communications officers decoded the messages and rerouted them up the chain of command. Messages then flowed from intelligence bureau to intelligence bureau - trying to figure out which country was behind the micro-robots. Hours passed before they realized that none of them were. Within minutes of that realization, emergency protocols were triggered. Presidents and Prime Ministers around the world were informed that something was wrong.
However, try as they might, they had no idea what it was.
Of course, they all knew who it was. There were black robotic insects appearing across the globe. They didn't know what the bugs did, they didn't know who had delivered them. But every one of those intelligence agencies knew who had created them - the breadwinner of 1953 Pine St.
And so, in a rush of anonymous and spontaneous pilgrimage, they made their way to that address.
Group by group, they walked up to the white door and knocked. A camera analyzed their faces and determined their identities. Their backgrounds were reviewed and then, moments later, a servo pulled open the door and welcomed them into the home. Each group was ushered into the plain-looking foyer of the single story house. They would then stand on an 8-foot square carpet while the front door was closed and their faces were screened a second time, to insure no uninvited guests had snuck in.
Finally, the entire carpeted area began to sink beneath the floor level. It was an elevator, cleverly built into the fabric of the post-war ranch. Nobody acted surprised, because every one of the guests knew where they were headed. Beneath the home was the weapons laboratory of the world famous - if you worked in the right world - Amelie Bedeau. Of course, if you did not work in the right world, then she was invisible.
Even her family did not know what lay beneath the foyer.
Amelie was a woman with a fascinating history. Her specialty was micro-electronics. While Hamas hunted for collaborators, they knew nothing of the insect-like creatures that attached themselves to clothes, embedded themselves in cracks, and clung to curtains throughout the territories. Israel knew so much because Israelis were listening to everything. Amelie had created the devices that enabled it. Predator strikes in Yemen and Pakistan were driven by intelligence her devices had provided. Other high-profile terrorists had simply disappeared, injected with poisons by insects she had created. Countless other acts of violent espionage, unreported in any media, had been enabled by her.
When it came to watching, and when it came to killing, Amelie Bedeau, mother of two teenagers and a wife to a workaday husband, was simply the best there was.
And she was not surprised in the least by the sudden arrival of her visitors.
They, however, were in the dark. They'd known of dozens of her robots working at a time - but never hundreds or thousands. Before, they'd always known who she was working for. This time they did not. And they'd always known what she'd built - what purpose was to be served. This time they did not.
It worried them.
Amelie had broken her lab into two. One half of it was a viewing gallery, with rows of seats for the representatives of various intelligence services, State Departments and Foreign Ministries. All had contracted with her in the past. The other half, shrouded in darkness and protected by bulletproof glass, was her workspace. She knew who was coming and she waited patiently for them to arrive. And when everyone was seated, she raised the lights on her side of the room.
Her shock of red hair was her only flamboyance.
"Welcome," she announced.
The crowd, not used to volunteering information or words, just sat silently.
"Obviously, I am aware of why you've come. Some of my creations have popped up on your radar. I believe," she said, holding up an example, "These are the devices you are so curious about."
Nobody in the room had actually seen one, they had only read reports. They craned forward for a closer look. But the insect was tiny, and nearly impossible to see.
"My visitors," she continued, ignoring their curiosity about the device, "After years of work, and using funds you have given me, I am pleased to announce that I have created the perfect weapon."
The fear was palpable. It was unsaid, but every man and woman in that room was wondering what, exactly, their funding had unleashed.
"It is small," Amelie continued, "But not as small as some of my other creations. It can fly great distances. It can be sustained by solar energy. And it contains within it the unmakings of governments."
She paused.
A map behind her lit up.
The cities of Tehran, Rangoon, Cairo, Jeddah, Damascus and Minsk.
"These governments."
Agents and diplomats reached for their secure phones, eager to warn somebody, anybody of the impending geopolitical destabilitization. 'Disaster!' was the thought rushing through their minds. Even those who looked forward to the destabilitization reached for their phones. It would not be seemly to stand out.
"I'm afraid gentlemen," said Amelie, "That your mobiles will not work here."
Reluctantly the phones dropped back into waiting pockets.
"These devices," said Amelia, "Are all part of a mesh network. A concept explored by the American government for their littoral naval vessels. Most of my devices have been small, and operate alone. But these perfect little machines work together for a greater effect than any one could possibly provide."
She paused again.
"And in five minutes, I will turn them on."
A man with a German accent blurted out, "What do they do?"
Amelie smiled, "Mr. Schwendtke," she replied, "They communicate, and they hide, and then they communicate again."
As confusion settled over the room, Amelie dimmed the lights and disappeared.
But a single red light remained on. And a timer next to it. And the minutes ticked by - feeling like hours. And then the timer hit zero, and the light turned to green.
Moments later, on massive screens, the images and words began to trickle in. Pictures of protests, messages of dissent - the baby steps of coordinated resistance.
Minute-by-minute the images and messages grew and multiplied.
Revolution was brewing.
And, somehow, Amelie had unleashed it.
Mr. Schwendtke blurted out again, "But what do they do!"
Every voice waited to hear the answer.
And then Amelie gave it to them.
"Every cell phone and every wi-fi connection, indeed, every wireless communications device in these cities, is now free. The robots are a network, a backbone of communications unhindered by tyrannical governments. Pictures and videos can be shared with the world. Opposition movements can coordinate their activities. And governments are unable to stop them. They communicate, they hide, and they communicate again."
"My friends," continued Amelia, "My little black bugs are the perfect weapon."
"My friends," she concluded, "My little black bugs are freedom."
On a street full of gossips, nobody talked about it.
The family did have the occasional visitors. Bland-looking men and women in bland-looking rental cars. They always came during the day, when the husband and children were out. But otherwise, nothing seemed the least bit amiss.
But on January 27th, 2010, all of that changed.
On that day, at 11:14am, 1953 Pine Street became the talk of the town. In a rush, a fleet of bland-looking rental cars with bland-looking drivers and passengers jammed the street. And one after another those visitors walked up to and knocked on the front door. It opened, they walked in, and it closed.
The rumors began to fly. Was the woman in the house dealing drugs? If so, why did she live in such a modest home? How did so visitors fit in such a small house? And how come nobody ever saw who opened the front door?
There was no way the neighbors could have known the truth.
Just that previous night thousands and thousands of small black creatures had appeared in various cities around the world. The creatures were just two inches long. They flew on micro-wings and appeared to be nothing more than over-sized flying cockroaches. But a few, in Cairo and Damascus, had been noticed by men and women who could tell something was different about them.
They recognized the creatures for what they were. Not insects, but robots.
Through secure communications channels that connected the spies of the world, their discovery laboriously traveled upstream. Notes were conceived, and hand transcribed on one-time pads. They were then transmitted by shortwave radio or satellite phone to central operations organizations in Washington, Tel Aviv, London, Paris and more. And in each of those stations, communications officers decoded the messages and rerouted them up the chain of command. Messages then flowed from intelligence bureau to intelligence bureau - trying to figure out which country was behind the micro-robots. Hours passed before they realized that none of them were. Within minutes of that realization, emergency protocols were triggered. Presidents and Prime Ministers around the world were informed that something was wrong.
However, try as they might, they had no idea what it was.
Of course, they all knew who it was. There were black robotic insects appearing across the globe. They didn't know what the bugs did, they didn't know who had delivered them. But every one of those intelligence agencies knew who had created them - the breadwinner of 1953 Pine St.
And so, in a rush of anonymous and spontaneous pilgrimage, they made their way to that address.
Group by group, they walked up to the white door and knocked. A camera analyzed their faces and determined their identities. Their backgrounds were reviewed and then, moments later, a servo pulled open the door and welcomed them into the home. Each group was ushered into the plain-looking foyer of the single story house. They would then stand on an 8-foot square carpet while the front door was closed and their faces were screened a second time, to insure no uninvited guests had snuck in.
Finally, the entire carpeted area began to sink beneath the floor level. It was an elevator, cleverly built into the fabric of the post-war ranch. Nobody acted surprised, because every one of the guests knew where they were headed. Beneath the home was the weapons laboratory of the world famous - if you worked in the right world - Amelie Bedeau. Of course, if you did not work in the right world, then she was invisible.
Even her family did not know what lay beneath the foyer.
Amelie was a woman with a fascinating history. Her specialty was micro-electronics. While Hamas hunted for collaborators, they knew nothing of the insect-like creatures that attached themselves to clothes, embedded themselves in cracks, and clung to curtains throughout the territories. Israel knew so much because Israelis were listening to everything. Amelie had created the devices that enabled it. Predator strikes in Yemen and Pakistan were driven by intelligence her devices had provided. Other high-profile terrorists had simply disappeared, injected with poisons by insects she had created. Countless other acts of violent espionage, unreported in any media, had been enabled by her.
When it came to watching, and when it came to killing, Amelie Bedeau, mother of two teenagers and a wife to a workaday husband, was simply the best there was.
And she was not surprised in the least by the sudden arrival of her visitors.
They, however, were in the dark. They'd known of dozens of her robots working at a time - but never hundreds or thousands. Before, they'd always known who she was working for. This time they did not. And they'd always known what she'd built - what purpose was to be served. This time they did not.
It worried them.
Amelie had broken her lab into two. One half of it was a viewing gallery, with rows of seats for the representatives of various intelligence services, State Departments and Foreign Ministries. All had contracted with her in the past. The other half, shrouded in darkness and protected by bulletproof glass, was her workspace. She knew who was coming and she waited patiently for them to arrive. And when everyone was seated, she raised the lights on her side of the room.
Her shock of red hair was her only flamboyance.
"Welcome," she announced.
The crowd, not used to volunteering information or words, just sat silently.
"Obviously, I am aware of why you've come. Some of my creations have popped up on your radar. I believe," she said, holding up an example, "These are the devices you are so curious about."
Nobody in the room had actually seen one, they had only read reports. They craned forward for a closer look. But the insect was tiny, and nearly impossible to see.
"My visitors," she continued, ignoring their curiosity about the device, "After years of work, and using funds you have given me, I am pleased to announce that I have created the perfect weapon."
The fear was palpable. It was unsaid, but every man and woman in that room was wondering what, exactly, their funding had unleashed.
"It is small," Amelie continued, "But not as small as some of my other creations. It can fly great distances. It can be sustained by solar energy. And it contains within it the unmakings of governments."
She paused.
A map behind her lit up.
The cities of Tehran, Rangoon, Cairo, Jeddah, Damascus and Minsk.
"These governments."
Agents and diplomats reached for their secure phones, eager to warn somebody, anybody of the impending geopolitical destabilitization. 'Disaster!' was the thought rushing through their minds. Even those who looked forward to the destabilitization reached for their phones. It would not be seemly to stand out.
"I'm afraid gentlemen," said Amelie, "That your mobiles will not work here."
Reluctantly the phones dropped back into waiting pockets.
"These devices," said Amelia, "Are all part of a mesh network. A concept explored by the American government for their littoral naval vessels. Most of my devices have been small, and operate alone. But these perfect little machines work together for a greater effect than any one could possibly provide."
She paused again.
"And in five minutes, I will turn them on."
A man with a German accent blurted out, "What do they do?"
Amelie smiled, "Mr. Schwendtke," she replied, "They communicate, and they hide, and then they communicate again."
As confusion settled over the room, Amelie dimmed the lights and disappeared.
But a single red light remained on. And a timer next to it. And the minutes ticked by - feeling like hours. And then the timer hit zero, and the light turned to green.
Moments later, on massive screens, the images and words began to trickle in. Pictures of protests, messages of dissent - the baby steps of coordinated resistance.
Minute-by-minute the images and messages grew and multiplied.
Revolution was brewing.
And, somehow, Amelie had unleashed it.
Mr. Schwendtke blurted out again, "But what do they do!"
Every voice waited to hear the answer.
And then Amelie gave it to them.
"Every cell phone and every wi-fi connection, indeed, every wireless communications device in these cities, is now free. The robots are a network, a backbone of communications unhindered by tyrannical governments. Pictures and videos can be shared with the world. Opposition movements can coordinate their activities. And governments are unable to stop them. They communicate, they hide, and they communicate again."
"My friends," continued Amelia, "My little black bugs are the perfect weapon."
"My friends," she concluded, "My little black bugs are freedom."
Specialists
It's funny how things connect. Looking back and seeing the progressions is easy, it is what I do. But looking forward is impossible.
Take me as an example: I was born a poor African in the old Portuguese colony of Sao Tome & Principe - a dot of a state off the coast of Africa. Today, I am the world's highest paid policemen. I live in a mansion on Park Avenue in New York. And at this moment, I am about to give testimony in a murder case - one of the few in recent years to actually go to trial.
Why? I couldn't tell you why.
But I can tell you how.
In 2001, some exploratory drilling indicated that there were substantial oil deposits off the coast of my country. Billions of dollars worth of oil for a country of only 200,000 people.
For the first time in any of our lives, prosperity beckoned. Unimaginably prosperity.
But we'd seen what such prosperity had done to other countries and we were determined to follow another path. And so, with our first signing bonus of $20 million dollars, the government decided to send the best and brightest of our students overseas for college. A national exam was held for all high school seniors and the top five were chosen. One of them was Luis Oliviera. Nobody knew it at the time, but sending Luis Oliviera to college would change the world.
Despite his Portuguese name, Luis was actually descended from Angolan and Jewish slaves who had been imported to the islands hundreds of years earlier. With backing from our government, he was admitted to MIT. By all accounts, he was a mediocre student. After four years, and after demonstrating the basic competence needed to complete an education at that esteemed institution, Luis returned home. People expected him to run for government, or set up some kind of business involving cocoa farming or even get down to work as a fisherman as his parents had.
But he did none of that.
He shut himself into his old house and literally disappeared for 3 months. Nobody knew what was happening. And then, one day, the Presidential Guard showed up, picked him up and drove him to the Presidential Palace.
Nobody knew what he'd been doing for three months, but we found out soon enough.
While an undergrad at MIT, Luis Oliviera had worked out how to breed animals for desired characteristics. But unlike others who took generations to tease out the attributes they desired, Luis Oliviera could do it within a single generation. He could take an individual mouse and have it grow a leg, acquire greater intelligence or glow in the dark - without needing to take generations to guide the animal's genealogy in that direction. He was a man who understood - no, who could feel - how living systems worked. To him, biology was nothing more than a blank canvas awaiting his magic touch.
Luis Oliviera, realizing the importance of what he'd done, wisely chose to keep it to himself. After four years of practicing and perfecting his method, he returned home. And then he tried it on himself. In his home, on the dirt poor island of Sao Tome, he transformed himself. It was a simple trick, a proof-of-concept. He dramatically increased his range of hearing.
And then, he called the President.
In the Presidential Palace, on that day, a scheme was launched. Luis Oliviera would transform others. And Sao Tome would stop exporting coffee, or even oil. And it would start to export people.
Those people would be gifted, as if by birth, with certain traits and abilities: Hearing, mathematical ability, improved sight, strong reasoning, physical strength and so on. However, he wouldn't stop with physical traits. He would also integrate our bodies with technology: Mass spectrometers, Geiger counters, night-vision, infra-red readers and so on. We would be humans, but redesigned for specific jobs. We would be called Specialists. And we would be leased to the world.
I was one of the first - a crime scene analyst. At first, I did what other crime scene analysts do. Using my natural abilities and the technical tools within my own body, I applied reason and logic to determine what the crime scene was telling me. But then, with time, something shifted. It was like learning a foreign language. You start off translating to your native speech - and then the language itself begins to speak to you. In my case, crime scenes - the objects themselves - started to communicate with me. I could look at them, take them in, and it was like they were a voice inside my head. They'd explain what they'd seen, they'd talk to me.
I could no longer explain my methods. But by that point, it was no longer necessary. There were Specialist Judges, blessed with infrared readers, powerfully logical minds, and a host of other traits which gave them a unique ability to separate truth from falsehood. They could not explain how they did what they did. But the world trusted us - and hired us. And believed us when we changed and convicted criminals.
Luis Oliviera continued to grow our empire. We leased engineers and soldiers, nurses and financial wizards. People relied on us. They trusted us. We started off well-paid - and we ended up administrators of the world's societies. We ended up as kings.
And now, I find myself sitting in court, preparing to testify in the trial of a young murderer. Trials are rare. I don't arrest and charge people unless the crime scene itself has already convicted them. For that matter, murders are rare - because we find those who dare to kill.
Naturally, the television crews are out in force, curious about the strange young man who murdered knowing he would be caught, and who now fights conviction, knowing he can not win.
His name is Robert Barnes. He is 27 years old. And in a fit of rage, he picked up a vase in his father's house and broke it over the man's head. The old man bled to death on his floor. The son fled. I know this, because the vase and the blood and the body and the floor told it to me.
In due course, I am called to testify. I share what the crime scene has told me - trying to break down the evidence - from fingerprints to blood patterns - wherever I am able. The judge watches carefully. We will not tolerate Specialists who lie. He vets my testimony and then I sit - satisfied that I have secured another conviction.
And then, the defense rises. And they upon a Specialist Detective. I don't even hear the name - but I know it isn't mine.
The judge is confused, I am confused, but then another of my countrymen steps to the witness box. I know him. He is a Specialist Detective from Los Angeles.
He testifies that Robert Barnes' mother was killed in Los Angeles at exactly the same time as his father. And that the evidence there spoke to him. And that Robert Barnes was guilty of the murder in that case - at exactly the same time.
The judge has also watched him carefully. And with a nod, his testimony is vetted.
He is not lying. I am not lying. We contradict each other.
And the defense rests.
The court is calm, but when I exit, there is pandemonium.
For the first time, two Specialists Detectives have presented contrary evidence.
Our wealth, our power and our reputations are suddenly very much at risk.
For the first time, people question whether we can be trusted.
Dodging the cameras, I head home through the grey Manhattan winter.
I review it again and again in my head, but I can't shake the truth. The evidence spoke for itself.
I come to the door to my Park Avenue mansion - my entire life in flux.
There is a note waiting for me.
Before I read it, it tells me it was left by Robert Barnes - and man who is still in custody.
I can not believe what I am being told. The note reinforces that.
"Specialist Detective Branco," it reads, "Your people may have learned to teach objects to speak, but I have taught them to lie."
My head swimming, I search for a signature.
There is none.
There is none.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Family
"What the hell are we doing back here?"
My wife's jet black air surrounded a soft face, that at this moment was burning with anger.
Her question wasn't unexpected.
"What were we supposed to do?" I demanded. We were unwrapping our stuff from the trip. "Were we just supposed to wave goodbye as everybody headed home?"
"Yes," she said, "That's exactly what we were supposed to do. That's exactly what we'd agreed to do."
"I know, I know," I said, "But they are our family. Your grandfather just died. And we can't just walk away at a time like that."
"Why not?" she demanded.
"How are we supposed to eat?"
"My grandfather managed. And his parents before. They earned their keep and more. Are you so privileged that you can't imagine doing the same?"
"We have a good life here. A great life. Why do you insist on leaving?"
"We agreed," she said, "We agreed to go. And now you want to back out."
"Yes," I said, "I do. We live like kings here."
"Dear," she said, "You're young and you're a bit naive. This is all a mirage. My grandfather's dead. So now we're all living under the protection of my uncle."
"Yes," I said, "And he promised to protect us."
"And I can believe him," she said, "But eventually, he's going to die. And here, he's unnatural. They aren't going to pluck one of us up to replace him. They are going to get rid of him, and then we're done."
"We can cross that bridge when we come to it."
"Can we? We have servants galore here. They do everything for us. But before my uncle came, they were free men. When he dies, when they feel free of him, they are going to turn on us."
"Maybe," I said, "But we can run then."
"THEY WON'T LET US." she insisted.
"Why not?" I asked.
"Vengeance," she said, "My uncle humbled a proud people - the proudest people. Sure, he kept them alive, but the price was very high. They give him thanks while he's alive, but his family is in for something else."
"You can run," I said, spreading my hands plaintively, "But that all seems a long way off. I don't want to be struggling for food when I can be living here, like this."
"I can't go without you." she stated, "To make it, we need to go together."
"So," I said, a bit defensively, "I guess we'll stay here. We belong with the family."
She looked at me in disbelief. She shook her hear, and then she kept unpacking.
Of course, she ended up being right.
My uncle Joseph died and the Egyptian people turned on us.
The tide was turned and we became slaves.
Yocheved was rarely wrong.
My wife's jet black air surrounded a soft face, that at this moment was burning with anger.
Her question wasn't unexpected.
"What were we supposed to do?" I demanded. We were unwrapping our stuff from the trip. "Were we just supposed to wave goodbye as everybody headed home?"
"Yes," she said, "That's exactly what we were supposed to do. That's exactly what we'd agreed to do."
"I know, I know," I said, "But they are our family. Your grandfather just died. And we can't just walk away at a time like that."
"Why not?" she demanded.
"How are we supposed to eat?"
"My grandfather managed. And his parents before. They earned their keep and more. Are you so privileged that you can't imagine doing the same?"
"We have a good life here. A great life. Why do you insist on leaving?"
"We agreed," she said, "We agreed to go. And now you want to back out."
"Yes," I said, "I do. We live like kings here."
"Dear," she said, "You're young and you're a bit naive. This is all a mirage. My grandfather's dead. So now we're all living under the protection of my uncle."
"Yes," I said, "And he promised to protect us."
"And I can believe him," she said, "But eventually, he's going to die. And here, he's unnatural. They aren't going to pluck one of us up to replace him. They are going to get rid of him, and then we're done."
"We can cross that bridge when we come to it."
"Can we? We have servants galore here. They do everything for us. But before my uncle came, they were free men. When he dies, when they feel free of him, they are going to turn on us."
"Maybe," I said, "But we can run then."
"THEY WON'T LET US." she insisted.
"Why not?" I asked.
"Vengeance," she said, "My uncle humbled a proud people - the proudest people. Sure, he kept them alive, but the price was very high. They give him thanks while he's alive, but his family is in for something else."
"You can run," I said, spreading my hands plaintively, "But that all seems a long way off. I don't want to be struggling for food when I can be living here, like this."
"I can't go without you." she stated, "To make it, we need to go together."
"So," I said, a bit defensively, "I guess we'll stay here. We belong with the family."
She looked at me in disbelief. She shook her hear, and then she kept unpacking.
Of course, she ended up being right.
My uncle Joseph died and the Egyptian people turned on us.
The tide was turned and we became slaves.
Yocheved was rarely wrong.
ADMIN: Updated Story
I just cleaned up Howitt (I was up a little late) and I made a number of small but important changes to Waking Up.
Howitt
It is December 31st, 2009, and, of course, I'm travelling.
I've got a long connection in Denver Airport. It is New Year's Eve and I don't have my family, and so I decide to take a seat in the closest Airport bar.
I drudge into the bar, with its modular sports-themed decorations. I sit at the bar itself and order a drink.
And then I notice the next guy over. He's a soldier in uniform, obviously being moved someplace. I wonder where he's going. And then I see his name - Howitt.
My name is Howitt.
I think for a moment and decide it's enough to start a conversation.
"Howitt," I say out loud, letting it hang.
The soldier turns.
"Yes?"
"It's just odd," I say, "My name's Howitt too."
"That so?" he asks and returns to nursing his beer.
I order a beer. I try again.
"Where you headed, Howitt?"
"I'm deploying to Afghanistan," he states, matter-of-factly.
"Not an easy task," I say.
"No," Howitt states, "There are a few risks."
I stare at my drink - the conversation seemingly dead.
But then the soldier speaks. "Have you been to Afghanistan?"
"I have to admit, that's a strange question to ask a civilian," I answer, "But yes, I have. How'd you guess.".
"You had a look when I mentioned it. It seemed familiar. Why'd you go?"
"My company," I say, "We design and sell high-tech textile manufacturing equipment. Somebody thought it might be a good industry there - so they sent me over to make a few contacts and see if we could push some business."
"Did it work?"
"No, not really," I say, "I think I could've sold a few lines, but they wouldn't have been used much. The infrastructure isn't there to take advantage of what we've got."
He nodded, "That they don't."
"Have you been?" I ask.
"Yes," he says, "I live and breathe Afghanistan. I've done two tours, this'll be my third. But even when I'm out-of-country, I spend my time there in mind and spirit. It's the new Army way."
I nod. I've heard of it - something about preserving and continuing to use local knowledge.
"I gotta ask," I say, "Do you see any risks of returning again and again."
"It's war, buddy," he says, "There are risks."
"Oh, no," I say, "That's not what I meant. Take my business. If we stick a representative - from sales or support or whatever, someplace - they end up seeing things more like the client than like us. This can lead to some strange outcomes. I was just wondering if you have similar problems in Afghanistan."
"Oh, sure," he answers, "There are a few bad apples - and keeping them in one place tends to enable them to harvest the local fruit. They get caught selling weapons or turning a blind eye to opium or covering for their local friends. But it isn't all that common. The Army is doing a pretty good job of watching it."
I nod, it makes sense.
"So," I ask, "What do you do?"
"I'm a soldier," he states, "But I speak Pashto and I know the local culture. So I tend to work as a liaison with local Shura councils, but I also do some local intelligence work."
"Funny," I say, lightly, "You don't look Pashtun."
"I'm not," he answers, "I learned during my first tour. I'm good with languages and I'm good with people. It took a while for the Army brass to realize how useful people like me could be - but I'm in pretty high demand nowadays."
"Interesting," I say, "It kind of worked the same way for me. I pick up lots of languages and I'm very good at reading etiquette. I'm actually my company's regional sales chief because I can speak both Cantonese and Hindi fluently."
He nods his head in respect. "Do you enjoy your work?"
"Some days," I say, "But mostly, it's just a paycheck. Well, I own part of the company, so it's also an investment too"
"What else do you do?" he asks.
"I hang out with my family and I give to charity," I say, "It's a cliche, but I really believe a man is defined not by what he has, but by what he gives."
"Same here," says the soldier.
"You have a family?" I ask.
"Yes, I do," says the soldier, "I've got three kids. But I go so long between seeing them, I'm not really sure they've got me."
I nod. I know how he feels, although at least my trips are shorter.
"Its gotta be hard - leaving your family behind and being in such dangerous situations."
He dips his head a few times in agreement, "Hardest thing I've ever done."
"Is it worth it - hurting your family and risking your life for that cause?" I ask.
He looks at me. "Yes," he states, "Yes it is. The world is getting smaller and smaller. And you just can't ignore the problems of a country like that - or it'll come back to haunt you. There are always gonna be crazies, but you can't let them go and incubate in entire countries."
I nurse my drink some more. "I can kind of see your point," I say, "But to take an abstract concept of death for a cause and to actually, concretely, put yourself in harms' way for it - that I can't imagine doing."
"You don't realize what you're doing the first time you do it." says the soldier, "But once you do it that first time, you can imagine doing it again. It isn't easy - and you skip all the arguments when the shit is hitting the fan - but you can still get things done. And there's more than just danger and death. There are things to be proud of."
"So what have you done recently that you're proud of?" I ask.
Howitt smiles. "There's a game we play," he says, "We walk into villages. And I've got these sound boosting headphones on. And I can hear everything going on. But, of course, none of the locals realize it. At the end of the last tour, we were heading through town when I heard people talking about the bad guy's waiting for us. I told the team and - without a shot being fired - we were able to totally surprise them. I saved a lot of lives - not just American."
I'm impressed.
"And you?" he asks.
I think for a moment, "Nothing like that, I say. When I started my career, everything was about advancement and money. But I got past that when I realized one day that I had everything I needed. I'd made a lot of money.
"I wanted to give money to charity. But I realized that you can't just give it away - because people have to earn something for it to have value for them. They really have to earn it to grow from it. So I spent years thinking about the rules behind my charity. One of the biggest is that I'd give for acute disasters, but not for chronic problems. It was working pretty well.
"And then, last week, I came across this homeless young man. What with the economy and all, he was facing some hard times. But I could see this fire in his eyes. And so I asked him to give me a quick pitch. I was surprised when he did - but he did. He pitched me on this business he wanted to start, but clearly couldn't launch. And so, right there, I wrote him a check for $100,000. And then I walked away. I'm pretty sure I changed a few lives there."
Howitt was impressed, "It must be nice to have that kind of money to spend."
"It's a path I've chosen," I say, "I work to create so that I can share. It's how I contribute."
He rolls his glass in his hands, "I can see that," he says, "Well, in that case, I'm doubly impressed. You took the effort to earn the money and then, when the time came, you were willing to give it away."
"I guess," I say, "But I've gotta have more respect for you. I spread around a fair amount of cash around, but you risk your life for others."
"Two sides of the same coin," he says, "Two sides."
They call my flight. so I stand up and extend my hand to Howitt, "It has been a pleasure and honor to meet you."
Howitt reaches across and grips my hand solidly. "Likewise," He says.
And then in some strange way I realize that I'm shaking my own hand.
Howitt is me and I am Howitt.
We're the same man, we're just two sides of the same coin..We've made different choices, but somehow we've each ended up in the Airport Bar.
---
"Jim," comes a voice as a hand gently taps my shoulder.
"Yeah," I mumble, tired.
"Jim," repeats the voice, "It's 2010."
I open my eyes. I look around. And then I realize which path I've taken.
I've got a long connection in Denver Airport. It is New Year's Eve and I don't have my family, and so I decide to take a seat in the closest Airport bar.
I drudge into the bar, with its modular sports-themed decorations. I sit at the bar itself and order a drink.
And then I notice the next guy over. He's a soldier in uniform, obviously being moved someplace. I wonder where he's going. And then I see his name - Howitt.
My name is Howitt.
I think for a moment and decide it's enough to start a conversation.
"Howitt," I say out loud, letting it hang.
The soldier turns.
"Yes?"
"It's just odd," I say, "My name's Howitt too."
"That so?" he asks and returns to nursing his beer.
I order a beer. I try again.
"Where you headed, Howitt?"
"I'm deploying to Afghanistan," he states, matter-of-factly.
"Not an easy task," I say.
"No," Howitt states, "There are a few risks."
I stare at my drink - the conversation seemingly dead.
But then the soldier speaks. "Have you been to Afghanistan?"
"I have to admit, that's a strange question to ask a civilian," I answer, "But yes, I have. How'd you guess.".
"You had a look when I mentioned it. It seemed familiar. Why'd you go?"
"My company," I say, "We design and sell high-tech textile manufacturing equipment. Somebody thought it might be a good industry there - so they sent me over to make a few contacts and see if we could push some business."
"Did it work?"
"No, not really," I say, "I think I could've sold a few lines, but they wouldn't have been used much. The infrastructure isn't there to take advantage of what we've got."
He nodded, "That they don't."
"Have you been?" I ask.
"Yes," he says, "I live and breathe Afghanistan. I've done two tours, this'll be my third. But even when I'm out-of-country, I spend my time there in mind and spirit. It's the new Army way."
I nod. I've heard of it - something about preserving and continuing to use local knowledge.
"I gotta ask," I say, "Do you see any risks of returning again and again."
"It's war, buddy," he says, "There are risks."
"Oh, no," I say, "That's not what I meant. Take my business. If we stick a representative - from sales or support or whatever, someplace - they end up seeing things more like the client than like us. This can lead to some strange outcomes. I was just wondering if you have similar problems in Afghanistan."
"Oh, sure," he answers, "There are a few bad apples - and keeping them in one place tends to enable them to harvest the local fruit. They get caught selling weapons or turning a blind eye to opium or covering for their local friends. But it isn't all that common. The Army is doing a pretty good job of watching it."
I nod, it makes sense.
"So," I ask, "What do you do?"
"I'm a soldier," he states, "But I speak Pashto and I know the local culture. So I tend to work as a liaison with local Shura councils, but I also do some local intelligence work."
"Funny," I say, lightly, "You don't look Pashtun."
"I'm not," he answers, "I learned during my first tour. I'm good with languages and I'm good with people. It took a while for the Army brass to realize how useful people like me could be - but I'm in pretty high demand nowadays."
"Interesting," I say, "It kind of worked the same way for me. I pick up lots of languages and I'm very good at reading etiquette. I'm actually my company's regional sales chief because I can speak both Cantonese and Hindi fluently."
He nods his head in respect. "Do you enjoy your work?"
"Some days," I say, "But mostly, it's just a paycheck. Well, I own part of the company, so it's also an investment too"
"What else do you do?" he asks.
"I hang out with my family and I give to charity," I say, "It's a cliche, but I really believe a man is defined not by what he has, but by what he gives."
"Same here," says the soldier.
"You have a family?" I ask.
"Yes, I do," says the soldier, "I've got three kids. But I go so long between seeing them, I'm not really sure they've got me."
I nod. I know how he feels, although at least my trips are shorter.
"Its gotta be hard - leaving your family behind and being in such dangerous situations."
He dips his head a few times in agreement, "Hardest thing I've ever done."
"Is it worth it - hurting your family and risking your life for that cause?" I ask.
He looks at me. "Yes," he states, "Yes it is. The world is getting smaller and smaller. And you just can't ignore the problems of a country like that - or it'll come back to haunt you. There are always gonna be crazies, but you can't let them go and incubate in entire countries."
I nurse my drink some more. "I can kind of see your point," I say, "But to take an abstract concept of death for a cause and to actually, concretely, put yourself in harms' way for it - that I can't imagine doing."
"You don't realize what you're doing the first time you do it." says the soldier, "But once you do it that first time, you can imagine doing it again. It isn't easy - and you skip all the arguments when the shit is hitting the fan - but you can still get things done. And there's more than just danger and death. There are things to be proud of."
"So what have you done recently that you're proud of?" I ask.
Howitt smiles. "There's a game we play," he says, "We walk into villages. And I've got these sound boosting headphones on. And I can hear everything going on. But, of course, none of the locals realize it. At the end of the last tour, we were heading through town when I heard people talking about the bad guy's waiting for us. I told the team and - without a shot being fired - we were able to totally surprise them. I saved a lot of lives - not just American."
I'm impressed.
"And you?" he asks.
I think for a moment, "Nothing like that, I say. When I started my career, everything was about advancement and money. But I got past that when I realized one day that I had everything I needed. I'd made a lot of money.
"I wanted to give money to charity. But I realized that you can't just give it away - because people have to earn something for it to have value for them. They really have to earn it to grow from it. So I spent years thinking about the rules behind my charity. One of the biggest is that I'd give for acute disasters, but not for chronic problems. It was working pretty well.
"And then, last week, I came across this homeless young man. What with the economy and all, he was facing some hard times. But I could see this fire in his eyes. And so I asked him to give me a quick pitch. I was surprised when he did - but he did. He pitched me on this business he wanted to start, but clearly couldn't launch. And so, right there, I wrote him a check for $100,000. And then I walked away. I'm pretty sure I changed a few lives there."
Howitt was impressed, "It must be nice to have that kind of money to spend."
"It's a path I've chosen," I say, "I work to create so that I can share. It's how I contribute."
He rolls his glass in his hands, "I can see that," he says, "Well, in that case, I'm doubly impressed. You took the effort to earn the money and then, when the time came, you were willing to give it away."
"I guess," I say, "But I've gotta have more respect for you. I spread around a fair amount of cash around, but you risk your life for others."
"Two sides of the same coin," he says, "Two sides."
They call my flight. so I stand up and extend my hand to Howitt, "It has been a pleasure and honor to meet you."
Howitt reaches across and grips my hand solidly. "Likewise," He says.
And then in some strange way I realize that I'm shaking my own hand.
Howitt is me and I am Howitt.
We're the same man, we're just two sides of the same coin..We've made different choices, but somehow we've each ended up in the Airport Bar.
---
"Jim," comes a voice as a hand gently taps my shoulder.
"Yeah," I mumble, tired.
"Jim," repeats the voice, "It's 2010."
I open my eyes. I look around. And then I realize which path I've taken.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Waking Up
I hate waking up.
You're there, sleeping peacefully, enjoying wonderful dreams. Your wife is tucked up next to you and your infant daughter is snoring away in the room next door. The morning light comes through the windows and the alarm clock goes off - and all you want to do is enjoy a little more peace.
Of course, it never works that way. You get up, you trudge to work, you battle through your day and you look forward to sleeping again later that night. When it comes time to wake up, I have an aversion to adventure. Yes, I do have a career. I've even recently applied for a promotion. But there isn't really much adventure in that.
Most mornings, I battle the alarm clock - putting off the inevitable. All my half-baked reasoning abilities array themselves against the clock, explaining why I don't need to get up. The clock battles back, but it is hopeless. The arguments are about to overcome the simple mechanical device when one of two things happens. Either my wife prods me to wake up, offering her far more cogent arguments in defense of the clock. Or, as is happening now, my daughter Sophia starts crying because she's hungry.
Inevitably, the tide of battle is turned. With its allies behind it, the clock proudly declares its victory. Just out of spite, I yank its cord out of the wall.
I stumble out of bed, making my way to Sophia's room. I pop her up on the change table, change her diaper, sit her on the ground and head to the kitchen to make her breakfast.
At this point, everything is normal. But it's about to change. I'm placing Sophia in her high chair when I hear a knock at the door.
That is unusual.
I put Sophia back on the floor, shout up to my wife, "We've got company!" and trudge to the door. I open it, wearing my pajamas.
Standing on my front porch are three men, all wearing dark blue suits. They have somber faces and, to a man, blond hair and piercing blue eyes.
What the hell are they doing here?
"Are you Mr. Kleeban?" one of them asks.
"Yes," I answer.
"Mr. Kleeban, do you work as a network security officer at Lower Lakes Bank?"
Uh oh. I must have missed something, or screwed something up. This is not going to be good.
"Yes," I nod.
"May we come in?"
I'm going to welcome them in when I realize it is probably about time to start protecting myself. Still half awake, I ask: "Are you with the authorities?"
The man looks at me. He smiles. And then he says, "No," in a thick Slavic accent - something he had covered earlier. "We are not with the authorities."
I am doubly confused, for a moment. And then I understand. I am a network security officer, an Internet gatekeeper, at a bank with $25 billion in assets. I've read the reports before - gangs visit people in their homes, and hold the families hostage until a heist is complete.
I guess it's my turn. And then, finally, I wake up.
In an instant I make up my mind. I try to slam the door with every ounce of force I have. But the man sticks his foot in and starts pushing back.
I know he'll overcome me, but I might have some time. "SUSAN," I shout, "GRAB SOPHIA AND RUN!"
Susan bounds down the stairs, confusion in her eyes. I'm glad I let her know we had company. Given how little she knows, she moves like its an old practiced drill. I guess there are benefits to being a nurse. She scoops Sophia up in her arms and rushes towards the back door. She's just about to get there when it opens. Two more men in suits are waiting outside. Susan backpedals in fear. With a few gestures, they stop her and guide her back into the house.
Sophia starts screaming and I get a knot in the pit of my stomach.
The men force the door open and I back away in fear. "Upstairs," they say to Susan, pointing. She goes, leaving me with a worried glance. Two men accompany her.
"Please, Mr. Kleeban, take a seat." The man gestures to the sofa.
I sit.
"Mr. Kleeban," says the man, back in his American accent, "My name is David Anderson and this is all going to go very easily. Your wife is going to call in sick - I'm sure she has already. Your daughter is going to spend a day home with her mommy. And you are going to go to work."
"And?" I ask, wondering what they need me to do. In my mind, I assign 'Mr. Anderson' his chosen name.
"And nothing," says Mr. Anderson. "You are going to go to work, you are going to sit at your desk, and you are going to do nothing more than you absolutely need to. Follow your routine, but don't pay too much attention to any reports or keep your eyes too alert for any suspicious activity."
I'm confused.
"Mr. Kleeban," says Mr. Anderson, "We have a way into your bank's network. We are going to steal a great deal of money. In this operation, we would not be so stupid as to actually rely on you doing something for us. All you have to do is not notice what is going on. Believe me, that will be better for your career than spotting something and failing to pass it on."
I nod, stupidly. A hole big enough to steal a vast quantity of money. How? I'm pretty careful and any substantial transfers will be watched by the receiving bank. How can they hope to pull a large-scale cyber heist off? Not only that, but this is just weird. I've heard of gangs taking bank executives hostage in order to pull off conventional heists. But taking me hostage to pull off a cyber-heist is very very different - and possibly brilliant.
"Don't concern yourself with the details," says Mr. Anderson, "Go to work, don't do you job and when you come home, your family will be here safe."
I nod.
"Now," he says, "Get dressed."
Mr. Anderson's bodyguards follow me upstairs. I get dressed. I come back downstairs and he is waiting for me. "Here are your things. I've taken the liberty of replacing your cell phone and your Bluetooth with identical copies. You can't make any calls or send any emails - but you can receive my calls."
I nod and take my briefcase, keys and cellphone. The Bluetooth goes in my ear.
"And don't think about doing anything stupid." says Mr. Anderson, "You aren't the only man in your position. And some of the others have instructions to watch you. So, we'll be watching and listening to everything you do."
And look at his eyes, and they are deadly serious. He isn't lying. I decide to press my luck in either case.
"Just to protect my job," I say, "When can I notice a problem?"
Mr. Anderson considers, and then states, "We'll be done by 10:30."
"Just to protect my job," I say, "When can I notice a problem?"
Mr. Anderson considers, and then states, "We'll be done by 10:30."
He gestures and I go to the garage, and head to work. One of the bodyguards accompanies me.
I've seen the movies. I've read the reports. They'll let me go. Right?
Except... I've seen all of their faces. I've heard their voices. They know I can pick out details about them. I don't know much, but it might be enough to convince them they can't let me, or my family, live.
I've got to find a way out.
It can't be something obvious. They are watching me. They have spies.
I get to work, and there is nothing amiss. I walk through security with a nod, a flash of my badge and a smile. I walk past my team with 'a Good morning.'
I can't help but wonder who is watching me.
My phone rings just as I'm approaching Saul Frank's desk.
In my ear, Mr. Anderson speaks, "Tell Saul to help Jim with his project."
Saul is my backup, monitoring web security.
They know where I am, and they've thought through the angles.
I tell Saul to change tasks, he's confused but with a little discussion, he complies.
"Good," says the voice of Mr. Anderson.
I head into my office, turn on the lights, put down my briefcase and sit down behind my desk.
I'm in no hurry to log in. Maybe somebody will notice.
Mr. Anderson does. "Log in, Mr. Kleeban," says the voice in my hear.
I comply and he hangs up.
Immediately, I notice a small red icon in the lower right corner of my screen. Tech Support is on my computer. Somebody is watching my screen. I'm supposed to not notice and so I look away and try to get the icon out of my head. My head notices the clock: It is 8:45.
No computer, no cell phone, I can't trust any people. What can I do? They'll be done by 10:30 and I'm sure they padded it. I have until 10:15 at the absolute latest.
But I don't know what to do, so I begin my daily routine.
The clock says 9:25 when I'm struck by a solution. Tech Support can't see my second monitor. With a few keystrokes, I quickly send a web browser to that screen. I'll be able to send out a message and they won't be able to see.
I start typing, and then my phone rings again.
"Don't try it again. We aren't stupid."
Indeed.
I close the browser.
How do I save my family?
As if to answer my question, Mr. Anderson states, "Just keep working."
And so I do. And he hangs up.
At 10:05, I decide to let nature call. I get up. Predictably, the phone rings.
"I'm going to the bathroom," I state.
"Fine," says Mr. Anderson, "But understand we're watching you there as well."
I understand.
I need to get a message out, and they can't know or they'll hurt my family. I hope to bumpto somebody and give them a message - but I know it won't work. I see people, but I wonder about every one. Will they report me?
I use the restroom and return to my office. I'm searching desperately for insight. But nothing is there. And so I sit at my desk and stare at the small red icon. The clock is threatening vengeance - 10:15.
I'm out of time.
And then inspiration strikes.
And then inspiration strikes.
I can't risk telling one person because. But if I tell everybody, it will be too much for them to stop. I will know my message will get out and they won't have any more chips to play or any more threats to make. The tables will have turned. I pick up my desk phone and dial the public address system.
My cell phone starts to ring.
I ignore it.
I speak slowly and carefully into the desk phone. "There is a cyber robbery in progress. Call the the Treasury and the FDIC immediately. My family, at 5634 N. Hillside Drive is being held hostage. Call the police and get them there as soon as possible. They should be looking for five men wearing dark blue suits. All are white with light colored hair and blue eyes."
I put down the phone.
And then with a shudder, I pray to God that it works. I pray to God that the thieves decide it's better to run that to commit any more crimes. Crimes against my family. I pray to God that the police can get to my house fast enough.
My cell phone is still ringing.
I hope there is something I can do to convince Mr. Anderson he is better off cutting his losses instead of making a point.
I quickly prepare my arguments, and then I pick up the phone.
I quickly prepare my arguments, and then I pick up the phone.
Mr. Anderson speaks first. "Mr. Kleeban," he says, "I am not Russian. I am actually an investigator working for your Bank. I was tasked with confirming your problem-solving skills prior to our extending you your promotion. Congratulations, you have passed our test."
I sit in stunned silence.
Mr. Anderson continues, "I expect you will take the position - not to do so might result in significant embarrassment. Just as a legal matter, you will note that at no point did we actually threaten you or your family."
I nod, knowing he can see me.
"Good, report to HR when you get a chance."
With that, 'Mr. Anderson' hangs up.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Siren's Call
I set up my tripod carefully. I get behind the video camera and turn it on. The couple is perfectly in frame. I give a thumbs up and the woman smiles in that grandmotherly way that says she's enjoying helping a youngster like me out a bit.
She is helping me out. This is an interview like no other and it was hard even to get introduced to the couple involved.
The husband well, he doesn't seem to be paying attention to me. Whenever I say anything, he appears to just grunt in my general direction. And every time he does it, without fail, his wife's face brightens and she gives him a long and loving look.
I haven't heard him grunt though, and I haven't heard her speak. At least not directly.
Legend has it, correctly, that to hear her speak would result in my death. Thankfully, whatever part of her voice does this doesn't seem to have any effect over the telephone. And so I've got a Bluetooth microphone tucked away beneath my over-sized and double-insulated ear protection. And she, well, she has a speakerphone.
I motion towards the phone, and she picks it up and calls me. I answer and her voice comes through - only slightly delayed, "Can you hear me, young man?"
I nod. And she smiles again.
"Can you hear me?" I ask.
She nods. Her husband grunts. I sense some disguised desire to be friendly. Apparently, so does she. She elbows him gently in the ribs and smiles that adoring smile again.
"Mrs. Snowman?" I asked.
She turns back to me, her voice projecting into my right ear, "Oh, deary, you can just call me Victoria."
"Victoria," I ask, "And how should I refer to Mr. Snowman."
"Oh, you people have such a hard time pronouncing his name, just call him Aybo."
"Okay," I answer.
I flip open my notepad and start with my first question, "Victoria, can you tell me a bit about your life before you met?"
"Sure," she says, with an open smile, "I was living in Thailand. I was making my living there, in the way of my kind. You know, singing to men, drawing them in, and eating them. I know you people tend to be horrified by this - I do read the press. Anyway, I was a pretty lonely Siren, as most Sirens are. We eat the men of your species - so they don't provide much company. And the men of the monstrous species - well, they generally consider us a bit on the desperate side. The singing and coy glances and all that do lend themselves to that impression. Not that there's much we can do about that. Biology is biology. Anywho, that's where I was. Me and a few of my girlfriends just getting by, playing cards to pass the time."
"And you, Aybo?"
Aybo, more commonly known as Abominable Snowman raises his shaggy head. His glowing red eyes are framed by his dirty white mane. He looks right through me and I feel an incredible chill. He opens his mouth, his breath the smell of rotted Yak breath, and then, he grunts.
Victoria smiles up at him. "He doesn't talk much. Kind of the strong and silent type, you know?"
I write in my notebook, trying to get the image of his face out of my mind.
"So, uh, how'd you meet?"
"Oh, that was a strange day," says Victoria, "It was back in '43. I was living in the Thailand. I think I said that already. Anyway, I was living in what I thought was a sunny little seaside village. But one year, it got very cold and snowy. And us Sirens - well, we aren't built for cold and snow. We're actually allergic to clothing. We built a little fire in our cave and tried to stay as warm as could, but we were fading fast. We were in real trouble. But then, when we were on the brink of death, in stepped Aybo here. He rescued me." She pats the matted hair of his arm appreciatively.
"Was it love at first sight?"
"For me, yes. I was smitten. Of course, he had no way of knowing that. I'm a siren, we always act smitten. And my girlfriends were acting exactly the same way. I think, more than anything, he wanted to get out of there. He built us a bigger and better fire. He put up some doors on the cave. And he got us all battened down. And not one of us made any progress on luring him. I did mention we're generally regarded as the desperate types, right?"
I nodded.
"Right," she said, "I was really falling for Aybo though."
Her eyes twinkle in remembrance, "My girlfriends were just acting on instinct. There wasn't any love or desire there. But Aybo couldn't tell the difference. So I pulled out all the stops and just as he was about to leave, I said, 'I'm still cold here.'" - with that the little old siren indicated a key portion of her upper body - "'Can you warm me up?' He grunted and grimaced, but he finally agreed.
"And let me tell you, his hands were freezing. I mean icy cold. I wasn't cold before, but I got cold awful fast. And this sweet teddy bear of a man," she pauses and smiles up at him, "He kept looking down at me and asking, 'Are you sure I'm helping?' And I kept looking up at him and, lying through my chattering teeth, insisting that he was."
"Was that it, instant love all around and you got happily married."
"Oh, lord no," says Victoria, "It didn't really work at all. All it really did is get him to stop working and strike up a little bit of a conversation with me. This Aybo of mine, he was all work and no play. He was doing doing doing, but he wasn't stopping to smell the flowers. I could see he needed some love and some help. Anyway, once I actually got to talk to him, I'm sure he could see that there was more than the standard Siren routine going on. I was more than a body and a sweet voice. And we sort of began to click. And then, just as I thought things were going great, he was gone. Some other monster needed help - or he had a snack to finish - who knows. I was forlorn."
Aybo grunted.
She patted his arm.
"When did you meet again?" I ask.
"It could have taken years," she says, "But I took things into my own hands. I left my girlfriends in sunny Thailand and I moved into a cave in Nepal. Next thing you know, I was in the middle of another snowstorm and I needed rescuing again."
"And Aybo showed up?" I ask.
"Well, no," says Victoria, "His brother did. I could tell they weren't the same. And I pouted and refused his help. He must have been extremely confused - Sirens just don't act that way. But I said he wanted his brother and, seeing I was next to death, he agreed. A few hours later, my Aybo was there. We talked and talked. Well, I talked and he grunted amenably, and we spent a wonderful night together."
"And then you got married and lived happily ever after?"
"Well, you'd expect a little drama. A little spat. Wouldn't you? We are monsters. Well, we had our little drama. Aybo is a bit of the jealous type - and I can't help but, shall we say, put myself forward. I kept on luring monsters and men and he got more and more angry about it. It looked like things would never work out. We fought and he left for a while - he never liked fighting. I got myself stuck on an ice-floe in the Arctic, on a mountaintop in Colorado, in the middle of the Andes, all sorts of places. But his brother always came to rescue me. He never ever came. And I was falling to pieces. I almost wished the snow would take me."
"But you're here now?"
"Yes," says Victoria, "I finally realized how we could both be happy. I sent him a letter explaining: I'd sing 'em in, and then, to satisfy his jealousy, he'd get to kill them. He got it out of his system and I got to keep doing what I've always done. In fact, it was a really successful little operation. People are prepared for a Siren near the sea, but I'd be on a glacier or something unexpected. They wouldn't have any protection. I'd lure in climbers and hikers and anybody who thought about travelling through those parts and Aybo here would finish them off. We were eating well and making a fantastic living selling excess equipment. It was a great partnership and we were truly happy."
"What happened next?"
"Oh, before long, I was expecting and we moved to a bigger cave. Life was really great."
"What did you have?"
"It was a god-awful thing," she says, playfully, "My cute little Johnny. Being as we're monsters, the greatest risk in childbirth is that your offspring will eat you. So our obstetrician recommended a prenatal surgery to put a muzzle on little Johnny. And little Johnny, that cute little guy, bit her arm off from within the womb. That's when we knew he'd be something special. When we was finally born, he had the voice of a Siren, the body of a Siren, and the hair and smell of Aybo here. We didn't think he'd ever get married. But he did, eventually. I guess there are all types."
"Do you have any grandchildren?"
She gave me her best grandmotherly smile, and said, "Of course!"
She reached into her purse, pulled out a photo wallet and was just about to show me the pictures when she thought better of it. With a disappointed look, she put the photos back and then said, in a slightly depressed voice, says, "I'd show you, but you might not survive."
I closed my eyes and counted to five.
Then, I turned to Aybo and asked, "Is there anything you'd like to add."
He looked straight at me and I resisted shivering. And then he grunted.
Victoria smiled warmly and translated, "He says 'We've lived happily ever after.'"
They both gave me their best smiles.
And with that, I closed my notebook, packed up my gear and headed home.
She is helping me out. This is an interview like no other and it was hard even to get introduced to the couple involved.
The husband well, he doesn't seem to be paying attention to me. Whenever I say anything, he appears to just grunt in my general direction. And every time he does it, without fail, his wife's face brightens and she gives him a long and loving look.
I haven't heard him grunt though, and I haven't heard her speak. At least not directly.
Legend has it, correctly, that to hear her speak would result in my death. Thankfully, whatever part of her voice does this doesn't seem to have any effect over the telephone. And so I've got a Bluetooth microphone tucked away beneath my over-sized and double-insulated ear protection. And she, well, she has a speakerphone.
I motion towards the phone, and she picks it up and calls me. I answer and her voice comes through - only slightly delayed, "Can you hear me, young man?"
I nod. And she smiles again.
"Can you hear me?" I ask.
She nods. Her husband grunts. I sense some disguised desire to be friendly. Apparently, so does she. She elbows him gently in the ribs and smiles that adoring smile again.
"Mrs. Snowman?" I asked.
She turns back to me, her voice projecting into my right ear, "Oh, deary, you can just call me Victoria."
"Victoria," I ask, "And how should I refer to Mr. Snowman."
"Oh, you people have such a hard time pronouncing his name, just call him Aybo."
"Okay," I answer.
I flip open my notepad and start with my first question, "Victoria, can you tell me a bit about your life before you met?"
"Sure," she says, with an open smile, "I was living in Thailand. I was making my living there, in the way of my kind. You know, singing to men, drawing them in, and eating them. I know you people tend to be horrified by this - I do read the press. Anyway, I was a pretty lonely Siren, as most Sirens are. We eat the men of your species - so they don't provide much company. And the men of the monstrous species - well, they generally consider us a bit on the desperate side. The singing and coy glances and all that do lend themselves to that impression. Not that there's much we can do about that. Biology is biology. Anywho, that's where I was. Me and a few of my girlfriends just getting by, playing cards to pass the time."
"And you, Aybo?"
Aybo, more commonly known as Abominable Snowman raises his shaggy head. His glowing red eyes are framed by his dirty white mane. He looks right through me and I feel an incredible chill. He opens his mouth, his breath the smell of rotted Yak breath, and then, he grunts.
Victoria smiles up at him. "He doesn't talk much. Kind of the strong and silent type, you know?"
I write in my notebook, trying to get the image of his face out of my mind.
"So, uh, how'd you meet?"
"Oh, that was a strange day," says Victoria, "It was back in '43. I was living in the Thailand. I think I said that already. Anyway, I was living in what I thought was a sunny little seaside village. But one year, it got very cold and snowy. And us Sirens - well, we aren't built for cold and snow. We're actually allergic to clothing. We built a little fire in our cave and tried to stay as warm as could, but we were fading fast. We were in real trouble. But then, when we were on the brink of death, in stepped Aybo here. He rescued me." She pats the matted hair of his arm appreciatively.
"Was it love at first sight?"
"For me, yes. I was smitten. Of course, he had no way of knowing that. I'm a siren, we always act smitten. And my girlfriends were acting exactly the same way. I think, more than anything, he wanted to get out of there. He built us a bigger and better fire. He put up some doors on the cave. And he got us all battened down. And not one of us made any progress on luring him. I did mention we're generally regarded as the desperate types, right?"
I nodded.
"Right," she said, "I was really falling for Aybo though."
Her eyes twinkle in remembrance, "My girlfriends were just acting on instinct. There wasn't any love or desire there. But Aybo couldn't tell the difference. So I pulled out all the stops and just as he was about to leave, I said, 'I'm still cold here.'" - with that the little old siren indicated a key portion of her upper body - "'Can you warm me up?' He grunted and grimaced, but he finally agreed.
"And let me tell you, his hands were freezing. I mean icy cold. I wasn't cold before, but I got cold awful fast. And this sweet teddy bear of a man," she pauses and smiles up at him, "He kept looking down at me and asking, 'Are you sure I'm helping?' And I kept looking up at him and, lying through my chattering teeth, insisting that he was."
"Was that it, instant love all around and you got happily married."
"Oh, lord no," says Victoria, "It didn't really work at all. All it really did is get him to stop working and strike up a little bit of a conversation with me. This Aybo of mine, he was all work and no play. He was doing doing doing, but he wasn't stopping to smell the flowers. I could see he needed some love and some help. Anyway, once I actually got to talk to him, I'm sure he could see that there was more than the standard Siren routine going on. I was more than a body and a sweet voice. And we sort of began to click. And then, just as I thought things were going great, he was gone. Some other monster needed help - or he had a snack to finish - who knows. I was forlorn."
Aybo grunted.
She patted his arm.
"When did you meet again?" I ask.
"It could have taken years," she says, "But I took things into my own hands. I left my girlfriends in sunny Thailand and I moved into a cave in Nepal. Next thing you know, I was in the middle of another snowstorm and I needed rescuing again."
"And Aybo showed up?" I ask.
"Well, no," says Victoria, "His brother did. I could tell they weren't the same. And I pouted and refused his help. He must have been extremely confused - Sirens just don't act that way. But I said he wanted his brother and, seeing I was next to death, he agreed. A few hours later, my Aybo was there. We talked and talked. Well, I talked and he grunted amenably, and we spent a wonderful night together."
"And then you got married and lived happily ever after?"
"Well, you'd expect a little drama. A little spat. Wouldn't you? We are monsters. Well, we had our little drama. Aybo is a bit of the jealous type - and I can't help but, shall we say, put myself forward. I kept on luring monsters and men and he got more and more angry about it. It looked like things would never work out. We fought and he left for a while - he never liked fighting. I got myself stuck on an ice-floe in the Arctic, on a mountaintop in Colorado, in the middle of the Andes, all sorts of places. But his brother always came to rescue me. He never ever came. And I was falling to pieces. I almost wished the snow would take me."
"But you're here now?"
"Yes," says Victoria, "I finally realized how we could both be happy. I sent him a letter explaining: I'd sing 'em in, and then, to satisfy his jealousy, he'd get to kill them. He got it out of his system and I got to keep doing what I've always done. In fact, it was a really successful little operation. People are prepared for a Siren near the sea, but I'd be on a glacier or something unexpected. They wouldn't have any protection. I'd lure in climbers and hikers and anybody who thought about travelling through those parts and Aybo here would finish them off. We were eating well and making a fantastic living selling excess equipment. It was a great partnership and we were truly happy."
"What happened next?"
"Oh, before long, I was expecting and we moved to a bigger cave. Life was really great."
"What did you have?"
"It was a god-awful thing," she says, playfully, "My cute little Johnny. Being as we're monsters, the greatest risk in childbirth is that your offspring will eat you. So our obstetrician recommended a prenatal surgery to put a muzzle on little Johnny. And little Johnny, that cute little guy, bit her arm off from within the womb. That's when we knew he'd be something special. When we was finally born, he had the voice of a Siren, the body of a Siren, and the hair and smell of Aybo here. We didn't think he'd ever get married. But he did, eventually. I guess there are all types."
"Do you have any grandchildren?"
She gave me her best grandmotherly smile, and said, "Of course!"
She reached into her purse, pulled out a photo wallet and was just about to show me the pictures when she thought better of it. With a disappointed look, she put the photos back and then said, in a slightly depressed voice, says, "I'd show you, but you might not survive."
I closed my eyes and counted to five.
Then, I turned to Aybo and asked, "Is there anything you'd like to add."
He looked straight at me and I resisted shivering. And then he grunted.
Victoria smiled warmly and translated, "He says 'We've lived happily ever after.'"
They both gave me their best smiles.
And with that, I closed my notebook, packed up my gear and headed home.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Jason Webster
Under his breath, Jason Webster recites the Shahadah to himself, again and again, "There is no God but Allah and Mohammed is his prophet."
He is approaching the security check point, and he is praying that he can clear it.
He doesn't need to worry.
Just before entering the airport, Jason Webster had swallowed two latex balloons. Like a drug mule, he was transporting what he needed to hide inside of his body.
Customs might have caught him, airport security doesn't have a chance.
He places his shoes and laptop bag on the conveyor. He empties his pockets of any metal. And he walks through the detector. No beeps. No attention.
Even if there were profiling, Jason would be missed. Jason Webster is white. He is wealthy. And he's covered all of his bases. His round-trip ticket has been purchased with a credit card. He has a student visa. He never handled the contents of his latex balloons. His legal name raises no questions whatsoever.
He picks up his bags and walks towards his gate.
His stomach is beginning to hurt, but he puts it out of his mind and casually continues his passage.
"There is no God but Allah and Mohammed is his prophet." He whispers it under his breath.
Jason Webster is a student. He has received a Bachelor's Degree in Fine Arts - searching for meaning in beauty. He was a good student, but he was disappointed in his search. And so he searched elsewhere. He attended the dry churches of his native London - nothing. He experimented with drugs. He tried sex. But still there was nothing.
And then he found Islam. It started with a local mosque, and there was a taste of what he wanted. There was a taste of greatness in service to Allah. But it wasn't enough. He wanted total service, without question marks, doubts or room for dissent. Without moderation. And so, before long, he had broken with the congregation and had fallen into a smaller group - a more radical group. They met at a home, and they plotted death. And Jason discovered a way for his life to have meaning.
It started with swallowing two latex balloons.
Boarding comes and Jason breezes through. His papers are in perfect order.
His stomach is bothering him more now. He tries hard not to visibly wince - and he succeeds. He knows what is going on, the balloons are too large to digest. He is prepared for an uncomfortable trip.
The plane pulls back from the gate and with a roar of its engines, it takes to the skies.
Jason closes his eyes and silently recites the Shahadah again and again in his head. He is wearing a headset. He hopes his seat mate will think he is singing a song.
The beverage cart comes and he asks for water.
He checks his watch. It is 12:35pm.
5 more minutes.
He surprises himself. He is totally calm. He knows what he was doing and why. He hates his old world. He hates the weakness. He hates the emptiness. He hates the vanity and the promiscuity and the self-serving ways. He hates the blasphemy.
In the past months, he has learned so much, and he has so much to teach.
And he will teach. He will drive others to meaning.
It is what his service demands.
He opens a small medicine bottle and pulls out 5 capsules of fish oil. He recites, quietly, "Allahu Akbar" and he swallows the pills.
It is done.
He debates telling the pilot what he has done. But the orders are strict. Nobody is to know.
And so he waits.
Inside his stomach, the capsules break down and the oil is released.
In turn, the latex balloons begin to dissolve.
They are two parts of a binary explosive.
Jason Webster closes his eyes.
The explosives mix.
And the airliner splits apart in the sky.
----
In Washington DC, a TV newscaster is handed a piece of paper. He reads it and nods his head in disbelief. He looks at the off-camera man who handed it to him. Something is said and the newscaster grows pale.
And then, with a studied voice, he announces, "This just in. Seventeen, repeat, seventeen intercontinental airliners from Europe, Asia and North America have disappeared from radar without any indication of their fate. We will provide you more information as soon as soon as it breaks."
----
Walls alone can never make us safe.
----
* The above process of radicalization is loosely guided by the 2007 NYPD Report Radicalization in the West: The Homegrown Threat
* The bomb described will not function. I do, however, invite any would-be terrorists to try it out.
He is approaching the security check point, and he is praying that he can clear it.
He doesn't need to worry.
Just before entering the airport, Jason Webster had swallowed two latex balloons. Like a drug mule, he was transporting what he needed to hide inside of his body.
Customs might have caught him, airport security doesn't have a chance.
He places his shoes and laptop bag on the conveyor. He empties his pockets of any metal. And he walks through the detector. No beeps. No attention.
Even if there were profiling, Jason would be missed. Jason Webster is white. He is wealthy. And he's covered all of his bases. His round-trip ticket has been purchased with a credit card. He has a student visa. He never handled the contents of his latex balloons. His legal name raises no questions whatsoever.
He picks up his bags and walks towards his gate.
His stomach is beginning to hurt, but he puts it out of his mind and casually continues his passage.
"There is no God but Allah and Mohammed is his prophet." He whispers it under his breath.
Jason Webster is a student. He has received a Bachelor's Degree in Fine Arts - searching for meaning in beauty. He was a good student, but he was disappointed in his search. And so he searched elsewhere. He attended the dry churches of his native London - nothing. He experimented with drugs. He tried sex. But still there was nothing.
And then he found Islam. It started with a local mosque, and there was a taste of what he wanted. There was a taste of greatness in service to Allah. But it wasn't enough. He wanted total service, without question marks, doubts or room for dissent. Without moderation. And so, before long, he had broken with the congregation and had fallen into a smaller group - a more radical group. They met at a home, and they plotted death. And Jason discovered a way for his life to have meaning.
It started with swallowing two latex balloons.
Boarding comes and Jason breezes through. His papers are in perfect order.
His stomach is bothering him more now. He tries hard not to visibly wince - and he succeeds. He knows what is going on, the balloons are too large to digest. He is prepared for an uncomfortable trip.
The plane pulls back from the gate and with a roar of its engines, it takes to the skies.
Jason closes his eyes and silently recites the Shahadah again and again in his head. He is wearing a headset. He hopes his seat mate will think he is singing a song.
The beverage cart comes and he asks for water.
He checks his watch. It is 12:35pm.
5 more minutes.
He surprises himself. He is totally calm. He knows what he was doing and why. He hates his old world. He hates the weakness. He hates the emptiness. He hates the vanity and the promiscuity and the self-serving ways. He hates the blasphemy.
In the past months, he has learned so much, and he has so much to teach.
And he will teach. He will drive others to meaning.
It is what his service demands.
He opens a small medicine bottle and pulls out 5 capsules of fish oil. He recites, quietly, "Allahu Akbar" and he swallows the pills.
It is done.
He debates telling the pilot what he has done. But the orders are strict. Nobody is to know.
And so he waits.
Inside his stomach, the capsules break down and the oil is released.
In turn, the latex balloons begin to dissolve.
They are two parts of a binary explosive.
Jason Webster closes his eyes.
The explosives mix.
And the airliner splits apart in the sky.
----
In Washington DC, a TV newscaster is handed a piece of paper. He reads it and nods his head in disbelief. He looks at the off-camera man who handed it to him. Something is said and the newscaster grows pale.
And then, with a studied voice, he announces, "This just in. Seventeen, repeat, seventeen intercontinental airliners from Europe, Asia and North America have disappeared from radar without any indication of their fate. We will provide you more information as soon as soon as it breaks."
----
Walls alone can never make us safe.
----
* The above process of radicalization is loosely guided by the 2007 NYPD Report Radicalization in the West: The Homegrown Threat
* The bomb described will not function. I do, however, invite any would-be terrorists to try it out.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Betrayal
The smell is what I love the most. The smell of wet fir and pine and cedar. They assault my nostrils and I draw them in. They remind me of simpler days, of childhood days playing in this self-same forest.
I inhale deeply and keep running.
I love this land.
The land, however, seems to be, at best, ambivalent.
The brush is tearing at my soaked clothes, the chill of the air is beginning to pierce what is left. The rain is coming down in sheets, obscuring my vision. They are conspiring against me.
I run harder.
Perhaps, somehow, I will outrun my pursuers. But I am not hopeful. They are on horseback and I am leaving a trail as clear as a red carpet. And they are not fools.
I run past a tree, and then step behind it. I need to catch a moment's breath - and I need to listen for my enemies.
I hear nothing.
Then, with frightening stealth, an arrow strikes the tree, just above my head.
How can they be ahead of me?
I look up, but I see nothing. The forest is empty.
Cowards.
I step away from the tree and pull my sword from its scabbard.
They will kill me, I know. But at least I will choose how I die.
My body will not fall hiding behind some tree.
Whoever shot at me is slow with a crossbow. So death does not come immediately.
Instead, I hear the horses coming. Moments later, with fogging snorts, they draw up in front of me. Lord Phillip and two of his soldiers.
Phillip nods his head in mock courtesy, "My Lord," he pronounces.
I nod in return.
Only the day before, the man was my most loyal vassal. The Kingdom had rested on him. And I had rested on him - enjoying the privileges of royalty, occasionally wielding its power, but rarely watching the politics of court. They had never interested me.
A fatal error.
I heard a rumor - Phillip was raising an army to dispose of me. But I knew it was too late. The man would have spies everywhere. I had abrogated to him without even knowing I had done so.
So I changed my garments, to commoners clothes. And I fled.
I was King. I could build my own support. I could raise my own army. Or at least I hoped so.
I got as far as the gate of the city. As I ran towards it, I saw a group of horsemen approaching: Lord Phillip had arrived.
I felt naked as he rode through the gateway. Common clothes were suddenly no disguise. I could have bowed my head, but my pride held me back. I was King, not he. So, instead, I tried my best to stealthily slip my way through the crowd - and to the gates of freedom.
I was almost there when Phillip saw me.
They could have killed me then and there. But I was King. To commit regicide in the public square would have undermined Phillip himself. He could arrest me. He could charge me with treason. And then, in time, he could hang me. But he could not execute me.
I was not going to die in the noose, and so I ran. And Phillip gave chase.
I ran for the forest and disappeared into the brush moments later.
It felt like a lifetime ago - but it had only been a few minutes.
Hours before, I'd been King. Now, everything had changed. Everything, even the Land, seemed to be conspiring against me.
I had been a weak King. But I was not going to be a weak man.
"On your knees," I command, solidly.
Phillip laughed. He seems pleased with his position.
"My Lord," he says, "You want to die a King. But you are no longer a King. And for my part, I harbor no desire to kill you."
I hold my ground.
"Think about it," he states, "I could dress up in the Articles of State; I could don the crown, the royal garments and the scepter. But I would never be legitimate. Such heights are beyond a man like me."
"So why betray me?" I ask.
"My Lord," says Phillip, "I might not desire Kingship, but I do seek power. And I do seek wealth. An so I just want to modify our old relationship. You will be King, and I will be your vassal - de jure. But de facto, I will rule. I will collect the tax, I will command the Lords of the Kingdom, and I will provide you with a bodyguard to keep you and your family safe."
In other words, I was to live as his hostage, under the watchful eyes of his servants.
"I am King," I state.
"Of course," says Phillip his cheerful demeanor unaltered, "You may still be King. The terminology will just be altered some. You wouldn't be the first King to serve in title alone."
"I am King," I repeat, "And this is my Land and my People. I will not betray them with falsehood."
Phillip leans forward in his saddle, and his cheerful expression disappears. His eyes turn threatening..
"Betray them?" He asks, "Your weakness has already betrayed them. If you will not be King - my King - then I will rule without you. But there will be uprisings. There will be battles. There will be wars. And your beloved People will be slaughtered by your pig-headed stubbornness."
"I am King," I repeat.
And so Phillip draws his sword.
"If it is your will, then that is how you shall die."
He spurs his horse forward and raises his weapon. I resist the urge to cower or cringe in anticipation. I extend my blade in defense.
With a deft stroke, he disarms me. He raises his blade for a final sweep. I hold my ground.
And then he stumbles back, a silent arrow suddenly protruding from his chest.
Phillip falls from his horse, gasping for air.
Moments later, a look of fear and confusion in his eyes, he is dead.
His soldiers, confused, frightened, and suddenly without a commander, stay as they were.
I order them to dismount and disarm. And they do. I pull their weapons from them.
And then I turn to the forest.
It still appears empty.
"Reveal yourself!" I command.
There is a rustle amongst the brush and then a serf rises from the forest floor. A crossbow is in his hand. I could not imagine how he had laid hands on such a weapon, but I push the question out of my mind, and ask another.
"Why?" I ask.
He drops to one knee, bows his head, and then solemnly pronounces, "You are King."
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