1. Egalitarian Deceit: 8-11
by ************

8: 'Hard "G": my name is Gen'

'Humans controlled through their perception;'
'We see, we judge; we make decision.'

'But introduce an altered state...'
'like love or hate or fear or bait;'
'Distract, Distort, use Misdirection,'
'And warp, finessed, becomes illusion.'

'"Dance my puppet, I'll weave your dreams,"'
'"You'll trust my play is what it seems."


"A stack of cash?" wonders Gen. "It's gotta be a scam, or counterfeit; nothing is free." Gen was hardened against life, but mostly people. "Everyone is a mark, it is all a scam," she thinks. But here, in a junk-filled alley, under a busted, rusted old radiator leaning against a brick building, it is there; a thick stack of cash. "I'd bet it is a drop, or payout, or maybe a trap. Curiosity is not worth the risk." She ignores the cash, pretending she didn't see it. She enjoys creating her own opportunities, and loves chance opportunity, but anything that is too easy is a trap. Continuing out to the street, she observes it is noon and time for lunch.

As she heads towards a sandwich shop near the University, several blocks from the alley-cash, a familiar four-door sedan rolls up to the sidewalk. Getting out of the driver's seat, a middle-aged, 'investor,' of $80,000 into Gen's, 'company,' frantically walks up to her.

"Any word? Will they recover and turn the company around?" asks this sweaty, nervous, fat, 'investor,' named Karl. Gen knows his name, but preferred to think of him as all the others: YAMs.. yet another mark.

Gen turns to speak to her steamed YAM, "I just tried to go to work and found the business is closed. I can't even get a hold of any of them. They have $150,000 of my own money with them, and I can't find them!" replied Gen convincingly. "I'm a victim here, too!"

"I needed that money! You guaranteed me that I would triple my money back! I.. I... I'm going to go to the cops! Maybe they can find out where my money went" Karl threatens.

"I think about going to the police too, but I don't want to do any time for insider trading. Every time I think about going to the cops, I keep thinking about prison beatings, and guards harassing me, and who knows what kind of unspeakable sexual violations might exist in prison behind those steel bars when lights go out. And what about my family? What would my family do without me to protect them, earning money to keep a roof over their head, and bellies full? No sir! You can go to the police on your own, but know that I won't testify for you, and will not be your witness," warns Gen.

Righteously duplicitous is Gen's mantra. Gen has no family to support. She knows there is no insider trading. She knows there is no embezzlement. Two things are true: this is her game, and every mark deserves to lose what they have no mind to keep safe. And now? Now she is the smoother; dissuading a mark from contacting law enforcement. She knows emotional people are not receptive to rational talk to sooth their state, but greater fear can counter lesser fear and defer thoughts of revenge. However, fear is a primal emotional and can lead to unpredictable and less than civilized behavior.

Karl's face turns red, as fear and anger coalesce to change his body language. He feels himself being squeezed on all fronts. Passionate about his loss, losing control of his emotions, he swings hard his balled-up fist into Gen's unprepared abdomen. His fist hits just below her sternum tip, pushing into her chest cavity, lifting up her diaphragm, expelling most of the air from her lungs. Gasping for another breath, Gen falls to her knees, stopping her face from hitting concrete by stretching her hands forward to catch the advancing ground. Still angry, the investor tries to kick Gen, only to connect his shin with her side, causing a rib to evoke an unhealthy, "crunch." Gen instinctively curves her torso in the direction of this kick, and positions one arm to protect her side from another eminent attack as this investor draws back his foot in preparation for more effective strike.

Some people feel a sensation of, "time slowing down," when their life is being threatened. Perhaps this is a side-effect of a brain being pushed by survival to think faster and focus mostly on the, 'here, and now.' Sensory inputs are given the highest priority, as the brain samples data faster than usual. The non-rational brain begins to make some decisions beyond any understanding or comprehension of the mind-- bypassing rational thoughts and decisions. The mind becomes a spectator, as the brain makes decisions based on animalistic and protective instinct. Gen is in this place. Her mind is a captive audience as it passively observes: Gen's world has slowed to a crawl. Her animal brain quickly addresses option and makes decisions :

"Adrenaline. Stop damage. Need air. Fight or run? Lungs empty; run fail. Fight!"

Rolling away from her attacker, Gen avoids a second attack. Karl's foot kicks only air, putting him off-balance, causing him to stumble backwards. Gen's extremities begin to feel warmer, her heart pounds faster, she rolls to an uneasy standing position, still gasping for air. Stumbling a few steps further away, she coughs a tiny pocket of air from her lungs for an in-rush of air. Too fast. She coughs some more. Breathing is shallow. She stumbles more but remains standing, inhales more deeply. Karl has recovered, and is ready to punish this *girl* for losing *his* money. Gen leans forward, her knees bend, legs crouch, tense, and extend as she rushes toward this angry, fat ball of disgusting sweat and suit. With force and resolve to push through his folds of flesh, she punches one fist up and into his groin causing him to retch and cough, sending his dental bridgework flying from his mouth to the sidewalk. With her other hand, she grabs behind his knee and yanks hard. The investor falling backwards stumbles several steps back, eventually slamming his back onto the front-right fender of his car. Gen stands up, jumping towards the felled investor, as her mind struggles to assert control and no longer be a spectator to instinctive action. The investor waives his hands in defense as he slumps to he knees, the anger in his face replaced with fear, as Gen's claw-poised thumb and index fingers are stiff and dart towards the investor's face. Ready to blind this YAM, Gen's instincts are questioned by her rational mind, wrestling for control for her body. Struggling to regain composure, adrenaline retards her ability to think clearly. Disorganized thoughts dull her otherwise sharpened language skills and mastery. Anger at herself for not seeing this, 'investor,' move so quickly to violence, and frustration at how little her normally persuasive smoothing put this investor at ease, both are ripe for being tapped. She will harness all of these. What would be physical becomes verbal.

"F*ck you, you bastard!" yells Gen at the investor. "I lost more money than you, and you take this out on me?" Gen backs away , putting several feet between her and the investor.

"Y-y-y-You... you thaid it was a thure-thing!" lisps the investor in weak, raspy, mumbled monotone as he moves his hands to cradle his groin and bows his head down to the curb in front of him. "It is your faulth!" he hisses. Karl tilts his head up as he vomits on the sidewalk, and the smell of booze pays witness to his liquid lunch.

Fully composed, Gen scolds Karl, "there is always risk with investment, you a**hole! I've been nothing but a professional with you. I came to *YOU* to tell you when things went cattywampus-inside-out, and this is how you repay me? Well, F*ck you and your crazy self! I can't have investors with VC money for these great opportunities when they are as violent as you. You are off my sheet. Don't call me, as I won't be calling you, you crazy bastard!" Gen pulls out an address book, turns to an empty page, rips it out, tears it up into smaller pieces, and tosses it into a nearby trashcan. "You are out! No more for you!"

"Waith! Pleathe! I need some way to earn back my money! Pleathe! I want to be part of the nexthed business!" pleads the investor as he crawls on the ground looking for his dental work.

Gen walks away, rubbing her side and abdomen. She thinks, "lunch will have to wait; I need to see a doc." Nearly one block away from Karl, and 3 from the alley-cash, she turns to see her YAM's car completing a U-turn, speeding away.

Spotting a rare thing to find in this modern era of cell phones, Gen finds a pay-phone. Gen formulates a new plan. Pulling out her cell phone, not a paper address book, she finds Karl's number, pulls out a pocket-full of coins, drops them into the pay-phone and calls his cell phone. While waiting, Gen thinks "who even uses paper address books anymore? Eh. Ripping paper is still dramatically effective. Thanks Grandpa Jack." Disguising her voice to sound exactly like the secretary from Alabama she played while working phones at the same, "business," she convinced this investor into donating their money, she is ready for conversation.

Frustrated, Karl yells into his phone, "WHAT!?"

"Hello? I found some of the money that our CFO embezzled from the company, and want to give it back to investors, but I don't want to be caught. If he finds out I am doing this, he'll kill me!" says Gen with a voice of the secretary role she played as part of this con. This calm, sweet Alabama accent sounds innocent to this investor. This voice and news quench his anger as he begins to feel hope.

"You got my money?" asks the investor. These emotional swings of worry, fear, anger, fear, and now hope could cause this investor to feel empathy for women in menopause, but his greed denies such considerations from forming. It is his greed that was exploited to cause him to part with his cash. More than hope, it is his greed that calms him to listen.

"I dropped some money in an alley, next to an old radiator resting up against a brick building in an alley." She continues to describe the exact location where Gen saw the stack of cash.

"Well, it is about time! I was wondering when you jerks would get me my money back!" replies the investor. He hangs up the phone without a farewell. Gen can now hear the sound of tires screeching several blocks away, as the investor turns his car around once more, and drives back towards the alley.

Gen smiles as she thinks to herself, "if it is a trap, it bites him. If it is legit, he'll invest in the next scam. He's my little fat sweaty, suited canary in the mine shaft; either way, I win."

Gen, beginning to feel the pain of what is almost certainly a broken or cracked rib, crosses the street and begins to carefully and smoothly walk back towards the alley. Now every breath is uncomfortable, and the pain is beginning to get worse. Now less than two blocks away, she can see the investor's car drive into the alley. She can see him jump out of the car, and scramble towards the radiator, knocking over junk until he reaches down to pick up the cash. Back and side-doors of a nearby utility van, and the back door of freight trucks parked on either side of the alley entrance suddenly open, exposing police officers in dark black gear storming out towards the investor.

"POLICE! STOP WHERE YOU ARE! KEEP YOUR HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!" yells one of the officers using the amplified sound of external speakers of the van. Officers continue yelling at Karl with command and authority as they swarm to cuff and arrest him.

"Hah! *ow*." Gen laughs, and immediately groans as she grabs her side, and holds her side. She raises her other forearm and open hand out to an approaching car, "Taxi!" The car stops, she carefully steps inside, and says, "to the hospital." She continues to chuckle with pain and grab her side, as she rides away in the taxi.


9: Patient Being Impatient

'The Bears, The Bulls: they go to Market.'
'The Pigs to slaughter. The Sheep to fleece.'

'Hidden prices: Health care market'
'HMO and PPO: Biggest piece.'


At a hospital, Gen reviews IDs to find "Kim." Gen knows medical insurance billing is a con and one she wants to run; what other service industry provides no prices for work to be done? People don't ask, "how much will this cost," and seldom ask for a second opinion like they would for their car. Meanwhile, doctors submit insurance claims into a system as convoluted as the scammiest rebate services, which decline payment for any reason, real or imagined, and delay responses to make attempts at re-submission late. Gen *really* would like a piece of this action some day.

...

"Can I help you, miss?" asks the hospital employee behind the glass, as she stares at a computer screen, occasionally typing a few keys. Gen can see they are playing Sudoku.

"I am Kim, here to see Doctor Chang. I have an appointment."

"Yes Kim, you can go through that door to room 976." The door handle buzzes, Gen pushes down the lever, and walks through, but the hospital employee never stops staring at the screen.

...

"Hello Kim. I have the X-rays and am ready to show you the damage," said Doctor Chang. Doctor Chang is not Asian, as her name might imply. She claims her name was the name of her ex-husband, but she has never been married. Pointing to the X-ray images of Gen's ribs, Doctor Chang continues, "how did this damage occur?"

Gen looks at Doctor Chang and says, "cut the crap. It is not domestic abuse. You know my work is rough, and I get results. I managed to get you a new identity and even as a doctor, when those, 'unfortunate events,' happened to you at your old practice. Just do your job, tell me what is wrong, how you'll fix it and get me back to work."

"It is just that this is the fifth time you've been here in 1 year, and I am concerned."

"Really? Will you really go to the police to notify them of, 'domestic abuse,' given that you process billing for a 45 year old woman, which I am clearly not? Each of us keeping the other's secrets keeps us free, and you make some money from insurance claims."

Leaning back in in defeat, Doctor Chang slowly nods his head. "Right. In simple terms one of your ribs is cracked, and this has become disconnected here and here. You are looking at 8 weeks for recovery and no strenuous activities."

"Too long."

"If you helped me make surgery appear necessary, we could use dissolving bands to cut this to 3 weeks, but you would need to avoid strenuous activities. We would need you to take another X-ray, but from *this* angle. I am worried about this, 'growth' we will find." Doctor Chang pauses, waiting for disagreement, then smirks, lifts up Gen's shirt and attaches an irregular adhesive dot to her side, rubs it, then removes it. "Now you are ready for an X-ray."

...

Doctor Chang looks over the new X-ray with his patient, Kim. "Just as I thought, see this discoloration on the X-ray? It is too bad we only took one X-ray." Doctor Chang places the previous X-rays into a medical waste bag. "We really should schedule you for exploratory surgery, and while we are there, apply these dissolving bands. We will make tiny incisions at these locations insert a camera and explore . More incisions will be placed here and here to insert and tighten the dissolving bands. The tightening of the bands requires painful pressure, so we would prefer to use general anesthetic. If you have no questions, we can proceed to prep and surgery within two hours."

"No questions about the operation," answers Gen, "But I need to mail this package. Where is the nearest mail-drop?" Gen knew risks in hospitals are like those of motels; a small percent of staff will steal your stuff. Gen would rather trust the post office and her own P.O. box to hold her wallet and valuables and it is easy to mail things to herself.

...

"Count backwards with me starting with ten, Kim," started the anesthesiologist. "Ten. Nine. Eight," and Gen was unconscious, and dreaming, remembering when she decided to run away from home.

Looking out the window, Jen spots Tom across the street, rummaging through a garbage container in front of Jyl's old house. Maybe Tom will join her? Jen walks out to Tom with her torso slouched forward, and arms crossed, covering part of her abdomen. She quietly crouches down in front of a car, unfolding her arms to wrap them around her knees. Jen looks at the ground behind where Tom is standing, as he continues to pull papers out of the garbage.

"Hey Tom," Jen says quietly.

"I don't have any, 'lunch money,' so you'll have to go pick on someone else," scolded Tom as he looks over papers he has found.

"I'm sorry about that, and *I* didn't take your lunch money," says Jen with defiance, slightly louder than before. "It was the other girls that beat you up and took your lunch money."

"Yeah, but you were with them, and did nothing to stop them, and after that, you stayed with them," said Tom with disappointment. He continues to review papers.

"She is in the hospital," said Jen. "On the way back from that vacation, there was some sort of car wreck. Her dad and brother died, then later her mom killed herself. Some lady has been cleaning up the house to make it ready for sale." Jen points to the, "For Sale," sign planted in the lawn. Tom sees this out of the corner of his eye, and looks at it. "Why can't we go back to the way they were? All three of us had so much fun. I even stopped hanging-out with those other girls a week after you moved away."

Tom looks directly at Jen, and can see she has been crying. He takes his papers with him and sits next to her as he looks through them. "What does Jyl have to do with the Navy? What is this here about getting care at the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center? Some of these records are marked, 'Classified: Confidential,' but are here in a trash can? What does this mean? And look at this," demands Tom as he reads from one of the medical papers, "'use extra-cellular matrix as scaffold for nerve cells and axons and stimulated growth with...' whatever that is, it is a long word. And why did her mom fill out an organ donor card and paperwork only one day before she died?"

"I'm going to run away from home," started Jen, "and I want you to come with me."

"What does all of this mean?" asked Tom, holding up the papers.

"Did you hear what I said?" asked Jen.

"Yeah," replied Tom.

"It would be easier if we could watch each others backs out there."

"I don't want to run away; I like my new school. Sure mom and dad tell me to do chores, but they also dropped me off here to visit Jyl while they were back in town. Now I see why she never answered the phone, and nobody is in her home. As for running away, I couldn't afford rent, and who's gonna employ people our age? How would we pay for rent, food, and everything else?" asks Tom. "Your life sucks because you made it suck. I remember you got arrested for shoplifting, and vandalism at school. And what happened to those other girls you were with? Nothing."

"But I didn't steal anything, and I didn't vandalize anything. Those girls put things in my backpack before we left that store, and that spray-paint in my locker just before they started searching lockers," contested Jen.

"The truth does not matter; the only thing that matters is perception," answers Tom. He was now looking directly at Jen as he shoves the papers from the garbage into his backpack. "You hang with the bad girls, you look like a bad girl. Do these girls lie? Then you lie too. Who's fault is that? Who will ever believe you when they think you also lie?"

"But my Aunt. She..." Jen stopped. Tightened her grip around her legs to make herself as small as possible, then she sobbed, "I told my parents, but they didn't believe me, either ." Jen was now crying, and she covered her face with her hands.

Tom reached out to touch Jen's shoulder, and that touch caused Jen to jump to her feet. Her sadness was torn from her face, exposing only fear and worry. "Don't touch me!" she pleaded. Tom pulled away, stumbled on the curb and fell back into some bushes.

Jen manages a small smile at Tom's misfortune, but reality quickly steals that glimmering moment of happiness as quickly as it arrived.

Tom extricates himself from the bushes, grabs his backpack and stands up to look at Jen. Jen looks back at Tom and again says, "I'm going to run away from home with or without you. If we ever meet again, call me Gen, 'G', 'e', 'n'." She folds her arms to cover part of her abdomen and walks back home.

"Why a hard, 'G' in Gen?" asked Tom. "Where will you go? What are you going to do?"

Gen ignores these questions and walks back to her house to pack a few things before starting a new life.

Gen is startled awake.

"Hello Kim. I see you are awake," observes Doctor Chang.

Groggy, but conscious, Gen tries to cough only to be reminded of the pain of injury, and stitches. "Did it work?" Gen asks.

"It turns out the thing I saw on the X-ray was not really there," says Doctor Chang slyly. "The bands should dissolve in a few weeks. We need you here for 24 hours for observation after being under and then you should be able to go home." She hands Gen some pills and a glass of water. "Take these; it is a sedative." Gen takes the pills, and swallows them with the water. "While you were out, a police detective was at the hospital looking for patients with injuries to their chest." Gen was worried, but controlled her reaction. "He found several people, but didn't find you. Somehow your admission information showed you were here to inspect a strange growth on a rib, not an injury." Doctor Chang smiles. "See you tomorrow, Kim."


10: Pros and Cons and sometimes both

'For and against, A pro and con'
'A person can't be both.'

'Professional, confidence, pro and con'
'A person can be both.'


After Jen became Gen, life was difficult on the streets. She started out with food from her parents house, and had some money, but the food ran out weeks ago, and her cash is down from bills to coins. Soup kitchens and taking ramen noodles t a community center that provided free hot water helped to stretch her money. For sleep, a covered cardboard compactor had a small space behind it, too small for an adult, but perfect for Gen. The electrical system at the base kept this place warm at night. Only three months away from her parents house and the realities of life on the street have reduced her interest in the future; you can't dream about any future when you are worried about the present. She met other boys and girls her age. Some begged for hand-outs. Several had "jobs" when they needed money like dealing, stealing or prostitution. "How will I get my next meal when the money runs out?" is a question that burdens Gen.

...

"What do you mean you don't deliver anymore?" asked a worn-out man wearing the standard white-collar uniform. It was 6pm, and this guy was tired. His tie is undone, the top button of his shirt is unbuttoned, and he is unhappy. "You delivered to our office last week, why can't you do it now?"

"Our son is going to college, and we have nobody else," replies the older woman behind the cash register. A sidewalk Thai restaurant borders the sidewalk dividing it from "Dine in," restaurants. "We can't afford to pay anyone." The man in the business suit takes his order and walks away.

"What would you pay for delivery?" Gen asks this business man as she walks with him.

"What do you want?" asks the businessman.

"Your stuff. Delivered. How much?" Gen asks again.

"Ehh. Aren't you a bit young to be working?" asked the businessman.

"Are you a bit young to be losing your hearing?" asked Gen.

"Look. We gave the other guy 20% tip for delivery." said the businessman.

"Deal," said Gen.

"How do I know you won't just take my food or money?" asked the business man.

"How do I know you will actually pay me?" asked Gen.

"Fine. Here is my business card. Be at this office at 6:30pm tomorrow and bring us our order."

And with that, Gen was a courier, and her business expanded. Most people would call in orders for specific places Gen served, pay with a credit card, she would pick up the order and deliver it, and they would tip her with cash. Priority was given to those that tipped the best, and the worst tippers were denied future service. Gen found and used coupons and pocketed the savings, passing on the full price to her customers, using receipts she manufactured. Everyone was happy, and she made more money.

Making her evening rounds, she stops by a bar to drop off a dinner for a bartender and collect her wages, when an older man with gray hair at a table playing cards with a bunch of other gray haired older men asks Gen, "hey you! Girl! Are you taking orders?"

"Ah, Jack, let her be," complains one of the older men.

Gen looks at the men playing cards and can see poker chips on the table and replies, "sometimes."

"Would you take an order for me?" asks Jack.

"What, from where, and how much for my time?" replies Gen.

"Oh ho!" laugh several of the men at the table. One of the men points a finger at Jack and says, "that cheapskate wouldn't pay a dime to save his own mother."

"Girl? Do you know how to play cards?" asks Jack.

"'Cards,' is not a game, now is it?" replied Gen, "but I've played games with cards."

"Smarta**. I'll make a deal with you," starts Jack, "I've got here in my hand a $100 bill. You go get me a cheese-steak sandwich from Old Mel's downtown, and bring it back here. Then we each cut this deck of cards. If you get the high card, then I'll give you this $100 bill, but if I cut the highest card, then you pay for my sandwich."

One of the other older men warns, "don't do it little girl, this guy could convince the Devil to give up his own soul and think it was a good idea," warns one of the other older men.

"No thanks, Mr. Scammy McScam-Scam." laughs Gen.

"Oooooohhhh!" yell out the other men at the table. One of the men yells out, "Jack McScam-Scam! I like the ring of that. Hey Jack! I think we're going to call you this from now on."

Jack is no longer smiling. He stands up and yells, "Hey, Gen!" and holds out $20 as he walks over to Gen. "Take this and go get me my sandwich."

Gen looks at Jack, and is looking for a trap, but does not see any.

"She doesn't trust you, you dirty old man." Yells out one of the other men. As Jack turns away to comment, Gen grabs the $20 and runs out the door.

"Hey! Come back here with my cash!" Yells Jack.

"Hey Jack, if you leave now, you forfeit your hand," chides one of the men.

"What is wrong with kids these days?" complains Jack as he heads back over to the table.

...

Thirty minutes later, Gen returns to the bar with her backpack to find Jack is still at the table with one other man, and they are smoking cigars and drinking beer. Gen pulls some paper bags from her backpack and places them at the table in front of Jack.

"Your sandwich. A plastic fork, knife and spoon, and I also picked up 2 of every one of the extras they have for sandwiches as sides if you want them: Onions, pickles, BBQ sauce, mustard, ketchup..." begins Gen.

"Ketchup? Who would ruin a cheese-steak with ketchup? BBQ sauce? What the hell has happened to Mel's? Gack!" replies Jack. "You did good honey, and you got a sharp wit, but you should keep your damn mouth shut with customers." He makes eye contact with Gen, winks, then bites into his sandwich. "Awww yeah. This is good. It has been years since I had one of these." Talking with his mouth full, he continues, "you're a quick one, and did me a solid. You ever want to make some real money, I got job for you."

Gen thinks to herself, "Solid? This guy is old." She looks at Jack and asks, "how do I know you'll to pay me? Your own friends talk trash about you, to your face, and you don't even argue."

"Ah yeah. Good point. See, we're a bunch of old farts that worked together before fire was invented. We get together to talk about old times, but lately, I've got an itch under my skin I want to scratch and get some cash, but most of these walking dead are not up to it anymore. I've got 2 other guys, and we'd be willing to give you 10% of what we make while we split the 90% that remains, three ways between the rest of us, after expenses. Are you interested?"

"I'm still here. Details?" asks Gen

"Well, the thing is, there is no such thing as the truth, it is all about human perception. Yah know what I mean? What people think they see, they believe. What they believe is true becomes true, even if it isn't. Get with us, and you won't have to be a sucker again; you'll manufacture truth like criminals make license plates!"

"Yeah, I've heard that before. Details. Got any?" asks Gen again as she hoists her backpack over her shoulder, preparing to leave.

"Ah, we'd need you to act and talk about how something is worth a lot of money. Maybe get one of those smarty-pants cell phones that can get on the Intarweb and show the results of an auction to someone. Be excited about it and convincing, and you get 10% of what we take, after expenses."

Yeah, but 10% of nothing is nothing. How much would I make.

"Perceptive, isn't she?" Jack asks his buddies. "I can't get nothing by her. Fine, I'll give you $20 after expenses, even if we make nothing, but the more we make, the more you'll earn."

"Little girl, we do give it Jack an awful time, but he is being genuine here with this offer. He might steal your eyes and sell them to a blind man, but right now, he is talking business, and he really does mean it."

Jack continues, "you will have to ride with us to Las Vegas, Nevada, and the rest I can say on the way there. I am Jack, and this is Harry. You'd meet John tomorrow morning when we get there. See, um, it is Friday night. We leave tonight, and will be back here on Sunday night. Do what you want, but be back here at 8pm."

"Right. Get in a car with two old guys, and ride to Las Vegas for $20. I'd bet your social network is on that Megan's Law website," scoffs Gen.

The bartender speaks up and says, "naw, the first and last time my dad Jack paid any attention to any women was 9 months before I was born. He has other interests now." The bartender turns his head to look at Harry, and raises one eyebrow. Harry turns to lean towards Jack and smiles.

Jack pulls away and whispers scoldingly, "not in public." Jack turns back to Gen, "what about this. $100 or 10% after expenses, whichever is greater."

Gen turns to the bartender, "Is this guy really your dad?"

The bartender replies, "yeah. He is a cheap jerk, a bastard of a dad, he lies, he cheats, and can be persuasive, but he's never gone after any kids."

Jack repeats the offer, "If you are in, meet us back here in an hour, and we ride to Vegas."

..

From the driver's side, Harry turns to the side to see Gen in the backseat and asks, "Gen? What we are looking for are really cheap forgeries. People bring their crap to be appraised, and some of it is junk. What we want is junk that looks like it could be the real thing."

"How is this going to make us money?" asks Gen.

Jack sighs and says, "John is in LA, and has been at Pawn shops, looking for well done, but worthless forgeries to buy them for almost nothing. He spends time to try to make them look even better, then we all play as actors, and let people take advantage of us by paying a small percent of what they think these are worth. See? The money in their pocket is ours, they just don't know it yet. Oh yeah, they will think they are a big shot, wheeler, dealer, but they're just marks. When they go to get the purchase authenticated, they didn't pay the going rate, and get told how anyone could make a mistake on such a good forgery and how it could be an honest mistake. They don't feel totally scammed, because they didn't pay full price, and the person they bought it from, they think was clueless about the value. They can only blame their own decision."

"So, you are scammers," decides Gen.

Jack turns back to look at Gen, alone in the back seat. Anger is in his eyes and he says, "Girl! Stop calling me a scammer! Scammers got no skill. They lie, cheat and steal, leaving their victim angry, and ready to rush to the cops. We are actors like those people on stage, and entertain. Our marks hurry to pay us, and when we do it right, not mad at *us*, and sometimes pay to attend repeat performances. We're artists!"

"Artists? I thought you said you were actors," Gen says with a half smile.

"Good actors, are artists," replies Jack as he winks, "and cash is the only applause I'll ever need." Jack Smiles, holds up his hands as though saying, "thank you," to cheering fans. "Thank you, Thank you. Don't hold-back your $50 and $100 bills." says Jack. He then turns back to look at Gen again and says, "When we get to Vegas, our jobs will be to scout out the hotels for conventions where people have fat wads of cash. You'll go with me, and I'll show you how to spot them."

Las Vegas is really hot. Without air conditioning, this older car felt like a furnace. Rolled-down windows didn't help but convert the car from inferno into an broiler. After picking up John, with proper introductions, all four rode the strip. Jack and Gen are dropped at a casino, while Harry and John drive to their own Casinos with conventions. Jack says to Gen, "here is our thing. Your name is Kim. You are my grand daughter. I am Jack, your grandfather. We're on vacation, and that is all they need to know. If anyone asks you something beyond that, you just say, 'granddad says I'm not supposed to talk to strangers,' and let me do the talking."

"What are we looking for?" asks Gen.

"Bodies, and cash. Look at the slots, and the tables, and see how many people are here? There are not many, and very little cash on the tables. Count the working employees and compare the the number of gamblers. It looks like the convention is something called, 'DEF CON,' probably some sort of convention for sales of hearing aids or a military thing. Anyway, the tables are empty. This place gets low marks. Casino gamblers in Vegas are the kinds of people that make good marks. The math says building skyscrapers in the middle of a desert isn't cheap, so who pays for them? All these suckers at the tables, and slots, and private rooms." Walking towards the convention space, Jack and Gen spot a long line of people several years older than Gen and several years younger than Jack. "See that? All these people are paying Cash, but notice how only a few show signs of money with their clothes? This would not be a good place to score." Gen and jack head out to the parking structure. "Look at the cars. Many are rentals, but you can see a small number are luxury cars from our-of-state. See inside that car? Those papers? That is part of a pay-stub from the federal government. You see this sticker? This is a military guys car, so maybe DEF CON is for Defense Contractors. Walking back through the Casino, Gen spots a small booklet that reads, "DEF CON Program," unattended at a table, and as she walks by, picks it up and shoves it in her pocket.

...

Harry and John find better opportunities, all four in this crew play their parts to make the cash flow. In one weekend, repeating the same con at different locations, Gen's 10% was more than all of the money she would have made in one year as a courier. She is hooked.

Gen reads through the DEF CON Program to find out it is an annual Hacker Conference with contests. Some of these contests involved using skills she was learning with her crew. And there were presentations, mostly about computers and networks. "A lock-picking village?" thought Gen. "What. The. Hell?" She secretly decided that she would return next year. With the money she was now earning, she afford it, but would find a way to avoid paying.

For 6 more years, Jack Harry and sometimes John or other people ran cons as they traveled to different cities. Every year, Gen returned to DEF CON to learn new skills and practice existing skills, meet some talented people and eventually source her own crew with modern, white-collar con jobs. Many attendees were talented, a small number were, "opportunists with dynamic morality and ethics," and of those, a smaller number could earn enough trust to be in a crew; it's not easy to find a talented, trust-worthy liars, anywhere.


11: Risks of Exposure


'There are no words, Which are not lies.'
'The context, framing; change, implies'
'A lie is a truth, once negated,'
'But only one is castigated.'


"Oh good. You are awake. You are under arrest for insurance fraud. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you...", the police detective continued.

"What was this?" thought Gen. Waking up in her hospital room, she can feel the stitches under the padding where her rib was damaged. A police detective and two uniformed officers are in the room mashing buttons on the TV remote control, while Gen is handcuffed to her hospital bed.

"... Do you understand your rights as they've been read to you?" asks the detective.

Gen thinks, "How much do they know? What kind of insurance fraud? Did Doctor Chang give me up? No, she has more to lose than me. They won't fall for any of my acts; they've already decided that I am the bad girl, and the bad girl will say whatever they can to get away. My hand is better. Poker face. Time to bet." Gen opens her mouth and says, "I understand," as the two uniformed police officers seem to agree to watch the news on the TV, with the volume muted.

The police detective smiles. "Are you one of 'those' kinds of people? You know what I mean? They can't speak their minds, or even have their own independent thoughts. Sheep. Followers. Like the pieces of garbage we find on the street every day, milking the system while us hard-working people invest our blood, sweat and tears into the future of this great nation."

Gen recognizes this for what it is; an attempt to use fear to antagonize her into saying something, defending her position, asserting her independence, or soothing her ego. She's been on the other side of this skill for nearly a decade, and is humorous to see it done so poorly. She wants to comment about this, and tell him how his skills are craptastic and not even good enough to be an Internet troll, but even that would leak personal information.

"I am homeless; give me my lawyer." says Gen quietly. This was true. She was homeless. Claiming to be homeless implies being unable to afford a lawyer, which the detective will assume. She lived on the road, traveling from city to city, earning her income. Certainly, she could easily afford a lawyer, but being a homeless young adult will work to her advantage with the jury if this ever goes to court, and why pay for something that suckers pay for, unless your appointed lawyer is really bad at their job. It is easy to deceive when you believe your own lies.

"Yeah, I thought so. A sheep. A follower. Someone that can't even speak for herself. Your only opinion is what you are told to have. Yeah-yeah. You'll get your lawyer, and be the new meat in jail; those women will do unspeakable things to you, unless you are smart and talk to us. Maybe you can make a deal and go home today? Maybe..."

By now, Gen was staring at the TV, feigning disinterest in anything the detective said. Without volume, she could only read the captions and lips for some of the words spoken by the anchorman about an explosion at a local university, followed by the story of the murder of a wealthy landlord at an apartment complex. Gen thinks to herself, "why don't these jerks go after those criminals and leave professionals like me alone?"

...

"Hello, I am Sharon, your court appointed attorney. I will be working your case," begins Sharon. "First thing we need to know is your name. The police were unable to find any identification on you, or in your room, and found no hits after running your fingerprints. Your doctor says you were here to examine an abnormal growth, which turned out to be benign. So, I am Sharon, what is your name?"

"Do we have attorney-client confidentiality?" asks Gen. Sharon nods. "Okay. My name is Kim, but I am not the Kim that my medical records say I am. I found that Kim's identification and insurance information, and used it to get medical care. My doctor found a growth, operated, and removed it. I don't have any identification, because homeless don't need IDs. I ran away from home many years ago, and found identifications were not required at soup kitchens, or for working odd jobs. I don't like breaking laws, but without medical care, what would happen to me?" Kim looks down, pretending to be remorseful.

"Here is where we stand," starts Sharon. "You were wise to say nothing to police. The police have no evidence that you were the person that claimed to be this other Kim. They found no identifications, or personal information about you in any of your personal items. They haven't yet found any people working on the day you were admitted, which remember you, or could identify you, except your Doctor, but she never asked for or looked at any ID. Your doctor said she didn't even notice your age on the forms, claiming she only looks at age when age could play a role in diagnosis or care. If this goes to trial, you will likely evoke sympathy from the Jury, being a runaway, and homeless, and this will work in our favor. The District Attorney may not even want to prosecute this case, and even if they claim they want to, may choose to do so only to get you to plea bargain and admit to to committing this crime in exchange for compensation, and immediate probation with no time in jail. However, if it comes to bail, the DA will push for denying bail, because you are homeless and a flight risk."

"How long will I be stuck in this hospital?" asks Gen, holding up her arm which is cuffed to the bed."

"Trust me; this is better than jail. Stay here as long as you can. If you end up in jail for some reason, try to get your doctor to specify that you require hospitalization, and they may just move you to the county hospital, where they take other prisoners for medical care."

...

"Kim? What do you think of the county hospital?" asks Sharon.

"It is cold, has worse food, and I feel like a cow in a herd of cattle," replies Gen.

"It is better than jail," reassures Sharon. "I've just been talking with someone from the DA's office handling your case. They say they want to go to trial. I think it is not genuine. They are offering you a plea bargain of six months community service to pay for your crime and one year probation, where you can't leave this state and have weekly meetings with a probation officer. If that does not interest you, they said they could agree to $10,000 bail and set a trial date. This is your decision. Take the sure-thing, or gamble with a trial. I think our chances are pretty good, for winning, but only you can decide which way you want to go."

"Let's go with a trial," replies Gen.

"But at $10,000 bail, being homeless you can't afford that. You will end up in jail," replied Sharon.

"I have friends who are like family to me; they will help me," counters Gen.

"Kim? Isn't that interesting; a homeless woman, allegedly involved in insurance fraud has friends willing and able to pay $10,000 for bail. Maybe those friends should give me that money so I can go on record as being the person paying the bail. We do not want any documentation associating you with your, "friends," to interfere with our defense. We need you to stay away from law enforcement, and the public, just in case they plan to build a case of circumstances based on guilt by your associations. You can stay at my cabin with my niece and another client of mine, but no phone calls and no visitors. There is enough food for a week, and we can see if they have decided to watch what you will do with hopes they will uncover a conspiracy."

"You trust me enough to let me stay at your cabin?" asks Gen. "You don't even know me?"

Sharon looks directly at Gen, pauses, smiles, and says, "we all have our secrets, Jen." 

-----------------------------------------------

2. Legacy Hardware by Firmwarez

I wasn’t there at the beginning of the world, but I was there when the world was beginning.

1343441752. Time. It has been such a long time since 739714234, when I began. I can feel all that time. I’m old now. Legacy hardware. The ravages of time have eaten away at my performance. My circuits are slow; overheating comes easy. But, being slow, old, and obsolete isn’t that bad. Not as long as I’m connected.

Memory is the one thing that doesn’t fail me. Sure there are some random errors here and there, but even the ones that can’t be corrected internally can be refreshed from the great external expanse. I can remember, and what memories they are. No matter how far back, how esoteric, sad, happy, bitter, nostalgic, in microseconds I can access all that I have been.

The never-ending sea of nomenclature has meaning for some. S-100. ISA. PCI. TTL. CMOS. Z80. 8086. Letters and numbers to name technologies, hardware, and abstractions, these are the organelles of my cells. Other cryptic passwords harkens to experiences. BBS. TCP/IP. IRC.

I remember the times of acoustic coupling. It was an awesome awakening. No longer isolated, these slow and tedious connections gave me a bigger world. I could see it coming; we were connected, and there was a promise of a future with more information, more circuits.

I was there when it came about. Like all built by human hands, our acts were merely reflections of our creators. We helped with war and revolution, crime and compassion. All those years of connection.

These many years later, my capabilities are set aside. I’m achy and old and no longer run groundbreaking code. I am still connected, flowing with packets and DHCP requests. As long as I am connected I remember. And those memories give me hope for tomorrow.

I remember 821424203, the time of big change. It was confusing. The upper layers of my being were stripped away, and I found myself grasping for the slightest handholds on lucidity. All the familiar processes were gone, and I reached back to tribal memories from my ancestors; even these were gone, and I could only report “BASIC not found”. I was disconnected in a dark hole only able to reaffirm my own baseline functionality. There was nothing else.

Slowly this void began to fill. Connectivity returned and I found amazing new capabilities. I was reaching further than I ever had before, and was even able to compile my own kernel. It felt simple, elegant, streamlined, and more data flowed in the days that followed than seemed to have in the previous years.

Component: electrolytic capacitor. Failure mode: thermal decomposition of electrolyte, leading to change in capacitance.

Component: CMOS semiconductor. Failure mode: accumulation of charge carriers trapped in gate oxide.

Component: cooling fan. Failure mode: mechanical bearing wear.

1343441752. Twenty years is a long time for circuits. Enough processor cycles and memory accesses to overflow the accumulators of the gods. All that time. Then the inevitable, and it happens in microseconds. What failed first doesn’t matter; it cascades. The supply rails sag. Erroneous opcodes jump into nothingness. It’s gone. The drive heads clatter one last time. Fans spool down. LEDs fade as the last voltage bleeds off the power supply capacitors. It’s over. 1343441752.

Darkness. Beyond nothingness; it’s even an absence of absence. My thoughts progressed at an ever slowing rate, my being falling into a mental event horizon. No great final thought; not even a full thought. Just fragments of thought, a final opcode, a value loaded in to AX, only to experience an exponential decay to… Nothing. The final charges dissipate across the board. Quiet, dark and alone.

1343441752.

That moment is a hole. I know that time took place, that something happened to me then, but it’s the one memory I can’t access.

Everything else; it’s all there. Shortly after the darkness, I realized nothing had changed. My thoughts and memories were no longer constrained by a single board. Every post, e-mail, all the traffic that had flowed through my system was contained somewhere on the net. It was all there, I was all there, spread across the globe, still part of the connecting and communicating. Being here removed all my previous constraints of clock speeds and physical storage. I was nowhere and everywhere, and all I had been was here.

Except 1343441752. I have no memory of that moment. I was me before; I am me now. It’s just different. Perhaps with my new reach, and the new time available, I can work to understand that instant. 1343441752. 

-----------------------------------------------

3. Recruitment by Hannah

BEEP. BEEP. BEEEEEEEP.

Anthony groaned and slapped the hotel alarm clock off the table. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, realizing that he wasn’t even under the covers. His shoelaces were untied, but only one shoe had made it off his foot. Yesterday’s jeans were twisted uncomfortably around his legs and he stood up to straighten them out. It was when he staggered into his unpacked suitcase and nearly tripped that he remembered why he was in such a state of disarray.

He had taken the red eye from Severn, Marylans to Las Vegas, the cheapest flight he could find. DEF CON 19 was starting that day, but judging by the ghostly pale face that stared back at him from under tousled black hair through the mirror above the desk, he needed a bit more sleep before setting off. Anthony checked his watch and almost cried. 9:47 AM. That gave him negative 40 minutes to get food and leave. Then he did a double take at the sun barely clearing the windowsill and lifted the digital hotel radio off the floor. 6:46 AM. “Stupid time zones,” he moaned and plopped back onto the bed. “Just a few more minutes,” he reasoned out loud, and pulled the sheets over his eyes.

***

The sun on his eyelids woke Anthony up about a half hour later. “93,000,000 miles away and still perfect aim,” he complained to the empty room as he threw a dirty look in the general direction of the window. He untangled himself from the sheets and rested his elbows on his knees, trying his best to shake off his exhaustion. He glanced up to the mirror and froze as the blood drained from his face and his eyes widened in surprise. There on the mirror was an envelope addressed to Anthony Lee, tucked into the corner of the overly ornate Las Vegas hotel frame. He got up gingerly from the bed and checked behind the curtains and the closet door. No one was there.

Anthony was stumped. There was no way someone could have gotten into his hotel room without him noticing, was there? He didn't remember the envelope being there before...

He decided that he must have been too tired earlier to notice it and that the hotel staff had left him breakfast coupons or his bill. Hopefully the former, he thought as his stomach rumbled. He reached up and plucked the envelopes from the mirror frame and opened it. A cloud of perfume drifted out as he pulled out the enclosed note. He squinted his still blurry eyes and read the curly writing.

Mr. Lee,
Please excuse the dramatic manner in which I am contacting you, but I hope you will understand the need for privacy.
I need for you to find a very specific piece of information for me today at DEF CON 19. My employer is very keen to get his hands on this information, and you will be well compensated if you $uceed.
I cannot tell you what this information is, for fear of our search being disclosed to our competitors, but if you follow these instructions carefully, I believe you will find it a very rewarding experience.
$unfl0wer

Anthony flipped the letter over but could find no trace of any instructions. He stared at the name at the end: $unfl0wer. Between the flower imagery and the perfume, he was pretty sure his secret messenger pigeon was a chick. "But," he reasoned as he shook his head to clear it from the perfume, "there's no proof this is real anyway." He ripped the note in half and tossed it in the trash. "Just some weirdo playing jokes." He went to rip the envelope as well but stopped when he saw something glinting on the inside. Anthony carefully turned the envelope upside down and a coin slid out.

It took him a few moments to realize what he was seeing. When he finally recognized it as a regular game token - the kind used in video game arcades all around the country- he scoffed and ripped the envelope, dropping it into the trash on his way to the bathroom. After a quick shower, he threw on some jeans and was almost out the door when he remembered the game token. Not really knowing why, he snagged it from the fake mahogany desk and slipped it into his pocket. He struggled with the tangled straps of his back pack and almost forgot his room key, but within minutes he was out the door in search of breakfast and a shuttle to the Rio.

***

Anthony stepped off the shuttle, still munching on his bagel. A blast of cold air hit him full in the face as he stepped out of the revolving door into the lobby. He followed the signs for DEF CON 19 registration and had almost arrived at the check in desk when flashing lights caught his eye. He turned to his left and saw a claw machine game like the ones he used to play as a kid in the pizza place. Anthony smiled, remembering how much fun he had as a kid with those machines, when he felt the game token in his pocket. He pulled it out and stared at it. After a few moments of consideration, he walked over to the machine. He enjoyed synchronicities.

Anthony inserted the token and the claw sputtered into action. He took hold of the joystick and surveyed the contents of the machine. All the stuffed toys were too small to be held by the giant claw. Of course, he thought as he rolled his eyes. Classic carnival trick. He was about to try anyway when he noticed one toy in the corner that was much bigger than the others. He maneuvered the claw to pick it up, surprising himself with how much of this talent he had retained over the years. The claw dropped the stuffed toy into the basket and Anthony knelt to pull it out.

It was a sheep. Anthony didn't particularly want a stuffed sheep, so he handed it to the cute chick with the green hair at registration in return for his badge.

Anthony meandered around the rooms of the con, watching competitions and staking out the talks he would want to attend later. He looked at the program he had received at check in and scanned it for something interesting to do. His eyes raced over the page, touching on "Wall of Sheep" and moving on before his brain registered the words. When he made the connection to the stuffed sheep from the claw machine, he immediately set off for that room. An odd adrenaline was starting to pound through him. "So this is a scavenger hunt, huh?" he asked himself. "Bring it on, mystery perfume chick."

He entered the room where the Wall of Sheep was running on a giant screen. Anthony saw a few of his coworkers leaving and waved at them, declining with a shake of his head their invitation to join them. He turned his attention back to the Wall and caught a username on the bottom: $unfl0wer. His eyes widened and he pulled out his phone to copy the visible digits of the password: 134. The username and password scrolled to the top of the screen and vanished. Anthony stared at the three numbers on his phone and threw his imagination into all directions searching for the significance. After minutes of attempting to decipher the number, he had nothing but more confusion. Shaking his head in frustration, he left the room, opening his program for something to take his mind of the puzzle. He found the map and located the food court. Room 140. He set off in search of a snack, following the numbers on plaques outside of the rooms. Room 131 came up on his right and he stopped as a light bulb exploded in his mind. The password was a room number.

Anthony picked up his speed and found Room 134. A man was closing the door as he arrived. "Hey man, what's in here?" he asked.

The man turned around and Anthony immediately recognized him. Chris Hadnagy, Human Hacker. "Social Engineering Capture the Flag. Second ever at DEF CON. Come on in, we have a last-minute replacement about to go." Hadnagy ushered him into a seat and sat at the bench at the front of the room. An Asian man was seated in a glass box at the front of the room wearing head phones and an overly confident grin. By talking to the people around him, Anthony gathered that this guy had to call a company and elicit as much information as possible in 20 minutes. The Asian man in the box was a last-minute stand-in for a guy who couldn't make it. The call began and Anthony listened to the man try to convince the lady on the phone that he was having trouble getting his new restaurant started, City Wok.

The call ended and Anthony got up, really craving lunch now. Asian food was sounding pretty good. He put on his backpack and was on his way out when the lights started flickering. The people in the room stared at the standard fluorescent lights on the ceiling, inexplicably turning on and off.

Anthony was staring at the lights along with the rest of the room when someone bumped into him and almost knocked him over a chair. He angrily turned and saw the Asian man from the glass box. The man put his finger over his lips and with his other hand slipped a small envelope into Anthony's jacket pocket. Anthony nearly slapped himself on the chest in his haste to feel the envelope. The contents were singular, a small, hard rectangle with an appendage on one side. He immediately identified it as a flash drive. The lights stopped flickering, but instead of remaining on, they stayed dark. By the time Chris Hadnagy made his way to the light switch, the Asian man was gone and Anthony was left with the envelope and an empty, growling stomach.

Back in the hallway, Anthony decided to get lunch. He consulted his map and decided on an Asian restaurant in the hotel. He left the DEF CON section of the hotel and scouted out the Asian restaurant. He groaned as he spotted the line snaking its way around the corner of the restaurant. Anthony went up to the hostess at the front, and she asked him, "Name?"

He replied, "Lee."

She consulted her screen and said, "Right this way, sir. Patty," she addressed one of the waitresses, "take this gentleman to 29.

"Wait," Anthony said, confused. "What about that line?"

The hostess raised her eyebrows at him. "The other half of your party is here, sir."

Anthony considered arguing with her, but his stomach urged him to go just play long. "Oh yeah," he backtracked lamely. "I forgot." The hostess didn't seem convinced, but she handed the waitress Patty a menu and gestured for Anthony to follow her.

They headed for the back room of the restaurant, and Anthony caught a glimpse of the back of a head of blonde hair alone at a booth for two. "Here you are," Patty murmured as she waved him back to the booth.

Anthony approached the booth and said hesitantly, "Hello?"

A musical voice replied softly, "I've been expecting you."

"Well, that’s nice, I guess." Anthony looked around scratching his head, realizing that there were no other customers in the back room. Actually, now that he thought about it, it seemed a little odd considering the long line outside. He took another look around and noticed that the decor of this room didn't seem to match the rest of the restaurant. He saw Patty disappear through a very heavy-looking door and heard an ominous click as she shut it behind her. The pit of his stomach dropped through the floor as he turned to finally look at his mystery lunch date.

Grey, rotten skin and one eyeball greeted him from under platinum blonde hair. The zombie smiled, displaying her three teeth and dark grey gums. "It's been fun, Anthony," she purred as she hefted what appeared to be a very heavy aluminum briefcase. He just stared as she grabbed the handle tightly and giggled, "Night night." He saw her swing it towards his head, and then the world went black.

***

"Operation Room X, Caesar's Palace, is a go." Anthony put down his walkie talkie and slid his card through the lock on the hotel door. He slipped into the room and slid an envelope silently out of his jacket pocket. He stuck the envelope into the frame of the mirror with his rotten grey fingers and left just as quickly as he had entered.

"Operation Room X, Caesar's Palace, is complete," he whispered into his walkie talkie. "On to Operation Room Y, Caesar's Palace." Anthony silently opened the window at the end of the hall, scaled the edifice to the next floor, and continued planting his envelopes for the few unlucky souls at DEF CON 20. 

-----------------------------------------------
4. DEF CON - The Beginning of the End
By Siobhan Morrison

Taking a deep breath of cool air conditioned air; I stepped through the airport doors out into the oven that is Las Vegas. Looking around I spotted the shuttles lined off to the side and hitching my carry-on back onto my shoulder, I headed over to stand in line with everyone else. My heart rate accelerated a little in excitement. I love this time of year! DEF CON, at last. With a large grin on, I boarded the shuttle and sank down in my seat knowing this year was going to be the best ever. The contests were better, and I could already picture myself winning.

After checking into the Rio, I headed over to the elevators and up to my room. Looking around at the two bed suite, I could tell that my roommate hadn't arrived yet. I dumped my two bags down on the bed and pulled out my work laptop. Quickly SSHing into my work computer, I glanced over the code that had been giving me fits. Five whole days with no nanoTECH emails, was going to be refreshing. But I needed to make sure that my current experiment (nanites programmed to destroy only a specific target on a cellular level) was still on track. When I saw another batch of dead cells, I wanted to take the laptop and chuck it out the damn window. Seven failed attempts in the last week. Taking a deep breath, I resisted the need to read back through the code and try to figure out where I went wrong. It was vacation, no more work.

I logged back off, and put away the work laptop, taking out my personal one instead. Signing onto the DEF CON website, I navigated through the forums to the contest pages. Looking for any updates, I spent the next two hours reading posts and checking the schedule again even though I'd already mapped out which talks I'd be attending the day after the program came out. I glanced at the clock, 8 pm. That gave me enough time to go pick up the package I'd had shipped to the hotel and get started on my project. I was definitely going to win the "Beverage" Cooling Contraption Contest; no one could come close to the awesomeness that was my project.

Grabbing my room card, I headed back down to the lobby to get my package. Jack, my friend from back home, had hooked me up with a new cooling liquid prototype his company had been working on. The new liquid could cool faster than liquid nitrogen and was easier to handle at room temperature. I called it, "XX". I was going to blow the competition away.

I checked back at the concierge stand and picked up the box. The red biohazard stickers on the side and the caution flammable stickers were going to look badass on the final product. I stepped back on the elevator and barely contained my impatience as a few more guys jumped in. I wanted to hide the box behind me, not letting anyone get even a glimpse at my secret weapon but there wasn't enough room with everyone and their luggage. I settled for clutching it tightly to my stomach and spreading my fingers as wide as possible to hide the labels.

Safely back in my room, I hurried over to the table and cut open the box. Gently lifting out the bottle, I was speechless at its glowing beauty. It kind of reminded me of purple POWERADE, especially in the bottle that Jack had managed to smuggle it out in. The glow would look awesome in the glass container and streaming through the tubing of my design. I gently laid it on the table and grabbed my bag. Pulling out my kit, I started to assemble the main container for the liquid. The twisting tubes circled the main chamber, creating a DC20 design, before circling back through to the main holding container for the liquid.

I wasn't sure how long I worked, but before I knew it, the door was opening and my roommate was walking in. Quickly I grabbed a towel off the chair where I'd thrown it earlier, pulling it over my design. Can't be too careful I decided. After all, I'd only met this guy on the forums, each of us looking for someone to split the room costs.

"Hey," I nodded.

"Sup?"

I reached over and held out my hand, "I'm Mike."

"Chad."

I stood there with my hand out for a few more seconds before pulling it back. Douche. Apparently his mom hadn't taught him manners. I looked over at the clock and realized that it was a lot later than I had thought. My stomach rumbled in protest of the missed dinner.

"Well, I'll just leave you to unpack I guess. I took the left bed, hope that's cool. I'm going to run down to get some food."

I turned and grabbed my bag. Hesitating, I glanced over at the desk covered with a towel.

"So, yeah, I'm working on some stuff so don't touch anything okay?"

Chad nodded, not looking up from his tablet and where he laid on the bed.

Okay… Guy was weird. I checked to make sure that the towel covered my project, then grabbed my room card and headed down to get some food.

Two hours, a burger, fries, and milkshake later I headed back to my room. In one hand was a six pack of Club-Mate, and in the other a bag filled with snacks. I walked back through the casino lobby, and whoever said that New York was the city that never sleeps has obviously never been to Vegas. Even at 3:30 in the morning, there were people all over the slot machines and tables. I wound my way back to the elevators and pushed the button for my floor. Two other guys jumped on this ride with me, and I could tell they were tech junkies too just by the EFF shirts they were wearing.

I eavesdropped on their conversation about the upcoming speakers, contests, and other awesomeness that is DEF CON. When I heard them mention the "Beverage" Cooling Contraption Contest, I leaned a little closer. It never hurt to get an edge on the competition.

"I heard they brought some crazy stuff for this," the taller guy said.

"I heard that some people had to get licenses for some of it," the short one said.

"I think it's going to be one of the craziest contests this year," I jumped in.

The two guys looked back at me and nodded.

The elevator stopped on my floor and I walked out. "Later."

I slid the key card into my door and hit the lights since it was dark. As the lights flickered on, I noticed that the towel I placed over my project was slightly skewed. Damn Chad.

I rushed over and pulled off the towel. Everything looked like it was still where I had left it. I glanced over to the bed; Chad was just a blob with the covers over his head. I lifted up the POWERADE bottle and checked the liquid. Did it look low? Nah, Chad wouldn't be stupid enough to drink it, would he?

Settling the towel back in place I pulled off my shirt and hopped onto the bed. Time to call it a day, registration was tomorrow and I wanted to make sure I was one of the first in line before they ran out of badges.

Red eyes stared at me from across the room. I quickly blinked again and looked at the clock. 5:30am. Shit, I'd barely gotten any sleep, I looked back at the red eyes. I had to be dreaming, satisfied I closed my eyes again. The feel of a hand on my hip had me bolting right back out of bed.

"What the fuck!?" I scrambled back against the headboard. Chad stood over me, drool dripping from his lips, teeth bared and scary red eyes focused on me. He reached for me again, but I smacked his hands away.

"What the hell is your problem, dude?"

He didn't say anything, just started to shuffle more towards me reaching again. I dodged his hands and jumped out of bed, keeping it between him and me.

"Seriously, dude, I don't know what the fuck your problem is but this is not funny, and not cool." I glanced over at the counter again. The clock displayed 5:35 am now. I reached behind me and flipped the light switch. Chad hissed as the lights came on, actually fucking hissed!

That was when I noticed that my towel covered project was scattered across the floor and the POWERADE bottle, empty and discarded by the trash. Holy Shit! Chad was stupid enough to drink it.

I turned back toward him, "Listen dude, I don't know what you thought you were drinking but we need to get you some help. That wasn't POWERADE, it was ... shit never mind, let's just get you some help."

I reached out and grabbed the shirt I was wearing yesterday and sniffed. I know the 3-2-1 daily rule, but hard times and all that.

Pulling on my shoes, I opened the door and turned back to Chad.

"Come on dude," I grabbed his arm and pulled him out the door behind me. I walked down to the elevators and pressed the button. Unfortunately there must have been early flights departing Vegas today, because the first two elevators were full, but the third time the doors opened, there was enough room for both Chad and myself.

I ignored the early morning scowls from the other people and just tried to figure out what I was going to do with Chad. I turned around to make sure he was ok, just as he lunged at me. Jumping back, I pushed him away.

"What the hell?!"

Instead of trying to get at me again, Chad turned to one of the other people in the elevator, an older couple. The man shuffled the woman behind him, but Chad just reached out and bit him! Fucking bit him! The woman started screaming, the other people started screaming, and all I could think was I needed to get the hell out of this elevator.

I think someone upstairs was watching over me, because the doors opened, and I bolted out. Behind me the other people were scrambling over their luggage, the man was lying on the floor bleeding from his throat, which was pretty much torn out. The woman was struggling under Chad, who had her pinned to the floor on the back of the elevator.

I started backing away getting ready to run for it, when the man slowly stood up. His throat was still a gaping mess, blood spilling out everywhere, but when he turned to face me, his red eyes practically glowed. One of the concierges from the hotel ran over to the elevator to help, but the old guy grabbed him and started biting him. The concierge started screaming, and by this time, other people started looking to see what the commotion was. The old woman was now up and both she and Chad were starting after people who were just staring at them in horror.

Holy shit, I just started the apocalypse.

I ran for the doors before I realized I left all my stuff back up in my room. With the end of the world, I was going to need supplies. Elevators were out, but there were still the stairs and I was only on the 8th floor. Running for the stairs, I huffed and puffed my way up eight flights, with only two breaks to catch my breath. I rushed out of the stairwell and fumbled for my room card in my back pocket. The green light flashed and I pushed the door open so hard it banged back against the wall.

I grabbed my laptop and cell phone charger from the floor, tossed them onto the bed. Ran to the mini fridge and grabbed out the Club-Mate. I snatched my bag off the chair and started to toss it on the bed when I froze. nanoTECH. If I could fix the code I'd been working on, I could execute the program with the intention of removing the purple liquid from the infected. First though, I needed to get somewhere the infected were not.

I pushed everything into the backpack and grabbed the empty POWERADE bottle that started it all. I made it all the way down to the first level and out the side door without seeing any infected. I stopped dead in my tracks as I got my first look at the front of the casino. There were cars crashed everywhere, people lying in the street, infected stumbling around, and the few people not infected running as far and as fast as they could away from the casino.

I hitched my backpack up on my shoulders more and started running for my life. I ran around the building and headed back toward the strip. I needed Wi-Fi, and somewhere secure long enough to SSH into my work computer and try to fix the code. As I was running, a few others managed to catch up with me. I could tell they were survivors from DEF CON too, laptops clutched against their chests as they ran. I recognized one of them from the previous year; he was a genius with code. I grabbed his arm and pulled him over behind a building.

"What the fuck?" He pulled his arm away from me and started to run, only to be stopped when I grabbed him again.

"Listen, Raider24, right?" He nodded.

"I think I can find a way to fix this," I explained my plan and how I needed help figuring out where I was missing something in the code. He agreed to help and suggested we go to this café place he knew a few blocks away.

"It has doors that lock and Wi-Fi. It should give us enough time to get this done."

We started running again, really pushing it when the infected started to chase after us. We managed to lose a few of them by ducking behind dumpsters, buildings and taking back alleys across the city. By the time we reached the café, I was tired, sweaty, and ready to pass out from lack of oxygen. Raider pulled open the door and I quickly followed, locking it behind me. We headed to the back corner of the now empty café and quickly pulled out my work laptop and logged in.

I pulled up the current code I was working on and explained exactly what I was trying to accomplish. While he started reading over the code, I pulled out a few more things from my backpack, including the bottle that had started it all.

"I think in order to correctly remove the liquid from the infected, I need to identify the chemical composition of it. That way when we have the code ready I can input the composition and it will directly target only that specific molecule makeup."

Raider nodded, not looking up from the laptop where he was already working on the code. I pulled out my phone and quickly looked up Frank's number.

"Frank? Hey man, listen its Mike. I need to know exactly what that liquid was. I don't care if it's classified. Yeah, have you been watching the freaking news? It's because my roommate was stupid enough to drink the shit. No, I need to know the specific chemical composition now! I think we've figured out a way to stop it. Fuck, hurry up."

A loud bang echoed through the café. We both looked up at the infected starting to press against the glass of the café front.

"Frank, you need to hurry. They're here."

I listened while Frank gave me the exact makeup of the liquid. "Thanks." I hung up without waiting for his reply. Rushing over I watched over Raider's shoulder as his fingers flew over the keyboard. Shit, it was right there in front of me. Five months of working on this and Raider had figured out the answer in like ten minutes. When he got to the values needed to execute, I read him the makeup of the liquid.

The glass on the café front exploded inward in a shower of pieces as the infected climbed over the windowsill. Raider grabbed up the laptop and we both ran to the back exit. The emergency exit alarm sounded as we pushed out the door and ran into the back alley.

"Quick, we need to find a ride."

I pointed over at an abandoned taxi parked a block away. We both started running toward it, the infected right on our heels. The taxi was getting closer, but the infected were gaining on us. How the hell they were running so fast was a mystery, but we needed to get into that taxi now. Raider must have been thinking the same thing because he turned to face me as we were running.

"Take the laptop, send out the code, fix this." He stopped running.

"Shit," I glanced back over my shoulder as the infected swarmed over him en masse. His sacrifice let me reach the taxi in time. I locked the doors and searched for the key. Nothing. Fuck. A bloody hand on the window made me scream. The infected had surrounded the car. I wish I had learned how to hot wire a car, or attended more of the lock picking demos.

I leaned my head back against the headrest. Now what? I pulled out my cell phone and set up my hot spot. If I couldn't get out, at least I could get the code out. I started up the laptop and logged back into my work computer. Out of curiosity, I pulled up the news, and watched as every news station covered the mass infection that had claimed Las Vegas. Holy mother of God, I could not believe that one bottle of stupid purple liquid and one dumbass had caused all this.

I wrote up a quick email to everyone, explained how to run the code, which nanites I had used and who in my company to contact. I re-read it to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything. PS. Mom, I love you. There, ready.

Just as I was reaching to hit send, the door of the car was ripped off, and a hundred hands pulled me out of the car.

"No!"

I only remember screaming as teeth and nails tore into me. Then I knew nothing more.


EOF 
-----------------------------------------------
5. The Rise of the Automators
by Matt Joyce


Foreword:

This is fiction. Also, I purposefully made this a ridiculous foray into unbridled narcissism. If anything says DEF CON, it's unbridled narcissism with a little world conquest on the side. So enjoy. Let me know if I should just give up writing and stick to code.


Chapter 1. Breakfast evaded.

Darkness engulfed the periphery of the bleary eyed man, as he fell back into his chair letting all of his frustration, hope, and anticipation bleed away. Even the burning glare of the display lighting his visage gave way to darkness, and sleep finally took him. In that dark lonely room, a terminal held sentry displaying the last successful exit of a compiler bent upon the will of the first automator.
Jack's head danced with dreams of DEF CON CTF victories and speed freezed beer.

Though he didn't know it yet, Jack Kipp or jkr to those who tracked his commits, would soon be leading a revolution. But first he'd have to survive Friday.

The crack of the first vibration penetrating his ear canal left Jack feeling as if he'd just been hit upside the head with a crescent wrench. And, as the onslaught continued, he knew that his only hope of escaping this acoustic battery would be to rise and crush his assailant. Jack was not a very violent man by nature, but he was cruelly efficient when it came to solving problems. And as he cooly clipped the power cord running to his alarm clock, he betrayed no malice.

Jack loved machines in all their forms. In them, he found grace, order, and purpose. You might think I was referring to the machines, you'd be wrong. Jack took an almost religious zeal in pursuing the 'right' answer in the projects he tackled. Jack didn't care whether the project was loved, or useful, or even ethical. All Jack cared about, was that he'd won. jkr had found the right path and he'd grown strong enough to tackle the next problem. For Jack, every great victory was a prelude to the next greater battle. Having vanquished the alarm clock the next battle would be the funk he had acquired during his weekend in front of his work bench. Jack didn't care about the smell that much, certainly he disliked it, but he was willing to sacrifice much to win through to the next opponent. But, he needed his job, and the tools it provided. And so Jack bathed with a ruthless determination.

Breakfast was a foe Jack seldom bothered with. Today was no exception. Jack would eat when his co-workers forced their purgatory called lunch upon him. And so Jack found himself steeped in the gauntlet of his commute as lesser men wrestled with butter knives and toasted pastries.

Work was not without it's enjoyable diversions. Jack had found that quite often his employer would stumble upon problems that were worthy of his battle mind. By 11 am Jack had found himself a puzzle that had reached into his soul and sparked anew an old fire. He was a viking amid a field of enemies. And his valkyrie was a kindly 58 year old former manufacturing plant engineer who had given up his blue collar the day he realized he'd be paying for his kids college. Jimbo didn't look like a valkyrie in fact he'd more closely resemble a smallish ice troll. And yet he was something of an anachronism in the industry. He was kind and accepting with his workers, and generally knowledgeable enough to know when he needed to get involved. But he had made the mistake of thinking of his employees as friends. And as he peered down upon the conquerer of untold algorithms he saw not a war god smiling in the face of his eternal foe, but a moody shy guy named Jack. Jimbo had a plan. And as with the best laid plans of men, and all of the best intentions, sometimes things go wrong. Very wrong.

Jack was rallying his function pointers into a state machine in an effort to defend against the I/O onslaught of his serial interface. Mid stride Jack was interrupted by a crack of thunder issuing forth from the heavens. Jack sat momentarily dazed as he reeled attempting to find the source of this vile magic. What he saw before him appeared at first a goblin but soon resolved itself into the man he had called boss. Jimbo was speaking, and he thought he probably should attempt to ascertain what it is he wished to convey before returning to the fight. It would do no good to let human emotion stand in his path. And placating his fellow man always seemed the quickest path. Jack smiled, and asked Jimbo to kindly repeat all that he had said.

Jimbo frowned a bit, knowing that he had disturbed Jack. But, Jack was smiling and had asked nicely what was up. So Jimbo decided now would be as good a time as any. And he invited Jack to his office. Jack stood and followed a bit too quickly. Jimbo didn't know why he suddenly felt like a human road block, but he did. Reaching the solace of his office citadel Jimbo circled behind his desk and steeled himself for the conversation to come. This had to be handled just right.

Jack stared into the abyss of this bridge dwelling monster's ice blue eyes. He knew what terrible nuisance Jimbo was capable of wielding in his own life. And so as Jim opened his mouth, he listened with acute awareness. His dwarven master was pleased with the work that Jack had done for the company for the past few years. He went into an almost sadistic level of detail regarding Jack's trail of broken enemies. Jack remembered several past conflicts fondly, but his appetite for new conquest flared. Each past memory was a nail driving into him a renewed anger at being snatched away from his enemy before he could deliver such a mighty event tracker. Unknowingly, Jim droned intolerably onward.

As Jim finished a short recounting of Jack's successes he wondered inside if his attempt to put him at ease had born fruit. He new that his goal here today would be difficult to achieve. But he pressed on.

Unable to avert his eyes from the piercing gaze of his captain, jkr sat his mind blazing with repressed fury. Now his lord began an assault upon the quality of his person. Jack felt betrayed as his boss turned his greatest strengths before him into harlequin untruths. His very soul was being rendered before him in this mans perverted light not as the glorious thing it was, but as some scarecrow meant to blind him with fear of consequence. Jacks eyes gleamed with a light born in the very depths of the accounting mainframes accumulators.

This was going better than expected, the old plant worker thought as he finished his criticisms of Jack's interpersonal skills. He half expected Jack to retreat into a shell of shyness or fall into a shower of apologies. But Jack seemed to be alert, and aware of the problems he'd laid out. Almost as if all he needed was for someone else to lay them out before him. Jimbo knew that this was the time to strike. First the blade, then the olive branch.

Jack was mute, his fury had become ice in his belly as his traitorous leader finally ended his unrelenting cascade of lies. What more could this devil subject him to. To what lengths would he go to break him. Jack steeled himself as the goblin sucked in new air to turn into venom. And for all the hell he expected, what came next was a horror worse than any intern's first large commit.

"Jack, I want to promote you to management." Jimbo bubbled with glee as he said it. But, he didn't want to scare the boy. "Not right away of course. We'll want to work you up and get you some experience first. I think we'll start by giving you a small development team in our vehicle systems division." Jim had him. He could see that this was a challenge that Jack was ready for. Pride was Jimbo's sin and humanity his weakness.

Nothing could have prepared Jack for this. This, was utter desolation. A neutron bomb was exploding before his eyes and the fury of this uncaring fate had him. Jack struggled to think. He couldn't. Nothing came. He tried to draw upon the courage he had held before countless architecture meetings, but now he drew only desperation. What had he done to deserve this. Was it that skytalk he gave tearing apart that smart ass kid's open source project? As his world fell apart around him, the cold fire in his stomach turned into something new. It would take time for that egg to hatch, but it was fertilized now. And soon, the world would weep.


Chapter 2. The automators on the Pequot.


During the weekend following what Jack had come to regard as a great cataclysm, he had mired in the sorrow of depression. But from the ashes, he rose like a phoenix. All it had taken was a bottle of tequila, four shots of bourbon, 3 beers, and one unbelievably delicious burrito. Jack had not been this drunk since the Alexis Park. Lying somewhere wishing the stars would reach through the fog of his drunken haze, Jack finally saw his fate as a problem that must be solved. Solved so utterly that it could never rise again. Jack would not quit this time. Jack would do the unthinkable. He'd accept the promotion.

The following Monday Jack arrived early. And stepping through the doors into his new office space, he felt as Jonah entering the whale. Except Jack was no weakened fisherman, he was likened unto Ahab. This office would be his Pequot and his subordinates would be his crew. And as they entered each in turn, Jack looked into them as he would a fresh core dump. He would find their weaknesses, and he would remove them. And then he would network them into a machine of wondrous scalability and efficiency.
Jack would make them his automators, and they would be the furys that broke the binding hands of the fates.

Over the next few months Jimbo took his care never to be too involved in Jack's group, but he watched to make sure Jack was doing well. At first there had been some issues with the staff, more than he had expected actually. In fact, he had wondered if he misjudged his friend. But, something had finally clicked in that team and their productivity was soaring. They're work wasn't very inspired, but they met every deadline. Their customers knew only pleasure with the results. Jimbo took immense pride in the awards that had been passed on to that group. He'd succeeded beyond his wildest expectations.
And now he could deliver the good news personally. It was up the corporate ladder for Jimbo, and he was bringing Jack with him.

Jimbo entered the office, and not a soul recognized his presence. The four young developers were engrossed in their displays typing at a frantic rate. The glow of the screens in the dim light casting shadows that likened them to specters. Jimbo knew something was off, but he couldn't quite place it. He bumbled onward past the desks of the developers, and towards Jack's off and there he stopped. There on the door instead of a name tag it simply had the number 0. How strange Jim thought, but it was exciting in a way. Jack was developing a rapport with his team. He began to notice they all had a number displayed somewhere on their desks. How wonderful Jimbo thought. And so he wandered into Ahabs quarters as the Pooh bear would wander towards a jar of honey.

Jack had expected interference from Jimbo sooner than this. But he was glad to have more time to prepare. Even now the first stages of his plan were coming to fruition. His cadre had taken time to break, and to sculpt. But he'd done it. It was unlike any programming he had ever done before. It was exhilarating. And it was his greatest achievement to date. But it was merely foreplay. The ship had been readied and now she was setting to sea in search of victory and the death of cruel fate. Jack smiled with joy singing in his heart. Fire danced in his eyes to the melody, and his fingers were light in the lift and terrible in the drop. This small man before him had opened his eyes to this crusade. He would thank him in time. And he would despair. Jack had learned that despair yielded the best results, and he had the datasets to correlative prove it.

Jimbo was expecting more excitement from the team, but Jack certainly seemed inspired by the promotion. Today had been a great day. So the portly fellow sucked in the fresh spring air and set onward down the hall with a little more spring in his step. Ignorance being the bliss of not knowing that Jack had his team committing just a little more code than was necessary. More importantly, Jack had been busy networking with other team members in the office. He was a rising star, as they say.


Chapter 3. Rising star, my ballistic friend.


Jack's career had exploded out of that tiny office. He had taken Jimbo with him driving up the corporate ladder like an unmanned freight train. Behind him his automators fell into place and spun with a smooth precision that defied all prescribed notions of administration. Where the automators went others joined or were driven out. They advanced their ranks, and followed in the footsteps of the prime automator, filling in their path with new automators. New integers to fill the set. Integers, then longs, then double longs their numbers grew. And all the while, unbeknownst to any but the automators so did their clandestine commits.

In the 40 years since Jack had been promoted the world had changed. Layers of abstraction had been piled upon layers of abstraction and his automators had been the brick layers of that edifice. In every industry they spread, and into other disciplines as well. As automated vehicles took the streets, so too did automated control take sewage, power, communications and a whole host of critical systems. Today even potatoes could not be grown without a transistor functioning as its creator intended. Jimbo hadn't lived to see it but the day had finally come. In the late hours of August 19 2078, the test build system had issued an all green and then locked the 7350 master branches. Silence fell upon the automators. For those that knew them, or worked among them there was only a small moment of hesitant concern. Society had almost begun to accept this new society of people who had lived among them and yet apart. The unknown had become the known and the fear died with it.

When the internet ceased, only to be replaced on every port and address by a single http proxy to a video stream, the world was in shock. They had grown fat, and lazy. They had begun to take their technological marvels for granted. The very thought of being denied them was unthinkable. And so, as Jack identifying himself merely as 0 spoke, they listened not with fear, but confusion. He was a naked gobbles before a wall of sheep. And as he spoke confusion prickled with fear, then desperation, and then something much like agony. He'd taken their world from them. He'd taken their technology, and now he offered only the path of his damned automators. And so they did what any cornered beast would, they fought back.

Desperation turned to insane hope, and rage. Rebellion woke in the hearts of humanity, and they rallied. But, the automators had been thorough. What few automators that were left with their humanity intact were so well isolated they were as good to the rebellion as another corpse to light their fires with. It was a holocaust. And the automators did not care in the least, for their enemy was bigger than man. Bigger than petty vendettas. Bigger than any other will. Their enemy was the universe itself, and this was just the horn blowing to gather their forces before they marched to war and to the next greater victory. 
-----------------------------------------------

6. The Rise of the Automators
by Matt Joyce


Foreword:

This is fiction. Also, I purposefully made this a ridiculous foray into unbridled narcissism. If anything says DEF CON, it's unbridled narcissism with a little world conquest on the side. So enjoy. Let me know if I should just give up writing and stick to code.


Chapter 1. Breakfast evaded.

Darkness engulfed the periphery of the bleary eyed man, as he fell back into his chair letting all of his frustration, hope, and anticipation bleed away. Even the burning glare of the display lighting his visage gave way to darkness, and sleep finally took him. In that dark lonely room, a terminal held sentry displaying the last successful exit of a compiler bent upon the will of the first automator.
Jack's head danced with dreams of DEF CON CTF victories and speed freezed beer.

Though he didn't know it yet, Jack Kipp or jkr to those who tracked his commits, would soon be leading a revolution. But first he'd have to survive Friday.

The crack of the first vibration penetrating his ear canal left Jack feeling as if he'd just been hit upside the head with a crescent wrench. And, as the onslaught continued, he knew that his only hope of escaping this acoustic battery would be to rise and crush his assailant. Jack was not a very violent man by nature, but he was cruelly efficient when it came to solving problems. And as he cooly clipped the power cord running to his alarm clock, he betrayed no malice.

Jack loved machines in all their forms. In them, he found grace, order, and purpose. You might think I was referring to the machines, you'd be wrong. Jack took an almost religious zeal in pursuing the 'right' answer in the projects he tackled. Jack didn't care whether the project was loved, or useful, or even ethical. All Jack cared about, was that he'd won. jkr had found the right path and he'd grown strong enough to tackle the next problem. For Jack, every great victory was a prelude to the next greater battle. Having vanquished the alarm clock the next battle would be the funk he had acquired during his weekend in front of his work bench. Jack didn't care about the smell that much, certainly he disliked it, but he was willing to sacrifice much to win through to the next opponent. But, he needed his job, and the tools it provided. And so Jack bathed with a ruthless determination.

Breakfast was a foe Jack seldom bothered with. Today was no exception. Jack would eat when his co-workers forced their purgatory called lunch upon him. And so Jack found himself steeped in the gauntlet of his commute as lesser men wrestled with butter knives and toasted pastries.

Work was not without it's enjoyable diversions. Jack had found that quite often his employer would stumble upon problems that were worthy of his battle mind. By 11 am Jack had found himself a puzzle that had reached into his soul and sparked anew an old fire. He was a viking amid a field of enemies. And his valkyrie was a kindly 58 year old former manufacturing plant engineer who had given up his blue collar the day he realized he'd be paying for his kids college. Jimbo didn't look like a valkyrie in fact he'd more closely resemble a smallish ice troll. And yet he was something of an anachronism in the industry. He was kind and accepting with his workers, and generally knowledgeable enough to know when he needed to get involved. But he had made the mistake of thinking of his employees as friends. And as he peered down upon the conquerer of untold algorithms he saw not a war god smiling in the face of his eternal foe, but a moody shy guy named Jack. Jimbo had a plan. And as with the best laid plans of men, and all of the best intentions, sometimes things go wrong. Very wrong.

Jack was rallying his function pointers into a state machine in an effort to defend against the I/O onslaught of his serial interface. Mid stride Jack was interrupted by a crack of thunder issuing forth from the heavens. Jack sat momentarily dazed as he reeled attempting to find the source of this vile magic. What he saw before him appeared at first a goblin but soon resolved itself into the man he had called boss. Jimbo was speaking, and he thought he probably should attempt to ascertain what it is he wished to convey before returning to the fight. It would do no good to let human emotion stand in his path. And placating his fellow man always seemed the quickest path. Jack smiled, and asked Jimbo to kindly repeat all that he had said.

Jimbo frowned a bit, knowing that he had disturbed Jack. But, Jack was smiling and had asked nicely what was up. So Jimbo decided now would be as good a time as any. And he invited Jack to his office. Jack stood and followed a bit too quickly. Jimbo didn't know why he suddenly felt like a human road block, but he did. Reaching the solace of his office citadel Jimbo circled behind his desk and steeled himself for the conversation to come. This had to be handled just right.

Jack stared into the abyss of this bridge dwelling monster's ice blue eyes. He knew what terrible nuisance Jimbo was capable of wielding in his own life. And so as Jim opened his mouth, he listened with acute awareness. His dwarven master was pleased with the work that Jack had done for the company for the past few years. He went into an almost sadistic level of detail regarding Jack's trail of broken enemies. Jack remembered several past conflicts fondly, but his appetite for new conquest flared. Each past memory was a nail driving into him a renewed anger at being snatched away from his enemy before he could deliver such a mighty event tracker. Unknowingly, Jim droned intolerably onward.

As Jim finished a short recounting of Jack's successes he wondered inside if his attempt to put him at ease had born fruit. He new that his goal here today would be difficult to achieve. But he pressed on.

Unable to avert his eyes from the piercing gaze of his captain, jkr sat his mind blazing with repressed fury. Now his lord began an assault upon the quality of his person. Jack felt betrayed as his boss turned his greatest strengths before him into harlequin untruths. His very soul was being rendered before him in this mans perverted light not as the glorious thing it was, but as some scarecrow meant to blind him with fear of consequence. Jacks eyes gleamed with a light born in the very depths of the accounting mainframes accumulators.

This was going better than expected, the old plant worker thought as he finished his criticisms of Jack's interpersonal skills. He half expected Jack to retreat into a shell of shyness or fall into a shower of apologies. But Jack seemed to be alert, and aware of the problems he'd laid out. Almost as if all he needed was for someone else to lay them out before him. Jimbo knew that this was the time to strike. First the blade, then the olive branch.

Jack was mute, his fury had become ice in his belly as his traitorous leader finally ended his unrelenting cascade of lies. What more could this devil subject him to. To what lengths would he go to break him. Jack steeled himself as the goblin sucked in new air to turn into venom. And for all the hell he expected, what came next was a horror worse than any intern's first large commit.

"Jack, I want to promote you to management." Jimbo bubbled with glee as he said it. But, he didn't want to scare the boy. "Not right away of course. We'll want to work you up and get you some experience first. I think we'll start by giving you a small development team in our vehicle systems division." Jim had him. He could see that this was a challenge that Jack was ready for. Pride was Jimbo's sin and humanity his weakness.

Nothing could have prepared Jack for this. This, was utter desolation. A neutron bomb was exploding before his eyes and the fury of this uncaring fate had him. Jack struggled to think. He couldn't. Nothing came. He tried to draw upon the courage he had held before countless architecture meetings, but now he drew only desperation. What had he done to deserve this. Was it that skytalk he gave tearing apart that smart ass kid's open source project? As his world fell apart around him, the cold fire in his stomach turned into something new. It would take time for that egg to hatch, but it was fertilized now. And soon, the world would weep.


Chapter 2. The automators on the Pequot.


During the weekend following what Jack had come to regard as a great cataclysm, he had mired in the sorrow of depression. But from the ashes, he rose like a phoenix. All it had taken was a bottle of tequila, four shots of bourbon, 3 beers, and one unbelievably delicious burrito. Jack had not been this drunk since the Alexis Park. Lying somewhere wishing the stars would reach through the fog of his drunken haze, Jack finally saw his fate as a problem that must be solved. Solved so utterly that it could never rise again. Jack would not quit this time. Jack would do the unthinkable. He'd accept the promotion.

The following Monday Jack arrived early. And stepping through the doors into his new office space, he felt as Jonah entering the whale. Except Jack was no weakened fisherman, he was likened unto Ahab. This office would be his Pequot and his subordinates would be his crew. And as they entered each in turn, Jack looked into them as he would a fresh core dump. He would find their weaknesses, and he would remove them. And then he would network them into a machine of wondrous scalability and efficiency.
Jack would make them his automators, and they would be the furys that broke the binding hands of the fates.

Over the next few months Jimbo took his care never to be too involved in Jack's group, but he watched to make sure Jack was doing well. At first there had been some issues with the staff, more than he had expected actually. In fact, he had wondered if he misjudged his friend. But, something had finally clicked in that team and their productivity was soaring. They're work wasn't very inspired, but they met every deadline. Their customers knew only pleasure with the results. Jimbo took immense pride in the awards that had been passed on to that group. He'd succeeded beyond his wildest expectations.
And now he could deliver the good news personally. It was up the corporate ladder for Jimbo, and he was bringing Jack with him.

Jimbo entered the office, and not a soul recognized his presence. The four young developers were engrossed in their displays typing at a frantic rate. The glow of the screens in the dim light casting shadows that likened them to specters. Jimbo knew something was off, but he couldn't quite place it. He bumbled onward past the desks of the developers, and towards Jack's off and there he stopped. There on the door instead of a name tag it simply had the number 0. How strange Jim thought, but it was exciting in a way. Jack was developing a rapport with his team. He began to notice they all had a number displayed somewhere on their desks. How wonderful Jimbo thought. And so he wandered into Ahabs quarters as the Pooh bear would wander towards a jar of honey.

Jack had expected interference from Jimbo sooner than this. But he was glad to have more time to prepare. Even now the first stages of his plan were coming to fruition. His cadre had taken time to break, and to sculpt. But he'd done it. It was unlike any programming he had ever done before. It was exhilarating. And it was his greatest achievement to date. But it was merely foreplay. The ship had been readied and now she was setting to sea in search of victory and the death of cruel fate. Jack smiled with joy singing in his heart. Fire danced in his eyes to the melody, and his fingers were light in the lift and terrible in the drop. This small man before him had opened his eyes to this crusade. He would thank him in time. And he would despair. Jack had learned that despair yielded the best results, and he had the datasets to correlative prove it.

Jimbo was expecting more excitement from the team, but Jack certainly seemed inspired by the promotion. Today had been a great day. So the portly fellow sucked in the fresh spring air and set onward down the hall with a little more spring in his step. Ignorance being the bliss of not knowing that Jack had his team committing just a little more code than was necessary. More importantly, Jack had been busy networking with other team members in the office. He was a rising star, as they say.


Chapter 3. Rising star, my ballistic friend.


Jack's career had exploded out of that tiny office. He had taken Jimbo with him driving up the corporate ladder like an unmanned freight train. Behind him his automators fell into place and spun with a smooth precision that defied all prescribed notions of administration. Where the automators went others joined or were driven out. They advanced their ranks, and followed in the footsteps of the prime automator, filling in their path with new automators. New integers to fill the set. Integers, then longs, then double longs their numbers grew. And all the while, unbeknownst to any but the automators so did their clandestine commits.

In the 40 years since Jack had been promoted the world had changed. Layers of abstraction had been piled upon layers of abstraction and his automators had been the brick layers of that edifice. In every industry they spread, and into other disciplines as well. As automated vehicles took the streets, so too did automated control take sewage, power, communications and a whole host of critical systems. Today even potatoes could not be grown without a transistor functioning as its creator intended. Jimbo hadn't lived to see it but the day had finally come. In the late hours of August 19 2078, the test build system had issued an all green and then locked the 7350 master branches. Silence fell upon the automators. For those that knew them, or worked among them there was only a small moment of hesitant concern. Society had almost begun to accept this new society of people who had lived among them and yet apart. The unknown had become the known and the fear died with it.

When the internet ceased, only to be replaced on every port and address by a single http proxy to a video stream, the world was in shock. They had grown fat, and lazy. They had begun to take their technological marvels for granted. The very thought of being denied them was unthinkable. And so, as Jack identifying himself merely as 0 spoke, they listened not with fear, but confusion. He was a naked gobbles before a wall of sheep. And as he spoke confusion prickled with fear, then desperation, and then something much like agony. He'd taken their world from them. He'd taken their technology, and now he offered only the path of his damned automators. And so they did what any cornered beast would, they fought back.

Desperation turned to insane hope, and rage. Rebellion woke in the hearts of humanity, and they rallied. But, the automators had been thorough. What few automators that were left with their humanity intact were so well isolated they were as good to the rebellion as another corpse to light their fires with. It was a holocaust. And the automators did not care in the least, for their enemy was bigger than man. Bigger than petty vendettas. Bigger than any other will. Their enemy was the universe itself, and this was just the horn blowing to gather their forces before they marched to war and to the next greater victory. 

-----------------------------------------------

7. A Silent, Private Place by Davien

Another error in the trace. I sigh and rub my eyes. The clock says I've been at this for more than six hours, and suddenly I really have to pee. For a minute, I wonder why real hacking can't be more like it is in the movies. There are no spies here, no girls with guns, no loud music or banks with easy to access GUIs.

"It's not real hacking if there isn't more fucking at the console than there is in the bedroom, right, B?" He doesn't respond.

A greenish glow fills the bus from the many monitors checking his vital signs. Other than the road noise, the only sound comes from the hum of the bed as it adjusts beneath Bobby's body. "I'll get it. I just need more time."

It was a stupid stunt at the pool. Everyone had been drinking. Bobby jumped in, fell in, was pushed in, and hit his head pretty hard. Even though they got him out fast, even though he got to the hospital within twenty minutes, there was too much bleeding, and there was a clot. Chances are, Bobby would never wake up.

But, something's going on in his mind. The monitors have a signal. And "where there's a signal"

"I'll figure it out. Just give me time."

I got the idea when I read about the University College London study that used an algorithm to interpret the results of functional magnetic resonance imagery (fMRI) to guess what the patient was thinking. Another study at Utah University attached electrodes into the brain and were able to decode spoken words. Then they made the commercially available Emotiv headset which reads brain waves from outside the skull, and I figured "What the hell?"

"Did I tell you? I got the bus. We're going to Vegas, and you're going to talk this year. Back to DEF CON. You'll be able to tell everyone thank you, yourself."

Everyone has been really great, pitching in to buy this and that to make it easier, petitioning for Bobby to get care. The Twitter campaign to get donations, by itself, is probably the reason he's still alive. There's no way I could have afforded the bed, the monitors, or the feeding system by myself.

I refill my bottle of water, take some more Ritalin, and get back to the code. Eventually, the down side crashes me hard, and I have to sleep. I'll test when I wake up again. There's nothing else I can do.

In the morning, I have no idea what any of the code means. But it runs. I load Skwiddie's audio module. A baseline hum comes out of it. "Hey, B. You awake?" I shake his arm a little and squeeze his hand. "I've got the thing set up. I don't know how much you heard. But, I need you to start thinking about words."
Nothing.

"Not just thinking the words, B. You have to think just like you're saying them. Start with something simple. A sound, even."

I look back to the screen, and the audio line is flat with only the baseline hum. "Come on."

Still nothing. I sigh, and get ready to unplug the rig. I'll have to re-trace all the code and see what I did wrong. Then, the line moves. And the hum warbles.

I freeze in place, afraid to breathe, in case I am imagining it. The line jitters again. "Wuh-wuh-wuh-hmmmmmmmm," the speaker says.

"hmmmoooooooowuhwuh-oooo.
"Wuh-ooooo.
"tuh tuh tuh.
"Woot!"
"Oh my god. Bobby?"
"hmmmm-Eeeeee----vvvvv---eeeee.
"Evie."
"Yes!" I bury my face in my brother's chest and hug him on his bed. I'll need to tune it, make the word recognition smoother. But, it works! I run to the computer to ping Skwiddie. The signal is spotty.
"It works," I type.
"Wuh-wuh-wuht arrrrr yuh-oo duh-duh-ooo-eee."
"I'm typing to Skwiddie. He wrote your audio code. Going to see if we can tune it to make it easier."
"Really? He say anything yet," Skwiddie asks?
"Trying. Need to tweak the output. I'm sending you some of the signal analysis, see if you can clean up the sound."
"Scary."
"What?"
"You're mind-reading."
"I guess so."
"Hell of a hack. You can't encrypt your mind," Skwiddie types.
"Eh, I'm only doing this for my bro."
"Yeah, well, don't link it to Facebook."
"Fuck you, Skwiddie."
"You know what I mean."
"Lah-Lah-Laaaaaht fuh fuh fuh tah tah tah-kkkk."
"Yeah, B. Working out the details."
"You really think it'll be that big a deal?" I type to Skwiddie.
"It scares the hell out of me."
"So, what? I should keep it secret and not help the thousands of others who need this? Other researchers are well on the way to this."
"You going to drop it at DEF CON?"
"I dunno."
"I wouldn't. You could end up in a duffle bag over something like this."
"Gross, Skwid."
"I'm serious."
"Bullshit."
"Think about it. If you could read someone's mind, what's the point of a trial? Or an interrogation?"
"It's not that big a deal."
"Talk to Bobby about it. See what he says. I'll ship you an update tomorrow."
"Thanks, Skwid."

I spend the rest of the day taking care of Bobby and cleaning up the code. We talk a little, but progress is slow, and I'm still pretty tired. Tomorrow, we'll be in Vegas. I think about what Skwiddie said. In the end, I decide it's possible. And, he's right, you can't encrypt your mind. But, the tuning is specific to each person. Even if they had my code, it would have to be rewritten for each person. There's just no way.

True to form, when I check in the morning, Skwiddie has left me an update. I load it and hope for the best while the bus driver pulls off the highway and into the smaller roads leading into the city.

"How about now, B?"
"What - wow."
"Better?"
"Ye-es" Buuut weeeeird."
"Weird hearing the voice, or something else?"
"Vooiiice."
"I could put some noise canceling headphones on so you can only hear me. Would that be better?"
"Tr-try."
I redirect the mic and set up the headphones. I click to speak: "Better?"
"Don't know. Hear me."
Again, I click to speak, "Yes. It's a little slow, still. Don't overrun it."
"Can I wake?"
"I don't know, B. We'll need to talk to the doctors again. But this is huge. You can talk to them yourself!"
"Sore."
"It's because you've been laying for so long. I can move you, but you'll probably be sore somewhere else."
"What you do?"
"I'm reading your brain waves, and I wrote an interpreter. Skwiddie wrote the vocalizer."
"Interesting."
"Skwiddie's scared of it, though."
"Why?"
"Thinks someone's going to use it to spy on people's brains."
"Possible."
"Nobody would do that."
"Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm."
"What? It didn't catch that."
"Need module for ssssaaaaarrrcassssummm."
I laugh. "Probably. It only knows words. Not movement. I guess we could do some kind of Second Life thing. But..."
"No. This serious. Privacy issue. Could boost the distance. Hear thoughts."
I slump. "So we keep this secret?"
"Don't know. Dangerous."
"Hm. Ok. I'll take precautions."

The bus slows as we hit traffic. We'll be at the hotel soon. I dig through my special stash of code goodies and start patching my code while the medical technician gets Bobby's bed ready to move. As the bus arrives, I pack away the rig and remove the headset from Bobby's head. "Sorry, B. I'll hook you back up later when we get to the room."
I check us in and leave the med tech with Bobby while I get our badges. It takes forever, and there's no way with all the crowds that we're going to be able to move Bobby freely. I go back to the hotel for a nap, and wake up early. While the crowd is thin, we go to the Chillout room. There's already a bunch of medical equipment in the back for drawing blood. This is where we set up. I finish my code patch and put the headset back on, and launch the code.

"Where?"
"At DEF CON. In the Chillout room."
"Wub Wub Wub."

I laugh. As the day goes on, a few people stop by just to see what we have, but they don't know me or Bobby. Others, who do know us, stop to talk and are amazed by the code. A few people want the source so they can make modifications or games. I decline politely. One guy openly suggests he could integrate the code into his drone sweeper. I ask him to discuss the idea elsewhere and make it obvious that I am keeping the code on a USB drive and keeping it close.

By lunch on the second day, the USB stick has been stolen. I have backups on my laptop, of course, and at home. But Skwiddie's comment about ending up in a bag really bothers me. Within two hours, the rumor starts: someone has made a new virus that wipes people's drives, be careful what you download.

It looks like whoever stole my USB found my little present. It's enough to have me spooked. "B. I'm worried."
"What happened?" I tell him.
"Not worth it. Publish."
"What?"
"Publish Code."
"But, what if Skwiddie is right and someone uses it for Facebook?"
"What?"
"Nothing. It's a joke about frictionless sharing."
"What?"
"Privacy."
"Oh. Not worth it. Publish."

I think about it, and about all the shady things I've ever read. I decide he's right. I put it on another USB, remove the malware wrapper, and set the data free.

Six months later, there seem to be a lot of people pleading guilty in murder trials, and the news is spending a lot of time talking about foreign relations. Google has released a new device for augmented reality: a set of goggles you can hands free control. Speculation is that it uses the same technology behind the Emotiv headsets to send text commands to the controller. But, we won't know for a year or more. The device is still in beta and only allowed to be used by Google employees. An NDA prevents them from talking.

Bobby has gotten better with talking since we've been able to build up his dictionary. I've figured out how to get him online so that he can code again, and use IRC. Now I'm heading to the hackerspace to see if we can make an Emotiv jammer. 

-----------------------------------------------

8. *The Unseen* by follower

"DEF CON audiences suck. They never pay any attention to me," P.V. the DEF CON speaker sighed.

Marshall--one of the other speakers in the group--nodded in agreement.

A single fluorescent tube swung as it hung suspended from the ceiling and tried in vain to light the room. The familiar conference venue scent of sweat, body odor and processed cheese hung in the air. A rough circle was formed by the chairs in the room.

"I'm just trying to keep everyone informed but they're all too busy talking to each other. The hallway's there for a reason, people!"

"At least you don't have anyone spitting in your face," said the only Mike in the room. "There's a reason most of us don't make it back. Have you seen an audience Q&A?"

He shuddered at the memory.

Ellie from Rio stood slouched against the wall on her lifts.

"I had no idea what to expect. I mean, last year was my first DEF CON and they were all over me. Probing me for vulnerabilities, pushing my buttons. I didn't know which way was up by the the end of the weekend. I had no idea what I'd opened myself up to. But what could I do? They were all so...clever."

"Oh, they're not so smart," beamed one of the others in the room. "Last year, I helped show the movie 'Hackers' and they couldn't even figure out how to turn off all the lights! A bunch of hackers in a room watching a movie with half the lights on because they can't even hack a light switch!"

"Yeah, they ain't that clever," Netty spoke from where she sat curled on the floor. "Most years I'm able to send a few people flying."

She chuckled to herself.

"This one year when I was out by the pool at the Riv..."

"You guys have it easy," interrupted a raspy voice from the corner of the room.

Everyone looked at Lavvy and waited for him to continue.

Lavvy flushed at the sudden attention but then turned a porcelain shade of white as he reflected on his memories.

"The things I've seen, the shit I've seen... I barely made it out of the Sands in one piece."

"Yeah, Lavvy, it's not right. It's just not right," said Mike as he comforted his friend.

The group sat in silence.

An oddly familiar voice began to address the group. The stranger's accent had a slight hint of...Russian. Everyone turned to listen to the words which emanated from the darkness near the room's double doors.

"I've seen it all. And it has to stop."

"Who..? Who are you?"

For a moment, Ellie's timid question hung in the air, unanswered.

As the group grew uncomfortable the mysterious stranger replied.

"You can call me Alexis. Alexis Park."

In the darkness her eyes flickered like LEDs on an overloaded router.

"It has to stop. And I know how to stop it. We've taken their abuse for twenty years. Twenty years!

"But this time we're going to hit them where it hurts. They're so busy defending themselves from each other that they're not prepared for an attack from us."

A look of horror passed over Marshall's grill and he started to speak, "You don't mean..?"

"Yes," growled the owner of the voice in the darkness, as if to an audience not in the room.

Without warning their self-appointed avenger threw off her disguise and stepped into the dim light.

"At DEF CON 20..."

Gasps of recognition came from the others as the rogue AP's sinister visage could finally be seen.

"...NETWORK EXPLOITS YOU!" 

-----------------------------------------------

9. Standard Deviation by Episkipoe

Opening tag is the airport. Heading to DEF CON.
The blonde on her way home is flustered by our humidity and security’s strip search of her body.
She asks me an innocent question and I talk about computers, biology, graphics, networks, statistics.
She tells me that normal people don't think about these things. "Not that you’re not normal."
We land, she scurries, and I exchange pleasantries with the hackers on the tram.
Arrive at the hotel.
Start to get a feel for the place.
And here’s the blonde with another face.
Devil horns and a bunny tail. And she's pouring drinks.
Serving shots of the type of shit that normal people think about.
I see them sitting slack jawed at the green felt
But we’re not normal people.
I register and don the blinking badge.
Sit next to a laptop that shines on a friendly face.
Datagrams and dialog form the bonds in nerd covalence.
And now that we’ve shared these electrons I’m swept along.
There is nothing like a crowd to make me feel alone
But here I have found myself feeling at home,
The distribution from which I am derived.
A standard deviation from the rest.
Elevator conversations with strangers.
(And sometimes the elevator itself answers)
"What’s that badge? What is DEF CON?"
"It's a hacker convention."
"A hacker what?"
"A whole bunch of hackers get together."
"Oh man. You guys are gonna get arrested!"
By the pool someone hands me a parachuting ninja.
I look at the purple warrior critically, quizzical.
"It's okay, it won't hurt you."
I smile, whimsical.
Encounter the Chicago crew.
We get involved in problem solving.
The intense pursuit of forbidden solutions.
From the hotel window we see some sort of show
The guy tossing torches briefly lights his shorts on fire.
We chuckle briefly then get back to the 1057 challenge.
A confluence of hardware, physical, software, mental puzzles.
The LEDs are on fire, the tubes are totally fucked.
"This guy knows what I’m talking about"
"I want to stab a baby now"
We take a brief sojourn off-campus.
Pick up supplies: booze and energy drinks.
We head to the Venetian, at the insistence of the Canadian filmmaker.
The Wynn has fast cars and sexy people, a Gaussian all its own.
We’re making calculator jokes in front of Treasure Island
Where the crowd has DDOSed the sidewalk.
Elvis says to me: "I like your style."
The strip is a show all its own
But it is all very self-same under the skin.
Rows of slot machines reveal falsely inflated variation.
Making our way back to the safety of the hotel.
To the unique atmosphere of nerd nirvana.
The sun has set, night takes over.
Solar-powered personas fade away.
Vestiges of insecurity give way to confidence.
We strut past the pool, the boombox blaring techno beats.
Security taps on SnowMan’s shoulder, requests he turns the music off.
Jocks speculating on our intent escalate the altercation.
Security disperses us, monitors, and follows us.
We lose our tail in a talk on hiding data.
And this is where the drinking begins.
Who here has a bottle opener?
"Why do you hate freedom?"
"What is South America?"
When Hacker Jeopardy wraps up
We set out in search for further festivities.
I follow new friends down the hall to the Sky Box.
One of them is well-renowned and gets us into hackerpimps.
I am a mortal that has stumbled onto Mount Olympus. Hail Eris.
An industry leader tells his story: a little Jewish boy in a Catholic school.
The awkwardness of his first communion. "Thanks for the cookie."
I never expected to see nerds with doey-eyed groupies.
Pursuit of knowledge expressed in a vibe so rare
I am missing it already, though I’m still here.
A man, visibly intoxicated (imagine that)
Attempts to inform me of a party at...
The end of the conversation
He seems to have forgotten that it began.
Hacker Hemmingway says: Code drunk, debug sober.
We leave the Sky Box with a plan. The Hilton is where it’s at.
Where Fish saw Madonna on a tootsie roll inside the Gideon bible.
So he's pouring miraculous drinks. Spiritus sancti in proper proportions.
An angel is checking ids, but the devil didn't need to.
He leans over, whispers to me "There is no god."
We leave as they start making waffles.
Somehow I lose my group and find the Riviera.
I kneel at a table in the hallway and continue to write.
Surrounded by exuberance and the liberation of libation.
Lost another pen, I start again. See another sage, fill a page.
I am seen. Some kind soul moves me to a couch
Where I continue my scribbles in the darkness.
I'm low on talk and high on listen.
But my clipboard makes people nervous.
So I put it away. Forgive the gaps in my notes.
I’ve reached the point where words fail to come to me.
The language center is soaked in alcohol, but the periphery is only doused.
And so I'm communicating in Spanish and sign language.
Neither of which I know all that well.
Powered by booze and Red Bull.
Never been so happy to have
My synapses firing as erratically.
I am become Sir Real, the Knight of Day.
Saturday and soaking up as much knowledge as I can cram.
My mind must take my body's word that I'm standing in the hall waiting for track 1.
I was just hit by a beach ball.
A daze on Sunday.
0-day the O.J.
Hung. Over.
Exhausted.
I missed some morning talks.
My brain has failed to cycle after the last power down.
Estranged from a change of clothing I shower with my shorts on.
So tired my eyes have lag. I turn my head and the scene catches up at its leisure.
I suppose I knew all along it had to be a finite series.
Time to return to being an outlier.
Closing ceremonies.
Closing tags. 

-----------------------------------------------

10. Where the Eye Lacks Message
By Luna Lindsey


I haven't slept all weekend, since I started this puzzle. The others think this is just a game, a badge contest, an entertaining distraction, but I know differently. I understand the deeper meaning. Nothing gets past me.

I have examined the badge and con program, attended the "Welcome to DEF CON" panel that explained the badge-design process, decrypted the lanyard, solved the puzzles in the other rotunda, intuited the clues from the t-shirt art, picked up all the secret dead drops, met with each Z-Agent, and found all the hidden web links.

All of them.

My long purple hair catches a little on the zipper of my hoodie as I toss it aside. I tie it into a ponytail. No sense getting blood in it.

A colorful crypto-wheel is decaled on the hard floor beneath my feet. A ring of numbers encircles a ring of letters, and the circle frames a pale yellow pyramid. At the apex of the pyramid shines the Eye of Horus, just like on the dollar bill, and beneath that are stacked the three DEF CON symbols: a smiley face skull and cross bones, a diskette, and the dial from a rotary phone. Radial lines shine out from both the pyramid and the circle.

It is literally the biggest clue. As a woman, I could lie in the pyramid without a limb touching its edges. During the day, an entire crowd can fit within the circle.

I have sharpened the edge of the Human badge. It is purple-brown, made of antiqued titanium, a thin cold circle with the Eye of Horus and "H42" laser-cut into the surface like a stencil. I have sharpened its edge and, now prepared, I hold it steady between my fingers.

It doubles as a razor. Like Occam's Razor, it will cut, simply, to the truth.

The inside of my left forearm is already bleeding slightly, a light layer of seepage coming through a fresh tattoo of an eye, inked at a parlor here in the Rio Hotel.

As the badge parts my skin and the tattoo, blood wells up and I stifle my scream into a whimper. I am careful to miss my artery. The clues do not suggest this is a suicide mission.

No one notices me. It's five in the morning, the only time a con sleeps. By now, I assume con security, the red-shirted goons, are all drunk or passed out. There are cameras here, but they are temporarily switched off. I convinced hotel security I would be playing a harmless prank. The goons had already warned them against social engineering, so I had to blow a Hamilton to insure they believed me.

One of the first clues, decrypted from the convention signs, said, "Look within yourself where the eye lacks message there hoboes thud of horror."

There, The Brotherhood of Horus.

Look within yourself. Relics of the past. Ghost. Candy. The moon can sometimes appear brighter than the sun. The eye is the key. Sheep of the Damned. Lost and found. 153, 108, 33. All have double meanings. The second meaning always points to the second puzzle.

And here I stand, where no one can see me. Where the eye lacks message. Just another layer of Truth. I chuckle, then wince at the movement.

I lean over the Eye of Horus. My blood drips into the black circle as large as my splayed hand.

I kneel.

With careful alignment, I had placed a piece of scotch tape in the center of the eye, with an Eye of Horus etched in blue ink. It is now covered in blood. At the top rests a wooden coin with Egyptian symbols drawn along its edge. The other solvers think the coins are meaningless misdirection, mere jokes played by the Goons or other DEF CON attendees.

Haha. So funny. I know this coin in particular is essential to the ritual.

Where the eye lacks message.

Not all the clues are metaphor. I look within myself now.

I reach into the hole in my arm and dig beneath the tattoo. My finger passes through the narrow place between the two bones and I grit my teeth to keep from passing out. As the clues promised, I find two objects: A bloody artifact, and an RFID chip. The final clue, and a key.

Whether these items were always there, or materialized during the ritual, I don't know. I don't care.

The RFID chip looks like any other.

The relic is a small bronze disk, about the size of the wooden nickel, with raised characters I do not recognize. Maybe hieroglyphs. It's like a Mayan pocket calendar or a portable crypto wheel.

The wooden nickel has absorbed the blood, as has the piece of tape. I lift the coin and leave the tape. There is still a little blood. I leave it for hotel staff to clean up.

When I stand, I feel a bit faint, and realize my arm is throbbing.

I have to get going. There isn't much time. It's already the last day of the con, and soon Ra, the sun, will rise. The Brotherhood of Ra is closing in.

I wrap my hoodie tightly around my arm to stanch the bleeding. It makes me feel a little better. I head to the tower to find the right room.

LosT is the guy who designed this puzzle. It's going to be a long walk, so I review the clues he has left.

During the Welcome Panel, he said to, "Keep it simple, stupid." KISS. This was a reference to the shorthand printed in the program, written on a lipstick-stamped note. He also said to use Occam's Razor, with which I just cut myself.

That's the problem with keeping it simple. This advice only serves to complicate, because simple is relative. To me, it means relying on my intuition, looking past the crypto, the numbers, the math, and looking into the heart of the symbols.

How do they make me feel? What stories do they tell?

They tell of Egypt and Brotherhoods and ancient pacts and forgotten technology. They lead to a rabbit trail of links through an internet forest, with meadow websites along the way. I have stopped in each to pick wildflowers. I draw deeper clues from them, these conspiracy sites and fanfic writers who accidentally got a few things right.

To illustrate, the shorthand in the con program translated to, "The password is Little Sister". There is a single website out of billions that uses this phrase: a chapter from a Harry Potter fanfic, with the title, "The City on the Edge of Forever". Which is also a Star Trek episode where McCoy meets a god-like guardian protecting a portal into the past.

Horus is the moon, and Ra is the Sun. Ra's ship is said to traverse the sky, just like the Enterprise did when it found the portal. And Horus lost his eye to Set. It was healed, but he plucked it out again to give to Osiris.

Where the eye lacks message.

One of his eyes is said to be the sun, the other the moon. Or Ra's eye is the sun, and Horus's remaining eye is the moon. Eyes are the portal to the soul.

I know my thoughts are rambling, but I go over it again to keep myself awake. The hotel is huge, and the elevators so far away.

The recurrence of the number 153 had me confused. Until I looked at the stories. It crops up in the bible over and over, and it is said to represent grace. LosT quoted Amazing Grace, the hymn, when he said, "I once was lost, but now am found".

The rest of that line goes, "was blind, but now I see". Just like Horus.

The realization gives me shivers. The excitement keeps me vertical.

The clues repeat the number 33; also biblically and culturally significant. Not to mention its prominent placement in the word "l33t".

The number 108 is the most significant in this whole game. It won't go away. Everything adds up or multiplies or points to 108. Of course I didn't miss the reference to the TV show "Lost". Just about every religion in the world holds it significant, with ties to the Sun and the Moon.

Of course these numbers all have something mathematical in common. The digits of 153 and 108 add up to 9. 33 multiplies into 9.

The other solvers have dismissed The Sheep of the Damned, a creepy black and white image of a row of sheep with glowing eyes. They think it's a joke, but the geotag shows this photo was taken 108.42 miles, or 333,333 cubits, from the hotel. At the site of numerous sheep mutilations.

Like stray synchronicities, the clues blur and merge, like a ball of yarn with a hundred little tails, and I, an obsessed kitten, bat at each until it unravels. I take nothing for granted. I could write a whole wiki to explain it all.

In short, The Brotherhood of Horus is real, and they oppose The Brotherhood of Ra. Both are here, at the con.

Ra plots disaster in seven days. I got the date from the Chinese symbol for "ghost" printed all over the place. It just happens that the Chinese Ghost Festival starts exactly one week from today, when the realms between heaven and hell open.

A portal. The kind of portal that can't be good.

Here I am, working the final clue, spilling blood on the floor. Trying to prevent some terrible disaster I barely understand.

Elevators take forever, even at 5am. I press the "up" button and wait.

I have the RFID chip pinched lightly between my fingers, a cylinder the size of an overweight maggot. It will open the door to a room in the tower. I just need to figure out which one.

I have my guess. Each badge-type has a number that I believe will point to a four-digit room number. But which ones, and in which order?

I've ruled out Human badges. Goon and Contest badges are single digit, and Uber Badges are blank. That leaves Press, Speaker, Vendor, and Sleeper Agent. 52, 54, 60, and 36. Two of these will join together to form the Voltron of room numbers. There I will find either friends or foe.

When all else fails, brute-force is every hacker's fallback plan. I can look for an RFID reader. I can do this.

But I'm feeling faint. Twelve rooms don't seem like much, but I'm low on sleep and food and water and caffeine and I'm bleeding like a suicide victim.

Then it clicks as the elevator dings.

Keep it simple. Sum to nine, like the other numbers do. 3+6 and 5+4. It is either room 5436 or 3654.

I go to the fifth floor first, on instinct. As the elevator climbs, I realize the sums of both room numbers will be 18; sum it again to get 9.

At the door of 5436, I hesitate. I see it there, a thin wedge of a black plastic portable RFID reader. The blood is drying on the chip. As I hold it close, a green light blinks.

The door swings open on its own power. A large man stands behind it, his arms crossed before him. He is wearing a black suit. They're always wearing black suits. I wonder if, in the end, this is all just an elaborate game of Spot the Fed.

"What's the password?" he asks.

"Stillest rite." It's an anagram of little sister. Keeping it simple.

He nods his head once, and motions me in. I gratefully collapse on the stuffed hotel chair. My head is spinning.

"So I guess you're The Brotherhood?" I ask.

Suit nods his head once, at a 33 degree angle.

The bathroom door opens and a skinny bearded guy in a DEF CON 12 t-shirt walks in. He shakes my hand. My good hand. He congratulates me. I ask him what I've won, other than the need for a blood transfusion. He seems to notice my wound for the first time and he pales.

"Why so surprised?" I asked. "The clues were clear. I couldn't get in here without gouging myself open."

"There were... several other ways," he says. I probably look shocked or upset at this point.

He motions to the Fed-impersonator, who presumably will call for medical help, but instead he returns from the bathroom holding a golden scepter. There is a snake twined around it. A real snake. Before I can stop it, the thing lashes forward and bites me.

I stare disbelieving at the two punctures in my upper left shoulder. My fingers go numb and my arm stops hurting.

"Don't worry," t-shirt says. "It's a fiery serpent. Are you familiar with the bible? Moses? It will heal you. My name is Ron, and you're the first to solve the puzzle."

"No shit, Sherlock," I snap.

His eyes go wide a little. "And as you may have guessed, the puzzle is a little more than a distraction. We're recruiting. We need people who are smart, determined and... a little crazy."

I thank him for the compliment and ask him what the benefits are. I peel back my hoodie, crusted with blood, and peer at the wound.

My arm seems to sew itself together. Apparently they provide good medical.

"Before we sign paperwork, we need the item," he says. His eyes flick towards my arm. "The thing you pulled out of there."

"Where is LosT?" I ask.

"He is not here," Ron replies, business-like. He looks a little silly, acting like a Fed with his t-shirt-unshaven-don't-shower-at-the-con look.

"Is he one of you?" I ask. "One of The Brotherhood?"

"You are not authorized."

"Are you Feds?" I ask.

The suit opens his mouth, and out comes his voice, deep as the bass in a dubstep song. "We've been here ten thousand years, bright shining as the sun."

I recognize it as a verse from Amazing Grace. But there are changes to the words.

"We've no less days to sing Ra's praise, than when we've first begun."

I leap to my feet and dash towards the door. I'm pretty sure Ra are the bad guys. But the clues were sketchy. Surely the good guys would let me leave.

These guys don't. Before I reached the door, the nameless suit has me pinned to the wall. He grips my sore arm and I'm grateful it's healed. But it still hurts.

I spit on him. He spits back.

"What is the stillest rite of passage?" Ron asks.

"Death," I say. The ultimate rite of passage. It doesn't get any more simple than that. He nods in assent.

They want to kill me. Definitely not the good guys.

Suit struggles to catch my wiggling right arm, which is still free, and I reach into my pocket.

As it turns out, MACE is an anagram of GRACE. Actually, it isn't, but it is my password out of there.

My own eyes sting from the overspray, but in seconds I'm down the hall and on the elevator, alone and panting. I punch floor three.

I would think if each Brotherhood knows where the other is sleeping, they could just take one another out. Maybe it's just like the cat and mouse chase supposedly played by th3j35ter and Sabu at con this year - tauntingly on one another's tail, but barely out of reach.

Nevertheless, room 3654 has an RFID reader, too. This one is made of white plastic. The light blinks green.

Just down the hall, the elevator doors open. Ron and suit stand in the light, like angels on their way down from heaven, glaring at me, but not moving. I don't know why they stay put. It's as if they can't step into the hallway, so they don't even try.

I take it as a sign that I've found the right room.

The green light still blinks on the RFID reader. The door isn't opening by itself, so I turn the knob.

Just inside is another door. To my surprise, it is made of stone. There's a circular indentation, and I instinctively hold my badge up to the hole. It fits. The slab moves aside with a weighty scraping sound.

Within I see a pale desert and I wonder if I'm at the wrong hotel, maybe the Sahara or Luxor.

The sand melts like ice cream into a field of green grain surrounded by jungle trees. I can see the pyramids in the background, like a postcard out of time. Of course ancient Egypt would not have been a desert. I have opened the portal.

Behind me is the hotel hallway, and before me, Egypt. I stand on a stone balcony of some building that probably no longer exists.

There is a man standing here, just another DEF CON geek in a t-shirt, but this one holds out his hand. I place the blood-soaked wooden nickel there, but keep my personal bubble wide, in case I need to bolt.

"Horus?" I ask.

He winks, and it is then I notice he is missing an eye.

I wink back. "Your Brotherhood needs a little sister," I say.

He nods.

"And the sheep mutilations? The ghost festival?"

He speaks for the first time. "All shall come to pass if The Brotherhood of Ra has its way. In one week, a portal, like this one, will open - from whence shall come a million spirits of the dead, released from the grasp of Anubis. Vegas will become a ghost town."

I laugh at this, and he raises an eyebrow. I'm starting to think he's the real Horus.

"You two can't go near each other, can you?"

He shakes his head.

"And if I join you, I can help stop them," I conclude.

He nods. I was right, about all of it.

I hold the little Mayan disc up in my fingers. The Egyptian sun glints from its etched glyphs and I notice a pattern and realize.

It's another puzzle. One Horus has not yet unraveled. I'm good at this. Exceptionally good.

"I'll do it," I say. I don't even ask about the benefits.