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ExamForce :: Article Archive :: Newsletter Article
 The Cert Times: IT Edition Article Archive
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| Doesn't Mean They're Not After You (B1N@RY N@T10N (A.J. Axline)) |
I start getting a little nervous when Vector spends too much time in the basement. Oh, if I hear the sound of digital gunfire being pumped through a 300-watt surround-sound system, that's fine. That's just Vector's "quiet time". But, when he's down there and he's not making any noise, I begin casting worried glances towards the speed-dial button for the Haz Mat Team emergency line.
So, after not hearing or seeing Vector for a week, I pulled on some steel-toed boots, a pair of acid-resistant gloves, and some safety goggles, and I made the long trek into the darkness.
The door to Vector's workshop was closed, and the cracks around the door were lined with tinfoil.
"Bad sign," I muttered.
I rapped my knuckles on the door.
"Vector? There's a group of mature, incredibly hot fangirls upstairs. They're dressed in cheerleader uniforms. They want to breathlessly listen to you tell the story about the time you broke into the United Nations building after dark, and spray painted "DRINK MORE KOFI" on the wall of the General Assembly," I said.
"Go away!" Vector grunted.
"Oh man... really bad sign," I winced.
I knocked again.
"Vector? I want to help. I really do. That's why I'm going to line the door with Primacord and blow it in, unless you open it and attempt to talk to me like a semi-rational human being. And, so that my overtures aren't totally based on forced entry and explosives, I have brought a selection of freshly-baked muffins," I said reasonably.
Silence.
"Chocolate chip?" he asked.
I looked down into the box.
"There's only one, but because I care about your sanity, I'll settle for blueberry," I told him.
The door eventually opened, and Vector's pale, haunted face stared fitfully over my shoulder, and then back at me.
"Hurry up," he said shakily, "before they get a fix on you."
I nodded in feigned comprehension, and walked into his workshop. I promptly brought my boot down onto a dismantled circuit board. I mumbled an apology, and then peered around the dimly-lit space.
The floor was covered with a hodge-podge of electronic components. So was Vector's desk, workbench, and every other available flat surface. It appeared as though he had been spending a lot of time disassembling a number of devices, including...
"Oh my god, what have you done to the PS2?" I said, horrified.
Vector snorted. "You mean the Personal Spy 2? Don't worry, it's harmless now."
"If by harmless you mean that it no longer resembles a functional gaming console, then I must whole-heartedly agree with you," I said.
"Gaming console. Oh, they are so clever," he whispered feverishly. He walked over to his desk and picked up a cannibalized Discman.
"Personal CD player, right?" he snapped at me.
"Um... if you say so," I said helpfully.
"Wrong!" Vector shouted. "Unless you mean that CD stands for... for... Check on you... every Day player!"
I gingerly plucked an aged, victimized Betamax player off of a chair, placed it on a pile of junk on the floor, and sat down.
"Okay," I said.
I try to keep my side of the dialogue to a minimum during these incidents. I usually only need to say enough to get Vector started, and then the boil in his mind starts lancing itself. Or, he eventually gives me an opportunity to disable him.
"Oh they're clever, there's no doubt about it," Vector muttered. "How long has it been going on? How far back does it go? As soon as I heard about the rootkit, I knew. I knew!"
"You're talking about the Sony Music rootkit fiasco," I said.
"Nice piece of work," Vector sneered. "Tells them what songs you're listening to. Opens up your machine to security breaches. Oh yes, very nice indeed. But the rootkit is nothing. It's mother's kisses compared to what they've been doing to us. Look!"
Vector held up an aged Sony Walkman, its guts hanging out in dangling strings.
"Radio transmitter," he whispered. "Transmits your conversations over a hidden frequency to their marketing department. It's okay; I've disabled it. They've probably discontinued that operation anyway, but it doesn't hurt to be cautious. Doesn't hurt at all."
He tossed the player onto his workbench, and picked up a Sony digital camera.
"RFID chip, and passive GPS beacon," he rasped. "They know when you take this through an airport security check. They know where you go on vacation. They can find you with their satellites. They're in it with the travel agents, the boards of tourism of over a hundred different nations... they know, I tell you!"
"Of course they do," I said agreeably.
Vector squinted at me, and threw the camera into a large pile on the floor near his desk. He dug through the pile until he came up with a PSP. It had seen better days; it looked as though he had opened it up with a chainsaw.
"This is the worst," Vector sighed, shaking his head. "Man, oh man. The thumbpad is a biometric scanner. They've got your thumbprint in a database. See this dot just beside the screen? Pinhole camera. They watch you while you're playing games, in order to determine your level of emotional engagement. The back of the unit measures the skin temperature of your fingertips; they measure your excitement levels that way. See this little grate at the bottom of the screen? It's used to collect eyelashes or other hair follicles, so that they can type your DNA. All of this data is sent to Sony Headquarters. Not the one that the public gets to visit; not the one that innocent, shiny-faced school children get to go on a tour of. The real headquarters is underground, deep underground. They have mole-man slaves that mine the silicon out of the earth. They're collecting all of our personal information, learning all of our weaknesses."
"Hm hmm," I said.
"Don't you see?!" Vector shouted. "RIAA is just a stooge, a patsy target that everyone is heaping scorn on while the real villains work underground, lashing their mole-man slaves and plotting against the rest of humanity. They're way ahead, my friend. Way ahead! The Betamax was their opening salvo! They've been studying us for decades, waiting for the right time to strike. Well, now that we've uncovered their methods, all bets are off, man. All bets are off!"
"I want to help," I said somberly. "I want to help you with the fight that is to come. I'm ready. I'm ready to join the cause."
A tear rolled down Vector's gaunt, twisted face.
"I knew you would," he croaked. "I knew you would be there when the time came."
"You can count on me," I said. "But first, we need to--oh my god, did that Sony Vaio just move?!"
Vector screeched in horror. He whirled around, snatched up a ball peen hammer, and began whaling the crap out of a laptop.
"Die, evil creature of the spawn of Satan himself! Die!! DIE!!!"
Some people will tell you that tasering someone in the back is immoral, cowardly, and just plain all-around bad form. These people are, in my opinion, overly prissy. Plus, they don't live with Vector.
"It's okay," I told his unconscious body. "And even if it's not, even if everything you just said is actually true, you'll still feel better once I tranquilize you for a few days."
I dragged him out of the room, pretending not to hear the sound of the Handycam as it panned around to keep us in frame.
A.J. Axline is the author of Closet Universe, quite possibly the most important book ever written in his house.
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Posted by
nam on 28/03/2006 08:51 |
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