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"I'm thinking of majoring in physics when I go to Berkeley," Darryl said. His dad taught at the University of California at Berkeley, which meant he'd get free tuition when he went.
And there'd never been any question in Darryl's household about whether he'd go.
"Fine, but couldn't you research it online?"
"My dad said I should read it.
Besides, I didn't plan on committing any crimes today."
"Skipping school isn't a crime. It's an infraction.
Sono totalmente diversi." "Che cosa facciamo, Marcus?" "Beh, non lo posso nascondere quindi lo devo friggere." L'uccisione degli arfid è un'arte oscura.
They're totally different."
"What are we going to do, Marcus?"
"Well, I can't hide it, so I'm going to have to nuke it." Killing arphids is a dark art.
No merchant wants malicious customers going for a walk around the shop-floor and leaving behind a bunch of lobotomized merchandise that is missing its invisible bar-code, so the manufacturers have refused to implement a "kill signal" that you can radio to an arphid to get it to switch off.
You can reprogram arphids with the right box, but I hate doing that to library books. It's not exactly tearing pages out of a book, but it's still bad, since a book with a reprogrammed arphid can't be shelved and can't be found.
It just becomes a needle in a haystack.
That left me with only one option: nuking the thing.
Literally. 30 seconds in a microwave will do in pretty much every arphid on the market.
And because the arphid wouldn't answer at all when D checked it back in at the library, they'd just print a fresh one for it and recode it with the book's catalog info, and it would end up clean and neat back on its shelf.
All we needed was a microwave.
"Give it another two minutes and the teacher's lounge will be empty," I said.
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Darryl grabbed his book at headed for the door. "Forget it, no way.
I'm going to class."
I snagged his elbow and dragged him back. "Come on, D, easy now.
It'll be fine."
"The teacher's lounge? Maybe you weren't listening, Marcus. If I get busted just once more, I am expelled.
You hear that? Expelled."
"You won't get caught," I said. The one place a teacher wouldn't be after this period was the lounge.
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"We'll go in the back way." The lounge had a little kitchenette off to one side, with its own entrance for teachers who just wanted to pop in and get a cup of joe.
The microwave — which always reeked of popcorn and spilled soup — was right in there, on top of the miniature fridge.
I thought fast. "Look, the bell's already rung.
When dealing with raaitdion you want to stop or at least neutralize it, not augment or add to it. Jamming the transmission signal, while it may be a good deterrent of sorts, may not stop and may even enhance the intensity of the system's scanning signals going through the wiring in your home surroundings.
if you go to study hall now, you'll get a late-slip. Better not to show at all at this point.
I can infiltrate and exfiltrate any room on this campus, D. You've seen me do it. I'll keep you safe, bro."
He groaned again.
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That was one of Darryl's tells: once he starts groaning, he's ready to give in.
"Let's roll," I said, and we took off.
It was flawless. We skirted the classrooms, took the back stairs into the basement, and came up the front stairs right in front of the teachers' lounge.
Not a sound came from the door, and I quietly turned the knob and dragged Darryl in before silently closing the door.
The book just barely fit in the microwave, which was looking even less sanitary than it had the last time I'd popped in here to use it.
I conscientiously wrapped it in paper towels before I set it down. "Man, teachers are pigs," I hissed.
Darryl, white faced and tense, said nothing.
The arphid died in a shower of sparks, which was really quite lovely (though not nearly as pretty as the effect you get when you nuke a frozen grape, which has to be seen to be believed).
Now, to exfiltrate the campus in perfect anonymity and make our escape.
Darryl opened the door and began to move out, me on his heels. A second later, he was standing on my toes, elbows jammed into my chest, as he tried to back-pedal into the closet-sized kitchen we'd just left.
"Get back," he whispered urgently. "Quick — it's Charles!"
Charles Walker and I don't get along.
We're in the same grade, and we've known each other as long as I've known Darryl, but that's where the resemblance ends. Charles has always been big for his age, and now that he's playing football and on the juice, he's even bigger.
He's got anger management problems — I lost a milk-tooth to him in the third grade, and he's managed to keep from getting in trouble over them by becoming the most active snitch in school.
It's a bad combination, a bully who also snitches, taking great pleasure in going to the teachers with whatever infractions he's found. Benson loved Charles.
Charles liked to let on that he had some kind of unspecified bladder problem, which gave him a ready-made excuse to prowl the hallways at Chavez, looking for people to fink on.
The last time Charles had caught some dirt on me, it had ended with me giving up LARPing. I had no intention of being caught by him again.
"What's he doing?"
"He's coming this way is what he's doing," Darryl said. He was shaking.
"OK," I said. "OK, time for emergency countermeasures." I got my phone out.
I'd planned this well in advance. Charles would never get me again.
I emailed my server at home, and it got into motion.
A few seconds later, Charles's phone spazzed out spectacularly.
I'd had tens of thousands of simultaneous random calls and text messages sent to it, causing every chirp and ring it had to go off and keep on going off. The attack was accomplished by means of a botnet, and for that I felt bad, but it was in the service of a good cause.
Botnets are where infected computers spend their afterlives. When you get a worm or a virus, your computer sends a message to a chat channel on IRC — the Internet Relay Chat.
That message tells the botmaster — the guy who deployed the worm — that the computers are there ready to do his bidding. Botnets are supremely powerful, since they can comprise thousands, even hundreds of thousands of computers, scattered all over the Internet, connected to juicy high-speed connections and running on fast home PCs. Those PCs normally function on behalf of their owners, but when the botmaster calls them, they rise like zombies to do his bidding.
There are so many infected PCs on the Internet that the price of hiring an hour or two on a botnet has crashed. Mostly these things work for spammers as cheap, distributed spambots, filling your mailbox with come-ons for boner-pills or with new viruses that can infect you and recruit your machine to join the botnet.
I'd just rented 10 seconds' time on three thousand PCs and had each of them send a text message or voice-over-IP call to Charles's phone, whose number I'd extracted from a sticky note on Benson's desk during one fateful office-visit.