Doug Larsen: The Alicia Revolution

Murphy’s Law: it was the second-to-last connector in my bag. But it fit, and we were in business. I booted my computer, and chortled in triumph as the startup diagnostics verified the connection.

My memory of the article stank, but I had confidence in my hacking abilities. In no time, I was in the central computer. I chuckled. “Why even bother looking for the back door, when the front door is wide open?” I commented.

“Pardon?” Chando inquired politely.

“Just talking to myself. You know, this software is so obsolete that your government probably didn’t even buy it directly from America. You’re probably the third users, after some country like Brazil updated their system and sold this to you.”

After browsing considerably, I figured that the Thusbammannan police had merged the traffic tracking file and the vehicle identification file, so they could more efficiently know who was where, when. I explained it to Chantlo, presenting proof that my theory on how they followed him was right.

“I’ll need your help now, Chantlo,” I said.

He came up behind me uncertainly. “Sadly,” he said, “my knowledge of computers—”

“It doesn’t matter,” I interrupted. “You can read Thusbammannan. See if any of these eight-character file names would be an abbreviation for a Thusbammannan word like ‘criminals,’ or ‘resistance,’ or anything like that.”

He crouched beside me, squinting with intensity. After five minutes, he jabbed a finger at the screen. “There, Mrs. Anderson! That word could possibly be an abbreviation of ‘suspects.’ ”

“Perfect!” I accessed the file swiftly and began scrolling down. Chantlo, reading over my shoulder, inhaled painfully.

“These names! They have identified many resistance leaders, including some who we thought were above suspicion! This is most grievous!”

“I’ve got an idea for that too,” I said. “But first let’s find you.”

Another five minutes yielded his file. “It’s not extensive,” I told him. “Maybe they tumbled onto you fairly recently.”

“Indeed, no, Mrs. Anderson,” Chantlo said. “This message at the top notes that I was the driver for your father. I have been under suspicion since then!”

“Look over the rest of them,” I instructed. “See what they have on you. Check especially for recent listings. There must be some reason they chose today to swoop in and take your family.”

It was several minutes before we figured it out. The entry that was highlighted was the one that noted that Chantlo’s car had arrived at an open-air market at the same time that an American subversive force got there by taxi.

Chantlo and I looked at each other for a long time. “You are, of course, the subversive force,” Chantlo told me unnecessarily.

“Yeah. Wow.”

He sighed. “I had thought that meeting you at the open-air market would have prevented our detection. I parked on the opposite side of the square and took a circuitous route through the crowd.”

“You would have been able to shake off a human follower,” I guessed, “but you can’t fool a computer that way.” I thought. “Where should we put you instead? Who would be willing to swear that you were with them? Your mother? Another relative?”

“An excellent idea. My mother lives somewhat near that neighborhood.”

It was enormously tedious, going through each line of code and changing every interaction to have Chantlo’s car arrive at his mother’s house instead of the market, and then having it drive away again. And then I had to explore many other operating files, to make sure I had covered up all of the traces of our tampering;Then I found my file, which had been red-flagged, and altered the file attributes to make them unable to follow me.

I leaned back and took a deep breath as I snapped off my computer. “That’s it. We’re set.”

Chantlo’s eyes were shining in the gloom. “I am deeply grateful, Mrs. Anderson,” he said with simple and moving gravity.

“I’m glad I could help.”

“And now what is your suggestion for freeing my family?”

“Seems simple to me. You go down there to demand their release. When they arrest you, you protest that you were nowhere near the scene in question. They check, to provide proof, and suddenly their whole case falls apart.”

He looked at me oddly, and disappointment filled his face. “Forgive me if I insult you, Mrs. Anderson, but you are very American.”

I laughed. “My dad says you told him the same thing. Why? What am I overlooking?”

“Thusbammanna does not have the system of justice that you take for granted. Proof is not required in Thusbammanna—merely suspicion. There is no reason to expect them to release me.”

I had thought of that. “Yes there is, if we bring someone along.”

Chantlo snorted scornfully “One of your American lawyers would be among the first to be executed in Thusbammanna.”

“Some Americans would pay to watch something like that,” I joked. “But I was thinking of a reporter from the Associated Press.”

Chantlo looked very impressed. “An excellent suggestion! The government is extremely conscious of its image, especially in America. The underground has had some success in informing the outside world of the brutality here. Foreign aid has been denied or delayed in the past because of objections from human rights organizations.”

We left the car in the garage, and walked several blocks to a squalid apartment building. It was reasonably clean, but the structure of the building was deteriorating. Chantlo left me on the sidewalk, where I was the subject of many curious stares. I felt very American; very self-conscious, especially when three different women came up to me and offered me tea. Knowing nothing of their language, I could only smile and shake my head. I found that I was bowing, trying to express appreciation at this offering that I didn’t understand.

After several minutes, Chantlo came out again. “It is arranged,” he announced. “Our underground network knows many reporters who are sympathetic to the plight of our people. One from the Associated Press will meet me in front of the police station in an hour.”

“Chantlo, while I was waiting, several women offered me tea. Why’d they do that?”

Chantlo looked surprised. “You are a stranger; a visitor. It is a gesture of hospitality and welcome. Surely strangers in your neighborhoods are treated in a similar way?”

I laughed, with little humor. “No. In America, when you see a stranger, you call a cop. Your way is much better.”

“Do not be hasty in your opinions,” Chantlo said darkly. “In Thusbammanna, a policeman is the last person one would wish to call.”

We walked back to the garage and set off in my car, since we could now drive anywhere without being tracked. We agreed that I would drop him off at police headquarters, and then go wait at my hotel. “It would not be wise to be seen together,” Chantlo said.

As we approached police headquarters, I could see a camera crew setting up. Chantlo saw it and nodded. “This reporter is quite thorough,” he said approvingly. “And he has considerable influence in Thusbammanna. He is the chief correspondent, and works closely with the American ambassador whenever trade talks are held, or when military bases are discussed. The police will not dare to simply shut him out.”

I dropped him off around the corner, and wished him luck. I hoped I looked reassuring, and I could tell he was trying to be confident.

“I’ll see you in just a little while, Chantlo,” I croaked through a dry throat.

“In just a little while,” Chantlo repeated bravely. Then he walked toward the police station.

I drove to the hotel, and paced back and forth across the room for what seemed like hours. It had to work, it just had to! What would I do if it didn’t? How could I live with myself if I had screwed up, and ended up costing Chantlo his life? The events of the past several months had destroyed my self-confidence. Who was I to think I could help these people anyway?