Rudy Rucker - The hacker and the ants

Thinking of Hungary and the police made me wonder if our own USA would ever be free. Would we ever get rid of the earth-raping, drug-warring social oppressors who’d made the public treasury their own latrine and hog wallow? Well, the Hungarians had gotten rid of the Communists, hadn’t they? Some day the Revolution was going to come to America, too. One of the secondary reasons why I worked on ants and robots was that I hoped they could help bring down the Pig.

Tonight the ants had ruined television. There could be no more important step in crippling the Pig. I started grinning. The GoMotion ants had done a good thing. I was proud of them.

The kids had Studly out of the trunk and he was playing tag with them in the parking lot, lunging forward just now to tap laughing Ida’s back with his pincer- the same bloodstained pincer that had killed Dutch the dog.

I gasped in anguish. Where was my brain? The only thing to do with Studly anymore was to scrap him!

“Get back in the trunk, Studly!” I shouted. I half-expected him to refuse, but he complied.

“Studly killed a dog,” I told the kids once the robot was locked in the trunk. “They’re talking about it on TV. I was an idiot to let him play with you just now. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Why did he kill a dog?” asked Tom.

“It’s probably the ants. The ants must have changed the way he thinks. I’m going to let his batteries run down.”

Studly started hammering on the trunk from the inside. He’d heard what I’d said. “Let me out, Jerzy, and let me run away! It wasn’t my fault! The voice made me do it! I don’t want to die!” I’d never heard one of our robots talking about death before.

“Are you going to get in trouble?” Tom asked over Studly’s cries.

“Maybe. GoMotion might say it’s thanks to me the ants are on TV. And to tell you the truth, I hope the ants stay. It would even be worth my going to jail, I think. It’s a wonderful thing to ruin television. I’m glad. I hope that television never works right again.”

“Daddy!” protested Ida. “You are so mean. If you don’t like television you don’t have to watch it.”

“I don’t like for anyone to watch television,” I exclaimed. “Everything on it is lies. The Lord hates television.” This last phrase was a variable catch phrase that my family and I had picked up during our stay in Killeville, where there had been eighteen different religious Fibernet channels showing hideous TV evangelists. One time we’d seen an old tape of Jerry Falwell preaching about how much “ The Lord hates ” this and that, and so from that day on, I’d always enjoyed telling Ida things like, “The Lord hates lipstick,” or “The Lord hates McDonald’s.”

“ The Lord hates Daddy’s ants,” responded Ida.

“Yes, I’m glad the ants have ruined television,” I repeated. “But I’m scared of them, too. Last night I was looking in cyberspace and the ants were really scary. You children-you children have to be very careful. Somehow my

hacking has gotten me mixed up in some big things. The ants were threatening to hurt you. I saw a simmie called Hex DEF6.”

THUD THUD THUD.

The Studcreature was hammering the trunk so hard that I was half-expecting to start seeing bulging-out dents. Studly didn’t want to die, but each thud was weaker than the one before. He only had so much power left in his batteries.

“Kids, I’m gonna go home and face the music. Wish me luck.”

“Bye, Da. We love you.”

When I got home all was calm and dark. As I got out of the car, Studly called to me.

“Jerzy! I need electricity immediately.” His voice was faint.

I thought of Eddie Poe’s classic story, “The Cask of Amontillado,” where a man named Montresor lures his besotted enemy into a crypt, there to shackle and immure him.

“Wait till morning, Studly.”

“But I’ll lose all my memories, Jerzy. I haven’t downloaded to disk.”

“ For the love of God, Montresor,” I murmured mockingly. Studly had done more than enough damage already. The sooner his batteries died the better. Hopefully the memory wipe would erase the ant programs that had infected him. And if not, I’d better take him apart and crush his chips with pliers, as Roger had said. I went in the house, opened a beer, and sat down in front of the TV.

This TV hadn’t been turned on since the ants invaded Fibernet San Jose, so I figured that if I unplugged the cable I might be able to pick up clear broadcast television with the set’s rabbit ears. I gave it a try. I managed to watch about fifteen seconds worth of un-jammed network news, but then there was a little blip of static and- Hi, there! — the GoMotion ants were up and running on my TV. Now all the channels that I could pick up with my antenna were turned into crawling pixels, into people with ant heads, into random light shows-and the sound was chopped-up, crazy squawks.

What was happening, I figured, was that the GoMotion ants were in the broadcaster’s DTV compression chips, so that the compressed broadcast signals all included ant eggcases. That first blip of static had been an eggcase settling in on my DTV decompression chip. Aside from Roger Coolidge, I was probably the only person in the world who realized what was going on. All the local broadcasts now contained ant eggcases.

Presumably some of our local stories had gone out over satellite feed to network affiliates, so by now the ants had spread to those stations’ DTV chips. And those stations were in turn broadcasting ant eggcases to their viewers, as well as passing the ant infection on to other broadcast stations over satellite. Except for the few disadvantaged countries still on the old uncompressed analog TV standard, the whole of the global TV village would be full of ants by now.

Over the next hour, broadcaster after broadcaster gave up and went off-line-but it was way too late to stop the spread of the GoMotion ants.

Victory! VICTORY! Victory? The GoMotion ants had ruined television! But why, and what did it mean? I went to bed.

The next morning, Wednesday, I woke to the sound of a car pulling into my driveway, a car with a very loud engine. It was the stinking, roaring diesel Mercedes of Susan Poker. For the moment she didn’t get out of her car, but simply sat in there talking on her phone. Either she was waiting for a client, or she had nowhere better to pull over. Well, I could choose to ignore her. I had dead-bolted all the doors last night; there was no chance of Susan Poker using her key to come in. I decided to take a shower so that if she knocked, I honestly wouldn’t hear her.

But first I stepped onto the sun porch and checked once again that my computer was unplugged. Yes. And by now Studly would be in a coma. Maybe I wasn’t going to be implicated. But what about the Vos? Would they talk?

In the shower I wondered about the Vos. Surely the guy whose dog we’d killed would put the police onto the Vos. But you were always reading in the paper how Vietnamese people never talk to the cops. If you’re Vietnamese, even if some neighborhood Vietnamese hooligans come in and take your savings at knifepoint, you don’t talk to the authorities. If you trusted the authorities, you would have put the money in a bank instead of keeping it under your mattress in the first place. No, with any luck, the Vos would keep mum, and GoMotion would stonewall. So what would the cops have to go on?

I dried myself, and put on my shorts, sandals, argyle socks, and a favorite green shirt with cubic Mandelbrot sets. As I shaved, my calming reveries were interrupted by a loud pounding on the front door.

“Open up! Police!”

Oh well!

There was a black-and-white cop car parked on Tangle Way, and Susan Poker’s Mercedes was still in the driveway behind my Animata. She was standing by her car watching the police, Susan Poker with her red suit, bleached hair, and plastic-shiny makeup- she’d called the cops on me! I felt such strong hatred toward her that it made me weak in the knees.