Chapter 15

This chapter is dedicated to Chapters/Indigo, the national Canadianmegachain. I was working at Bakka, the independent science fictionbookstore, when Chapters opened its first store in Toronto and I knewthat something big was going on right away, because two of oursmartest, best-informed customers stopped in to tell me that they'd beenhired to run the science fiction section. From the start, Chapters raisedthe bar on what a big corporate bookstore could be, extending its hours,adding a friendly cafe and lots of seating, installing in-store self-serviceterminals and stocking the most amazing variety of titles.
Chapters/IndigoI blogged the press-conference even before I'd sent out the invitationsto the press. I could tell that all these writers wanted to make me into aleader or a general or a supreme guerrilla commandant, and I figuredone way of solving that would be to have a bunch of Xnetters runningaround answering questions too.
Then I emailed the press. The responses ranged from puzzled to en-thusiastic — only the Fox reporter was "outraged" that I had the gall toask her to play a game in order to appear on her TV show. The rest ofthem seemed to think that it would make a pretty cool story, thoughplenty of them wanted lots of tech support for signing onto the gameI picked 8PM, after dinner. Mom had been bugging me about all theevenings I'd been spending out of the house until I finally spilled thebeans about Ange, whereupon she came over all misty and kept lookingat me like, my-little-boy's-growing-up. She wanted to meet Ange, and Iused that as leverage, promising to bring her over the next night if Icould "go to the movies" with Ange tonight.
Ange's mom and sister were out again — they weren't real stay-at-homes — which left me and Ange alone in her room with her Xbox and194mine. I unplugged one of her bedside screens and attached my Xbox to itso that we could both login at once.
Both Xboxes were idle, logged into Clockwork Plunder. I was pacing.
"It's going to be fine," she said. She glanced at her screen. "PatcheyePete's Market has 600 players in it now!" We'd picked Patcheye Pete's be-cause it was the market closest to the village square where new playersspawned. If the reporters weren't already Clockwork Plunder players —ha! — then that's where they'd show up. In my blog post I'd askedpeople generally to hang out on the route between Patcheye Pete's andthe spawn-gate and direct anyone who looked like a disoriented reporterover to Pete's.
"What the hell am I going to tell them?""You just answer their questions — and if you don't like a question, ig-nore it. Someone else can answer it. It'll be fine.""This is insane.""This is perfect, Marcus. If you want to really screw the DHS, you haveto embarrass them. It's not like you're going to be able to out-shoot them.
Your only weapon is your ability to make them look like morons."I flopped on the bed and she pulled my head into her lap and strokedmy hair. I'd been playing around with different haircuts before thebombing, dying it all kinds of funny colors, but since I'd gotten out of jailI couldn't be bothered. It had gotten long and stupid and shaggy and I'dgone into the bathroom and grabbed my clippers and buzzed it down tohalf an inch all around, which took zero effort to take care of and helpedme to be invisible when I was out jamming and cloning arphids.
I opened my eyes and stared into her big brown eyes behind herglasses. They were round and liquid and expressive. She could makethem bug out when she wanted to make me laugh, or make them softand sad, or lazy and sleepy in a way that made me melt into a puddle ofhorniness.
That's what she was doing right now.
I sat up slowly and hugged her. She hugged me back. We kissed. Shewas an amazing kisser. I know I've already said that, but it bears repeat-ing. We kissed a lot, but for one reason or another we always stopped be-fore it got too heavy.
Now I wanted to go farther. I found the hem of her t-shirt and tugged.
She put her hands over her head and pulled back a few inches. I knewthat she'd do that. I'd known since the night in the park. Maybe that's195why we hadn't gone farther — I knew I couldn't rely on her to back off,which scared me a little.
But I wasn't scared then. The impending press-conference, the fightswith my parents, the international attention, the sense that there was amovement that was careening around the city like a wild pinball — itmade my skin tingle and my blood sing.
And she was beautiful, and smart, and clever and funny, and I wasfalling in love with her.
Her shirt slid off, her arching her back to help me get it over hershoulders. She reached behind her and did something and her bra fellaway. I stared goggle-eyed, motionless and breathless, and then shegrabbed my shirt and pulled it over my head, grabbing me and pullingmy bare chest to hers.
We rolled on the bed and touched each other and ground our bodiestogether and groaned. She kissed all over my chest and I did the same toher. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think, I could only move and kiss andlick and touch.
We dared each other to go forward. I undid her jeans. She undid mine.
I lowered her zipper, she did mine, and tugged my jeans off. I tugged offhers. A moment later we were both naked, except for my socks, which Ipeeled off with my toes.
It was then that I caught sight of the bedside clock, which had longago rolled onto the floor and lay there, glowing up at us.
"Crap!" I yelped. "It starts in two minutes!" I couldn't freaking believethat I was about to stop what I was about to stop doing, when I wasabout to stop doing it. I mean, if you'd asked me, "Marcus, you are aboutto get laid for the firstest time EVAR, will you stop if I let off this nuclearbomb in the same room as you?" the answer would have been a resound-ing and unequivical NO.
And yet we stopped for this.
She grabbed me and pulled my face to hers and kissed me until Ithought I would pass out, then we both grabbed our clothes and more orless dressed, grabbing our keyboards and mice and heading for PatcheyePete's.
You could easily tell who the press were: they were the noobs whoplayed their characters like staggering drunks, weaving back and forthand up and down, trying to get the hang of it all, occasionally hitting the196wrong key and offering strangers all or part of their inventory, or givingthem accidental hugs and kicks.
The Xnetters were easy to spot, too: we all played Clockwork Plunderwhenever we had some spare time (or didn't feel like doing our home-work), and we had pretty tricked-out characters with cool weapons andbooby-traps on the keys sticking out of our backs that would cream any-one who tried to snatch them and leave us to wind down.
When I appeared, a system status message displayed M1K3Y HASENTERED PATCHEYE PETE'S — WELCOME SWABBIE WE OFFERFAIR TRADE FOR FINE BOOTY. All the players on the screen froze,then they crowded around me. The chat exploded. I thought about turn-ing on my voice-paging and grabbing a headset, but seeing how manypeople were trying to talk at once, I realized how confusing that wouldbe. Text was much easier to follow and they couldn't misquote me (hehheh).
I'd scouted the location before with Ange — it was great campaigningwith her, since we could both keep each other wound up. There was ahigh-spot on a pile of boxes of salt-rations that I could stand on and beseen from anywhere in the market.
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Good evening and thank you all for coming. My name is M1k3y andI'm not the leader of anything. All around you are Xnetters who have asmuch to say about why we're here as I do. I use the Xnet because I be-lieve in freedom and the Constitution of the United States of America. Iuse Xnet because the DHS has turned my city into a police-state wherewe're all suspected terrorists. I use Xnet because I think you can't defendfreedom by tearing up the Bill of Rights. I learned about the Constitutionin a California school and I was raised to love my country for its free-dom. If I have a philosophy, it is this:
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Governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powersfrom the consent of the governed, that whenever any form of govern-ment becomes destructive of these ends, it is the right of the people to al-ter or abolish it, and to institute new government, laying its foundationon such principles, and organizing its powers in such form, as to themshall seem most likely to effect their safety and happiness.
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197I didn't write that, but I believe it. The DHS does not govern with myconsent.
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Thank youI'd written this the day before, bouncing drafts back and forth withAnge. Pasting it in only took a second, though it took everyone in thegame a moment to read it. A lot of the Xnetters cheered, big showy pirate"Hurrah"s with raised sabers and pet parrots squawking and flyingoverhead.
Gradually, the journalists digested it too. The chat was running pastfast, so fast you could barely read it, lots of Xnetters saying things like"Right on" and "America, love it or leave it" and "DHS go home" and"America out of San Francisco," all slogans that had been big on the Xnetblogosphere.
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M1k3y, this is Priya Rajneesh from the BBC. You say you're not theleader of any movement, but do you believe there is a movement? Is itcalled the Xnet?
Lots of answers. Some people said there wasn't a movement, somesaid there was and lots of people had ideas about what it was called:
Xnet, Little Brothers, Little Sisters, and my personal favorite, the UnitedStates of America.
They were really cooking. I let them go, thinking of what I could say.
Once I had it, I typed,>
I think that kind of answers your question, doesn't it? There may beone or more movements and they may be called Xnet or not.
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M1k3y, I'm Doug Christensen from the Washington Internet Daily.
What do you think the DHS should be doing to prevent another attackon San Francisco, if what they're doing isn't successful.
More chatter. Lots of people said that the terrorists and the govern-ment were the same — either literally, or just meaning that they wereequally bad. Some said the government knew how to catch terrorists butpreferred not to because "war presidents" got re-elected.
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I don't know198I typed finally.
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I really don't. I ask myself this question a lot because I don't want toget blown up and I don't want my city to get blown up. Here's what I'vefigured out, though: if it's the DHS's job to keep us safe, they're failing.
All the crap they've done, none of it would stop the bridge from beingblown up again. Tracing us around the city? Taking away our freedom?
Making us suspicious of each other, turning us against each other?
Calling dissenters traitors? The point of terrorism is to terrify us. TheDHS terrifies me.
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I don't have any say in what the terrorists do to me, but if this is a freecountry then I should be able to at least say what my own cops do to me.
I should be able to keep them from terrorizing me.
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I know that's not a good answer. Sorry.
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What do you mean when you say that the DHS wouldn't stop terror-ists? How do you know?
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Who are you?
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I'm with the Sydney Morning Herald.
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I'm 17 years old. I'm not a straight-A student or anything. Even so, Ifigured out how to make an Internet that they can't wiretap. I figured outhow to jam their person-tracking technology. I can turn innocent peopleinto suspects and turn guilty people into innocents in their eyes. I couldget metal onto an airplane or beat a no-fly list. I figured this stuff out bylooking at the web and by thinking about it. If I can do it, terrorists cando it. They told us they took away our freedom to make us safe. Do youfeel safe?
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In Australia? Why yes I doThe pirates all laughed.
199More journalists asked questions. Some were sympathetic, some werehostile. When I got tired, I handed my keyboard to Ange and let her beM1k3y for a while. It didn't really feel like M1k3y and me were the sameperson anymore anyway. M1k3y was the kind of kid who talked to inter-national journalists and inspired a movement. Marcus got suspendedfrom school and fought with his dad and wondered if he was goodenough for his kick-ass girlfriend.
By 11PM I'd had enough. Besides, my parents would be expecting mehome soon. I logged out of the game and so did Ange and we lay therefor a moment. I took her hand and she squeezed hard. We hugged.
She kissed my neck and murmured something.
"What?""I said I love you," she said. "What, you want me to send you atelegram?""Wow," I said.
"You're that surprised, huh?""No. Um. It's just — I was going to say that to you.""Sure you were," she said, and bit the tip of my nose.
"It's just that I've never said it before," I said. "So I was working up toit.""You still haven't said it, you know. Don't think I haven't noticed. Wegirls pick upon these things.""I love you, Ange Carvelli," I said.
"I love you too, Marcus Yallow."We kissed and nuzzled and I started to breathe hard and so did she.
That's when her mom knocked on the door.
"Angela," she said, "I think it's time your friend went home, don'tyou?""Yes, mother," she said, and mimed swinging an axe. As I put mysocks and shoes on, she muttered, "They'll say, that Angela, she was sucha good girl, who would have thought it, all the time she was in the backyard, helping her mother out by sharpening that hatchet."I laughed. "You don't know how easy you have it. There is no way myfolks would leave us alone in my bedroom until 11 o'clock.""11:45," she said, checking her clock.
"Crap!" I yelped and tied my shoes.
200"Go," she said, "run and be free! Look both ways before crossing theroad! Write if you get work! Don't even stop for a hug! If you're not outof here by the count of ten, there's going to be trouble, mister. One. Two.
Three."I shut her up by leaping onto the bed, landing on her and kissing heruntil she stopped trying to count. Satisfied with my victory, I poundeddown the stairs, my Xbox under my arm.
Her mom was at the foot of the stairs. We'd only met a couple times.
She looked like an older, taller version of Ange — Ange said her fatherwas the short one — with contacts instead of glasses. She seemed to havetentatively classed me as a good guy, I and appreciated it.
"Good night, Mrs Carvelli," I said.
"Good night, Mr Yallow," she said. It was one of our little rituals, eversince I'd called her Mrs Carvelli when we first met.
I found myself standing awkwardly by the door.
"Yes?" she said.
"Um," I said. "Thanks for having me over.""You're always welcome in our home, young man," she said.
"And thanks for Ange," I said finally, hating how lame it sounded. Butshe smiled broadly and gave me a brief hug.
"You're very welcome," she said.
The whole bus ride home, I thought over the press-conference,thought about Ange naked and writhing with me on her bed, thoughtabout her mother smiling and showing me the door.
My mom was waiting up for me. She asked me about the movie and Igave her the response I'd worked out in advance, cribbing from the re-view it had gotten in the Bay Guardian.
As I fell asleep, the press-conference came back. I was really proud ofit. It had been so cool, to have all these big-shot journos show up in thegame, to have them listen to me and to have them listen to all the peoplewho believed in the same things as me. I dropped off with a smile on mylips.
I should have known better.
XNET LEADER: I COULD GET METAL ONTO AN AIRPLANEDHS DOESN'T HAVE MY CONSENT TO GOVERN201XNET KIDS: USA OUT OF SAN FRANCISCOThose were the good headlines. Everyone sent me the articles to blog,but it was the last thing I wanted to do.
I'd blown it, somehow. The press had come to my press-conferenceand concluded that we were terrorists or terrorist dupes. The worst wasthe reporter on Fox News, who had apparently shown up anyway, andwho devoted a ten-minute commentary to us, talking about our"criminal treason." Her killer line, repeated on every news-outlet I found,was:
"They say they don't have a name. I've got one for them. Let's callthese spoiled children Cal-Quaeda. They do the terrorists' work on thehome front. When — not if, but when — California gets attacked again,these brats will be as much to blame as the House of Saud."Leaders of the anti-war movement denounced us as fringe elements.
One guy went on TV to say that he believed we had been fabricated bythe DHS to discredit them.
The DHS had their own press-conference announcing that they woulddouble the security in San Francisco. They held up an arphid clonerthey'd found somewhere and demonstrated it in action, using it to stagea car-theft, and warned everyone to be on their alert for young peoplebehaving suspiciously, especially those whose hands were out of sight.
They weren't kidding. I finished my Kerouac paper and started in on apaper about the Summer of Love, the summer of 1967 when the anti-warmovement and the hippies converged on San Francisco. The guys whofounded Ben and Jerry's — old hippies themselves — had founded a hip-pie museum in the Haight, and there were other archives and exhibits tosee around town.
But it wasn't easy getting around. By the end of the week, I was gettingfrisked an average of four times a day. Cops checked my ID and ques-tioned me about why I was out in the street, carefully eyeballing the let-ter from Chavez saying that I was suspended.
I got lucky. No one arrested me. But the rest of the Xnet weren't solucky. Every night the DHS announced more arrests, "ringleaders" and"operatives" of Xnet, people I didn't know and had never heard of,paraded on TV along with the arphid sniffers and other devices that hadbeen in their pockets. They announced that the people were "namingnames," compromising the "Xnet network" and that more arrests wereexpected soon. The name "M1k3y" was often heard.
202Dad loved this. He and I watched the news together, him gloating, meshrinking away, quietly freaking out. "You should see the stuff they'regoing to use on these kids," Dad said. "I've seen it in action. They'll get acouple of these kids and check out their friends lists on IM and thespeed-dials on their phones, look for names that come up over and over,look for patterns, bringing in more kids. They're going to unravel themlike an old sweater."I canceled Ange's dinner at our place and started spending even moretime there. Ange's little sister Tina started to call me "the house-guest," asin "is the house-guest eating dinner with me tonight?" I liked Tina. Allshe cared about was going out and partying and meeting guys, but shewas funny and utterly devoted to Ange. One night as we were doing thedishes, she dried her hands and said, conversationally, "You know, youseem like a nice guy, Marcus. My sister's just crazy about you and I likeyou too. But I have to tell you something: if you break her heart, I willtrack you down and pull your scrotum over your head. It's not a prettysight."I assured her that I would sooner pull my own scrotum over my headthan break Ange's heart and she nodded. "So long as we're clear on that.""Your sister is a nut," I said as we lay on Ange's bed again, looking atXnet blogs. That is pretty much all we did: fool around and read Xnet.
"Did she use the scrotum line on you? I hate it when she does that. Shejust loves the word 'scrotum,' you know. It's nothing personal."I kissed her. We read some more.
"Listen to this," she said. "Police project four to six hundred arrests thisweekend in what they say will be the largest coordinated raid on Xnetdissidents to date."I felt like throwing up.
"We've got to stop this," I said. "You know there are people who aredoing more jamming to show that they're not intimidated? Isn't that justcrazy?""I think it's brave," she said. "We can't let them scare us intosubmission.""What? No, Ange, no. We can't let hundreds of people go to jail. Youhaven't been there. I have. It's worse than you think. It's worse than youcan imagine.""I have a pretty fertile imagination," she said.
203"Stop it, OK? Be serious for a second. I won't do this. I won't sendthose people to jail. If I do, I'm the guy that Van thinks I am.""Marcus, I'm being serious. You think that these people don't knowthey could go to jail? They believe in the cause. You believe in it too.
Give them the credit to know what they're getting into. It's not up to youto decide what risks they can or can't take.""It's my responsibility because if I tell them to stop, they'll stop.""I thought you weren't the leader?""I'm not, of course I'm not. But I can't help it if they look to me forguidance. And so long as they do, I have a responsibility to help themstay safe. You see that, right?""All I see is you getting ready to cut and run at the first sign of trouble.
I think you're afraid they're going to figure out who you are. I thinkyou're afraid for you.""That's not fair," I said, sitting up, pulling away from her.
"Really? Who's the guy who nearly had a heart attack when hethought that his secret identity was out?""That was different," I said. "This isn't about me. You know it isn't.
Why are you being like this?""Why are you like this?" she said. "Why aren't you willing to be the guywho was brave enough to get all this started?""This isn't brave, it's suicide.""Cheap teenage melodrama, M1k3y.""Don't call me that!""What, 'M1k3y'? Why not, M1k3y?"I put my shoes on. I picked up my bag. I walked home.
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Why I'm not jamming>
I won't tell anyone else what to do, because I'm not anyone's leader, nomatter what Fox News thinks.
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But I am going to tell you what I plan on doing. If you think that's theright thing to do, maybe you'll do it too.
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I'm not jamming. Not this week. Maybe not next. It's not because I'mscared. It's because I'm smart enough to know that I'm better free than inprison. They figured out how to stop our tactic, so we need to come upwith a new tactic. I don't care what the tactic is, but I want it to work. It'sstupid to get arrested. It's only jamming if you get away with it.
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There's another reason not to jam. If you get caught, they might useyou to catch your friends, and their friends, and their friends. Theymight bust your friends even if they're not on Xnet, because the DHS islike a maddened bull and they don't exactly worry if they've got the rightguy.
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I'm not telling you what to do.
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But the DHS is dumb and we're smart. Jamming proves that they can'tfight terrorism because it proves that they can't even stop a bunch ofkids. If you get caught, it makes them look like they're smarter than us.
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THEY AREN'T SMARTER THAN US! We are smarter than them. Let'sbe smart. Let's figure out how to jam them, no matter how many goonsthey put on the streets of our city.
I posted it. I went to bed.
I missed Ange.
Ange and I didn't speak for the next four days, including the weekend,and then it was time to go back to school. I'd almost called her a milliontimes, written a thousand unsent emails and IMs.
Now I was back in Social Studies class, and Mrs Andersen greeted mewith voluble, sarcastic courtesy, asking me sweetly how my "holiday"had been. I sat down and mumbled nothing. I could hear Charlessnicker.
She taught us a class on Manifest Destiny, the idea that the Americanswere destined to take over the whole world (or at least that's how shemade it seem) and seemed to be trying to provoke me into sayingsomething so she could throw me out.
205I felt the eyes of the class on me, and it reminded me of M1k3y and thepeople who looked up to him. I was sick of being looked up to. I missedAnge.
I got through the rest of the day without anything making any kind ofmark on me. I don't think I said eight words.
Finally it was over and I hit the doors, heading for the gates and thestupid Mission and my pointless house.
I was barely out the gate when someone crashed into me. He was ayoung homeless guy, maybe my age, maybe a little older. He wore along, greasy overcoat, a pair of baggy jeans, and rotting sneakers thatlooked like they'd been through a wood-chipper. His long hair hungover his face, and he had a pubic beard that straggled down his throat in-to the collar of a no-color knit sweater.
I took this all in as we lay next to each other on the sidewalk, peoplepassing us and giving us weird looks. It seemed that he'd crashed intome while hurrying down Valencia, bent over with the burden of a splitbackpack that lay beside him on the pavement, covered in tight geomet-ric doodles in magic-marker.
He got to his knees and rocked back and forth, like he was drunk orhad hit his head.
"Sorry buddy," he said. "Didn't see you. You hurt?"I sat up too. Nothing felt hurt.
"Um. No, it's OK."He stood up and smiled. His teeth were shockingly white and straight,like an ad for an orthodontic clinic. He held his hand out to me and hisgrip was strong and firm.
"I'm really sorry." His voice was also clear and intelligent. I'd expectedhim to sound like the drunks who talked to themselves as they roamedthe Mission late at night, but he sounded like a knowledgeable bookstoreclerk.
"It's no problem," I said.
He stuck out his hand again.
"Zeb," he said.
"Marcus," I said.
"A pleasure, Marcus," he said. "Hope to run into you again sometime!"206Laughing, he picked up his backpack, turned on his heel and hurriedaway.
I walked the rest of the way home in a bemused fug. Mom was at thekitchen table and we had a little chat about nothing at all, the way weused to do, before everything changed.
I took the stairs up to my room and flopped down in my chair. Foronce, I didn't want to login to the Xnet. I'd checked in that morning be-fore school to discover that my note had created a gigantic controversyamong people who agreed with me and people who were righteouslypissed that I was telling them to back off from their beloved sport.
I had three thousand projects I'd been in the middle of when it had allstarted. I was building a pinhole camera out of legos, I'd been playingwith aerial kite photography using an old digital camera with a triggerhacked out of silly putty that was stretched out at launch and slowlysnapped back to its original shape, triggering the shutter at regular inter-vals. I had a vacuum tube amp I'd been building into an ancient, rusted,dented olive-oil tin that looked like an archaeological find — once it wasdone, I'd planned to build in a dock for my phone and a set of 5.1surround-sound speakers out of tuna-fish cans.
I looked over my workbench and finally picked up the pinhole cam-era. Methodically snapping legos together was just about my speed.
I took off my watch and the chunky silver two-finger ring that showeda monkey and a ninja squaring off to fight and dropped them into thelittle box I used for all the crap I load into my pockets and around myneck before stepping out for the day: phone, wallet, keys, wifinder,change, batteries, retractable cables… I dumped it all out into the box,and found myself holding something I didn't remember putting in therein the first place.
It was a piece of paper, grey and soft as flannel, furry at the edgeswhere it had been torn away from some larger piece of paper. It wascovered in the tiniest, most careful handwriting I'd ever seen. I unfoldedit and held it up. The writing covered both sides, running down from thetop left corner of one side to a crabbed signature at the bottom rightcorner of the other side.
The signature read, simply: ZEB.
I picked it up and started to read.
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207Dear Marcus>
You don't know me but I know you. For the past three months, sincethe Bay Bridge was blown up, I have been imprisoned on Treasure Is-land. I was in the yard on the day you talked to that Asian girl and gottackled. You were brave. Good on you.
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I had a burst appendix the day afterward and ended up in the infirm-ary. In the next bed was a guy named Darryl. We were both in recoveryfor a long time and by the time we got well, we were too much of an em-barrassment to them to let go.
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So they decided we must really be guilty. They questioned us everyday. You've been through their questioning, I know. Imagine it formonths. Darryl and I ended up cell-mates. We knew we were bugged, sowe only talked about inconsequentialities. But at night, when we were inour cots, we would softly tap out messages to each other in Morse code(I knew my HAM radio days would come in useful sometime).
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At first, their questions to us were just the same crap as ever, who didit, how'd they do it. But after a little while, they switched to asking usabout the Xnet. Of course, we'd never heard of it. That didn't stop themasking.
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Darryl told me that they brought him arphid cloners, Xboxes, all kindsof technology and demanded that he tell them who used them, wherethey learned to mod them. Darryl told me about your games and thethings you learned.
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Especially: The DHS asked us about our friends. Who did we know?
What were they like? Did they have political feelings? Had they been introuble at school? With the law?
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We call the prison Gitmo-by-the-Bay. It's been a week since I got outand I don't think that anyone knows that their sons and daughters areimprisoned in the middle of the Bay. At night we could hear peoplelaughing and partying on the mainland.
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I got out last week. I won't tell you how, in case this falls into thewrong hands. Maybe others will take my route.
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Darryl told me how to find you and made me promise to tell you whatI knew when I got back. Now that I've done that I'm out of here like lastyear. One way or another, I'm leaving this country. Screw America.
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Stay strong. They're scared of you. Kick them for me. Don't get caught.
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ZebThere were tears in my eyes as I finished the note. I had a disposablelighter somewhere on my desk that I sometimes used to melt the insula-tion off of wires, and I dug it out and held it to the note. I knew I owed itto Zeb to destroy it and make sure no one else ever saw it, in case itmight lead them back to him, wherever he was going.
I held the flame and the note, but I couldn't do it.
Darryl.
With all the crap with the Xnet and Ange and the DHS, I'd almost for-gotten he existed. He'd become a ghost, like an old friend who'd movedaway or gone on an exchange program. All that time, they'd been ques-tioning him, demanding that he rat me out, explain the Xnet, the jam-mers. He'd been on Treasure Island, the abandoned military base thatwas halfway along the demolished span of the Bay Bridge. He'd been soclose I could have swam to him.
I put the lighter down and re-read the note. By the time it was done, Iwas weeping, sobbing. It all came back to me, the lady with the severehaircut and the questions she'd asked and the reek of piss and the stiff-ness of my pants as the urine dried them into coarse canvas.
"Marcus?"My door was ajar and my mother was standing in it, watching mewith a worried look. How long had she been there?
I armed the tears away from my face and snorted up the snot. "Mom,"I said. "Hi."She came into my room and hugged me. "What is it? Do you need totalk?"209The note lay on the table.
"Is that from your girlfriend? Is everything all right?"She'd given me an out. I could just blame it all on problems with Angeand she'd leave my room and leave me alone. I opened my mouth to dojust that, and then this came out:
"I was in jail. After the bridge blew. I was in jail for that whole time."The sobs that came then didn't sound like my voice. They sounded likean animal noise, maybe a donkey or some kind of big cat noise in thenight. I sobbed so my throat burned and ached with it, so my chestheaved.
Mom took me in her arms, the way she used to when I was a little boy,and she stroked my hair, and she murmured in my ear, and rocked me,and gradually, slowly, the sobs dissipated.
I took a deep breath and Mom got me a glass of water. I sat on theedge of my bed and she sat in my desk chair and I told her everything.
Everything.
Well, most of it.