From: millere@egr.msu.edu (Eric Miller)
Newsgroups: alt.cyberpunk
Subject: Microchips Never Rust
Date: 12 Jan 93 19:20:58 GMT
Distribution: usa
Organization: Michigan State University, College of Engineering
NNTP-Posting-Host: elm.egr.msu.edu

Hi gang.

I've been working on a story, called Microchips Never Rust, and
I'm almost done with the first part. If you have any comments or
suggestions, send them to at

	millere@egr.msu.edu

	Also, if this group is inappropriate for story postings,
	let me know of a better place.

	Thanks


			MICROCHIPS NEVER RUST -PART 1



     "Long using the nickname 'The Louisiana Unpurchase', the
states which belong to the Iowa Convention still elect and send
representatives to Washington using the traditional election year
schedule. Early fears that arrests and reprisals would be made
against the Un-American politicians never materialized;
Washington soon realized that the Western states representatives
fulfilled the roles of diplomats, and that, if even on a
perfunctory level, they helped the old system function with its
magic 50 states. Even as Federal troops marched into Iowa,
committees including Colorado and Wyoming senators could be seen
calmly discussing the "New American Education Initiative". It is
rumored that on the wall of a rebel senator's office is the
popular poster depicting a map of the U.S. with all of the states
east of the Mississippi missing and replaced by water. An old
cursive style script reads "Thar be dragons" on the map's right
side...."
          From "Wormwood IV" an outlaw journal distributed on
          piggyback virus.

     Hanson sat up on the lower bunk and ran his hand along his
unshaven face. The now early light of May was his alarm clock;
Hanson was determined to leave the workhouse as soon as possible,
even if today was a sleep-in day. The 50 or so workers were still
asleep, exhausted by yesterday's 20 hour final stretch. Hanson
knew he could hit the terminal early, register his work sheet and
get outdoors before running into Chalker. Doing favors for
Chalker had meant more than the usual hours of hacking nets and
setting up scams. Hanson was sure that Chalker had bit off more
than he could chew, and that arrest was soon on its way. The
random work siphon scheme was crude by any programmer's standards
and way beneath Hanson's, but involvement meant six month's
drudge pay for the price of two, and a chance to get out of
Wurkhaus for the entire summer. Quietly putting on the sheetsack
and getting up, Hanson looked around the bunkroom at the snoring
workers. The air was pungent with sweat and battery acid. Hanson
cautiously creeped out along the fire-escape over to Chalker's
room and looked in the window; Chalker's cot was surrounded with
wine bottles, the sleeping supervisor still fully dressed. Good,
a quiet move down the ladder put Hanson right by the work
terminal. Hanson entered his card carver's number and noted with
delight the work date coming up as 4 month's previous work plus
the two he just had. He then pressed a new set of codes and had
his earner's sheet shifted forward by 4 months. The new job code
was entered to make him a Portuguese tutor, normally a non-earner
for a drudge, but one that would make his vacation a lawful one.
Hitting the close button caused four asterisks to appear. Oh,
shit, I've been caught, groaned Hanson. A press of the disclosure
option bought news that he was totally unprepared for. After five
years of delays, Central State University was now prepared to
hear his dissertation and grant him his Doctorate. A teaching
position was also open in the department of Political Science,
would he honor them with his presence at a faculty interview?
Damn, this must be bad, they must be roping me in. Hanson
confirmed the appointment time with his student number and closed
the terminal. Giving one last look to the soot stained, gray
pitted Wurkhaus, he knew that his vacation plans had gone sour.
Attempts to skip the faculty interview would probably cause a
roper to hit the streets and maybe kill him. Go to the interview,
lie his way through the meeting and they would probably let him
go in peace, especially if he feigned homeless fatigue syndrome.
The one option that caused Hanson the most stress was that Yes,
they do want to hire me. Don't expect that to be the case, it
will never happen. But thoughts still hit Hanson with a sickening
but elating roar. A real apartment, maybe a real house. Real
computer credits, a savings account, free medical care,
clothes,...a unicar.... Thoughts exploded out of Hanson's head
when the guard dog started barking. The pitbull was the joke of
the compound, the victim of a botched attempt to turn him into a
roper through a head boost. But still, his barking might wake up
Chalker. Hanson quickly jumped the chain-link fence and ran into
the woods, finally filling his nostrils with air that didn't
smell of recycles chopped old tires.. If the origami tribe had
survived the winter, Hanson might find them a few miles to the
north. With his card carving skills for trade, it would be no
problem finding someone who could build him a cardboard dome.

     "The Brother Jim phenomena was best understood in the light
of new research on the effects of television and mass media in
the previous century. Ethnographers were able to chart the rising
popularity of several concurrent events that gave rise to today's
political institutions. Primarily, these were televangelism, mass
media merchandising aimed at the home, and especially the
synthesis of several psychological groups that were aimed at
providing self-help in exchange for money. The replacement of the
obviously religious motives of televangelists with those of self-
help merchandising gave this political movement the catalyst it
needed to become the motivating political force of the late
twentieth-century. The birth of the movement was heralded by the
release from prison of an individual calling himself Brother Jim.
Replacing obviously sectarian appeals with those honed through
the merchandising and self-help industry, this individual
returned to the mass media with the dual goals of achieving the
presidency and eliminating psychological competition from the
labeled evils of 'secular humanisms'. The cooptation of former
self-help leaders such as the World Institute of Korea and
Noonetics of California ensured that rival factions would benefit
from the period of peaceful control that would follow. Political
skirmishes over the combined meanings of state control and
psychological control erupted around the turn of the century; the
rising tide of economic wealth soon quieted dissent. Brother
Jim's ability to appease contending interests and grant absolute
political control to those following the Institute of Democracy
and World Peace's directives gave him more absolute power than
had been enjoyed by any American leader."

               Excerpted from "Healing the split: Mind,
               religion and democracy in the New American
               Order" Amazonian Technical Institute Press.

     "The reports are probably correct: Brother Jim in all
reality must consist of three or four individuals who through
plastic surgery have made themselves similar to each other."

               From 'The New Clan Separatist: The Search
               for 666' Freebrain Journal, publisher
               unknown.

     Two miles up the road and off to the left, Hanson had found
them. The woods had become a misnomer for a scratchy patch of
land that had been so stripped of wood that even the stumps had
been dug up. An origami man had been hauling strips of cardboard
off the truck and was only too glad to agree to Hanson's terms
when he found out he was a card carver.
     "What can you get me?" the origami man asked.
     "A warehouse has been miscounting its stock for the last 2
months. Its right by Wurkhaus and the roper in front has been
pretty much deactivated. If you steal their lunch wagon they'll
never miss it. I wrote the skip page. All you need do it put this
card in the wagon's side around 4 A.M., let it open up, steal
what you want and take off"
     A nod from the wiry face of the origami man meant the trade
was go. He nodded at two emaciated looking kids who were on the
top of the truck. The two generator bikes that powered the truck
were in need of new chains, a mental note that Hanson stored
away. The shorter of the two kids jumped onto the ground and
picked up a large serrated knife. The taller kid tossed down
sections of cardboard and the origami man took out his knife and
started to saw away at the industrial scrap. The sight was
remarkable to behold. With deft skill the triangular sections
were sawed and pasted together with wall-paper paste tape. Within
two hours a raised geodesic dome 12 feet in diameter had been
erected on the grassy depression, complete with windows made from
pressed plastic bags.
     The origami crew stepped back to admire their creation.
     "If it rains tonight, this is bad space. The four of us can
carry it on the truck up the road about six miles where it will
be better," said the origami leader. 
     An hour later the dome was on a raised spot, covered over
with the expert comouflauge of leaves and mud that was also the
origamists stock-in-trade.
     "I think I know where I can get new bike parts" Hanson told
the older man. Hanson thought of the upcoming interview. If
anything, the interview would give him a chance to see the access
code for a mechanic's warehouse in town close to the South
Campus. "This Monday, lets go together into town. I have to talk
to an office on South campus." Hanson remembered that the South
Campus was not at all the same as the North. It would have been
much better to see North campus, but the South was better than
any other opportunity that would visit the origamists. Always do
favors for an origamist, Hanson said to himself, you never know
when you might need their help.
     "If I can steal one of their office cards, I can fix it so
that we should have about 12 open hours in which we can raid
their warehouse. I'm an expert at hitting the gates."
     "See ya Monday morning," the gappy smiling origamist and his
kids trucked away. Standing outside the largely invisible dome,
Hanson recalled the several traps he had set at Wurkhaus. No
doubt Chalker would be blamed for the theft of food from the
wagon and upon being caught would have his employment grade
zeroed out. Chalker would then come after him. Chalker was
probably having fits right now. Chalker was one of those
typically mind-burnt individuals who believed that life in a
workhouse satisfied his heartfelt need to have a real roof over
his head and to be a servant to the state. Chalker, upon meeting
Hanson for the first time, was shocked to find that Hanson lived
the life of a homeless nobody who lived off the land as a
criminal. Their strained alliance had been forged through their
common desire to gain money at expense of the employment list.
Beyond this common goal was a seething hatred of Chalker and
Hanson for each other. Hanson remembered talking to a drunken
Chalker one freezing night at the beginning of the battery acid
work order:
     "I can't believe you think this is some sort of life! I'm
only here because I was arrested last month and I have to stay at
Wurkhaus for my two month sentence. There's hardly any food here,
and man, look at your arms!"
     Chalker's arms had been bleached white through the many
nights that the battery acid recycling order had been in effect.
The smell of acid stung the air. A poster of Brother Jim hung on
the wall next to Chalker's desk, its face bleached blue from the
air-born acid; Hanson thought humorously that he looked more like
a blue gorilla than the leader of the Free World.
     "Shut up Hanson! I'm ON the plan, I'm no damn scraper like
you! Its been worked out: you rig the net and we both get our
share, and I sign you off."
     Unfortunately for Hanson, one work order scam became many
little card carving schemes, all at Chalker's behest. Typical
scenario: a box of ten to twenty cards would be dropped off at
Chalker's desk at night. Hanson would match them with stolen
access numbers and route the results to a false persona where
deliveries and government bonuses would wait at a warehouse.
Hanson would note with wry satisfaction that most of these
schemes involved petty rip-offs of the Plan; for example,
altering sales figures so that bonuses came more often. Hanson
knew that it was very typical: propaganda was so fierce that
anyone not selling his share of the Plan was considered a traitor
to the common good. Like 75 percent of the population, Chalker
could not come up with his share of the National Debt and was
thus enrolled in the Plan. Pressure to do good found Chalker and
like minded individuals involved in petty scams aimed at allowing
their meager government appointed jobs to be supplemented with
side credits. And, like many of these same individuals, Chalker
found that splitting the take with so many compatriots yielded
quite little. Hanson tried to impress on Chalker the illogic of
this lifestyle, but to no effect. As an official homeless person,
Hanson had more access food and housing on a temporary basis than
Chalker normally saw in a year. The risks were there, the arrests
happened two to three times a year, but compared to Plan victims,
homeless life was to be greatly preferred. If Chalker had had a
girlfriend, chances were that the front guard would not allow her
into the workhouse. Absentee landlords frequently sent
supervisors over who would claim that this week there was an
emergency and we have to get through this, everyone together, so
we have to have everyone working through the night. The same
supervisors would also demand in extortion the fruits of
corruption that Chalker had failed to hide from sight, often
threatening to beat him up in his office. But Hanson, there in
the office night after night, would see Chalker reading from the
Good Works of Brother Jim, now official organs of the government
of the United States of America. The image of Chalker that most
hung in Hanson's mind was that of him sitting at his rusting hulk
of a desk, late one rainy April night, the air hanging heavy with
the stench of burning car tires that was the only way to heat the
building, the walls covered with a brownish greasy color, and
there, Chalker, hunched over a book titled "Paradise Through Hard
Work." Hanson realized that the food theft would trip off the
Wurkhaus food counter, even though the net choke was hiding most
of Chalker's warehouse rip-offs. If Chalker had had the brains,
he would try to throw the gaff onto one of the 50 or so battery
workers, but this most likely would not happen. Hanson settled on
to the inflated mattress he dug out of his sheetsack and placed
into the dome. If the interview was something legitimate, Hanson
would never have to see the likes of Wurkhaus again. He took off
the acid stained shoes and threw them out the dome door. More
relaxed than he had been in many weeks, Hanson's last thought as
he drifted off to sleep was the image of a girl, in her early
twenties, wearing a torn shirt that said on the front "No Justice
for the Rainbow Tribe".

     "One of the first projects to receive approval was the new
launch base on Marojo Island at the headways of the Amazon.
Engineers had long written about the advantages of using the
rotational force of the Earth's equator to add lift advantage to
the newly proposed rockets of the Amazonian Space Agency (ASA).
This dream became a reality when the combined German-Iranian
offensive created a flood of highly educated Russian refugees who
were only too glad to make the newly democratized Brazil their
new home. The plan, long dropped by the U.S., of shooting the raw
components of a deep space manned Mars rocket into orbit for
assembly, has been pursued with exceptional vigor by this new
generation of Brazilian space explorers infused with Russian
know-how and experience. Launch of the new manned rocket, Tropic
Wing, is for 8 months from this date, at a time which calculates
the closest arrival of Mars to Earth along the flight path. The
most powerful rocket engines in history will give these pilots
the before undreamed of time of only 6 months in space, with
Earth-like gravity being provided by a rotating bio-sphere that
will travel inside the Nuclear driven hydrogen ionizer. (Cut to
footage showing a man diving slow-motion into a swimming pool)
For this brave Russo-Brazilian crew, no comfort has been spared:
looking along the low-gravity axis of the sphere, you can see a
health club devoted to all the benefits low-gravity exercise has
to offer..."

               Presentation to the Conference of the Union
               of Independent Southern Hemisphere States

     "It has come to our attention that only 17 percent of the
current population of Brazil claim Portuguese as their sole
language. The influx of English speaking Russians into the
Republic soon after the turn of the century seriously damaged the
efficacy of this powerful and beautiful language which most
Brazilians can no longer recognize with any form of fluency. The
U.S. is now the only nation on earth that pursues use of this
language with any enthusiasm, as it has become quite a mania in
the central states where they employ its learning as a mark of
cultural distinction. We are distressed to see that school age
children in Brazil now read Jorge Amado in English translations
and that even classic video presentations of the past have been
lip-synced into English. Our distress continues at the failure of
our government to help in the preservation of this unequaled muse
of the poet's tongue. We have even had opportunity to speak with
our members who number in their years the 80's and 90's, and tell
us for fact that the cooking of a Brazilian cook who employs the
English far inferior to that of one who employs Portuguese. They
tell us if we do not act to stop this erosion we will not only
lose the greatest will of the poets, but lose for eternity the
great treasure of Bahian cooking, whose technique is hopelessly
lost in the English language cooking manuals prevalent in this
nation."

          Translated from "Proceedings of the Brazilian Society  
          for the Preservation of the Portuguese Language"

     Hanson sat leaning against the home-dome in the early
Michigan May morning. The slightly fragrant, humid scent riding
on the cool morning air gave Hanson the feeling that today was
going to be a perfect day. Perhaps the message from last week's
job terminal was read with too much paranoia. Hanson needed to
clear his thoughts and settle his mind. Taking a gulp from his
coffee thermo-cup and biting off a piece of sausage he swiped
from Chalker's desk, he steadied his mind and started thinking
about his past. Number One. For the last five years, just about
everything he had ever owned was something that he had stolen. He
had yet to find a job in which you were not under some sort of
condition to be thrown into a workhouse, worked to death, and had
all of your pay subtracted for "living benefits and taxes to the
government". Okay. Now number two. For the last five years he was
officially classified as a 'homeless person' with no means of
support. What is the punishment for a person with no means of
support? You get sent to a workhouse. Okay, this makes sense.
What do you do if leave a workhouse and continue to be a homeless
person? You get sent to a workhouse again. Good, makes sense. If
you're like Chalker, you make the best of things, convert to the
Plan, and hope for a better future. Things are miserable, yes,
but if I bring in enough money, and have enough recruits into the
Plan, I can rest easy if I get fifty people working under me.
With 50, enough money is flowing in, my portion of the national
debt is covered and I can store some remainder into National
credits. With enough skill, I can get two or three recruits under
me to handle the business and take off for the Florida Islands.
Number three. Everyone has the same idea. If you're like Chalker,
you think that every year will be different. So you apply to the
government for a work needs prospectus and around February 1st,
hundreds of cold, hungry out-of-homies come knocking on your
front door, eager to escape the National Defense Draft and
telling you they will be the best hard-workies you have seen
forever. You tell them that the work will involve mold
collections, battery acid recycling, lead extraction, anything.
But they say, ya, anything to get out of another Michigan winter
starving in a snow hut eating road-kill. But you say I don't want
you working here if that's the only thing you want. I want people
here who really want to be a part of the Plan. And they see the
tar covered windows knowing that there are warm beds behind them
and they say, ya. Yes, I'm  part of the Plan. I'll do anything to
be part of the Plan. And you hope against Thunder that the Winter
is long and hard and Spring doesn't come early like it did this
year, and this year you paid off your yearly tax share of the
National Debt and you can actually call an agent and say I want
to be spending time on one of the new Florida islands and I hear
you have rental cars thrown into the price of the hotel because
this year I'm going to drive across the new Cuba-Florida bridge
and collect and barbecue fighting conches on my own personal
beach...
     No. Number three is a big no. If you're like Hanson, you go
to college even though everyone says you're crazy, no one ever
gets jobs 'cause you go to college, you might as well go to a
Brother Jim church! But you stick it out. You get a B.A. in
political science and very carefully you get recruited into the
Master's program because the professors realize that you know how
to teach the traditional doctrines, but can discuss theory with
them after hours. You have read anthropology and psychology and
ask them hard questions but know when to respect the silences
that mean that someone may be listening to them or may be bugging
them....

     "All phone systems and all apparatus related by appearance
in either digital or analog form, are heretofore considered part
of the public information system. As such, all electronic devices
utilizing the limited psychological resources thus attributed to
the United States government as it is appointed guardian of the
Public Good, heretofore appoints itself legally in the capacity
of Public Guardian, and that as part of such rights, requires
through the legal force of the Federal Government the right to
enforce the law that makes all forms of electronic transmission
enforceable by law under the subject of a 'Universal Transmitter'
such device as which will allow any government official the right
to complete surveillance of any speaking American citizenry for
the rights of constituting from such conversation any spoken
conversation which may be considered seditious and to judge the
legal recourse thereof."

               Amendment to the 1934 Communication Act of the 
               United States of America.

     No, if you have survived the University and have headed on a
stellar course toward your Doctoral degree, you have become aware
of certain facts of life. For example, if you have not been able
to find a job (which in fact 75 percent of your fellow graduates
have not been able to) you realize that there are few options
open to you. For example, you will be sent to an international
workhouse. (International House of Pancakes?). You most likely
will not be hired by the University, even given the Doctoral
degree. But, you will come to a certain realization, clear and
simple. No job, the workhouse. The life of a criminal, the
workhouse. The life of a non-criminal: hard work in the work
house, near starvation. The life of criminal: occasional hard
work in the work house and the time of your life when you're not
getting caught. If you're a good criminal, people are willing to
pay you much more than they would a regular 'trabalhista'. Ride
out the occasional times spent in the 'haus and you're on easy
street. Of course it was not that simple. Living on the outside
required certain skills, and the ability to see beyond surface
appearance. For example, most grudges would look at the
origamista and his scrawny kids and see the most destitute low-
life. Look at his pedal-powered truck and geodesic domes and you
see a singular genius who, in ancient times, would have been
working for NASA. Get to know such people, and you form a
network. A network, that if you're lucky, means you only have to
work in a brutal German workhouse for only the most vicious
months of the Winter and spend the rest of the time outside.
     Number 4. This college interview thing. A real monkey-
wrench. It means one of two things: something really good, or
something really bad.
     Off in the horizon, Hanson saw the origamista and the pedal-
truck heading toward the dome.

               "Nationalism makes Christianity look like          
                Buddhism"

                The New Clan Almanac, 2nd Edition

     Hanson leaped on the back of the truck. "Let me help you
pedal this thing." He could see that at one time this was a
pickup truck, its rusted off parts now replaced with scraps of
foraged plastics. The two bikes mounted on the bed were rusting
apart, but still functioned well enough to transfer enough power
from human legs to the electric motor via the generator. Within a
few months rust would claim the entire bike array. "I can get
replacement bikes at the warehouse," yelled Hanson down to the
steering origamista, who himself was contributing power via an
old pedal boat system mounted in the cab. Hanson, who still used
mountain bikes when he could steal them and not have them stolen
from him in the middle of the night, had quite enough strength in
his leg muscles to out peddle the origamista's kids. Their
combined strength had powered the truck to a steady speed of 25
miles an hour. Within less than an hour they would be at the
outskirts of the college section of East Arbor. A large iron
flywheel, an antique over 100 years old mounted on a stand
between the two bikes, spun with enough speed to allow Hanson and
the older kid the luxury of resting every five minutes or so. The
younger kid, released from duties and smiling, pulled out an
ancient 8-track tape player with a pair of bashed in speakers. He
inserted a grease smeared tape that had long ago worn off the
paper label. The music, warbling through the dirty capstan, was
unmistakably Willy Nelson, a past century tax dodger who had
become a legend due to his capture by the government over tax
evasion. "On the road again, just can't wait to git on the road
again..." The Old Natural Science building was just now visible
at the end of the road. Several autotrucks had passed them on the
road into town, doing 50 to pass their 25. Hanson remembered
reports that the trucks had hit several pedestrians in town. The
German company that owned them was released from any liability:
the trucks had no human driver, and therefore no negligence could
be found. Like millions of others, Hanson and the origamista
could not get jobs as truck drivers with any company that did
real business. All trucks were now required to be operated by
computer control under federal law due to safety and energy
management issues. It was against the law for any underground
truckers like the origami man to use electricity off the public
grid or any form of rationed combustible fuel for their recycling
activities. The origami man was often pulled over by the police
for suspicion of electrical use, but soon let go when discovered
that the original powertrain consisted of two kids, two rusting
bikes, a flywheel generator and what energy the kids and old man
could get from their morning breakfast of rice and beans.
     Oh shit, here comes a cop. The best way to shake them was to
give them the homeless fatigue syndrome rap. The old man and the
kids already had it; they would give the cop their 8-track tape
player and off they would be. Hanson had to remember. First,
always smile. And when they ask you anything always bring up one
thing, as if your brain finds it impossible to maintain any
complex relationships. The MetalGermanFuzz stopped the truck and
asked everyone questions. Laughter ensued, as it always did when
he found that two little kids comprised all the power. But more
questions came in Hanson's direction. It was obvious by his leg
muscles that he had been eating a little too good.
     "How come you here?" MetalGermanFuzz intoned in a thick
buzz-saw accent. Fortunately Hanson had hid his sheetsack under
the sawed-up couch that functioned as the origamista's cockpit.
Staring past the cop's face, a smiling Hanson started talking
about an orange he had begged for breakfast. The cop kept at him
with different questions only to have the answer be the orange.
Hanson mumbled with delight about the orange. The pinched face of
the cop erupted into laughter again. A no-homie hitching a ride
on the old man's truck. Shaking his head with pity the German
jumped back into the unicar, hit some buttons and sped off. The
fuzz car like any other, steered under computer command. It was
illegal for new cars to have a human operated steering wheel
under Federal law for safety reasons. There had been some
problems, sure, but new studies had shown that autosteering had
reduced most accidents. A popular commercial showed a man leaving
a bar, staggeringly drunk, and slopping into his unicar. After
barely being able to insert the car card, the unicar lights up
and speeds off. A text insert in broken English read 'your
designated driver is your car. Its the law.' Hanson remembered
that a common worm prank at the time was to hit the ad with a
virus that caused footage of an explosive car crash to be spliced
to the end. Most national TV services had been so wormed out like
this that the only way to deliver the good message of Brother Jim
was to carry 16mm film projectors in a van and show current State
news on the side of a building. Refurbishing old drive-in
theators had become quite a mania, too. Armed guards prevented
hardware wormers from getting in and cutting cords or throwing
sand into the film aperture. This antique method had been
uncovered by a Brother Jimmer working in Germany who discovered
that in the First War of the Thousand Year Reich, the Good News
of National Socialism had been taken into peasant communities
with this method. And it worked! These ancient peasants had been
so low-tech that they fell under the spell of 16mm. The content
of the film was largely unknown, but one report writes that a
film contained footage of the warm beds and good work conditions
that would greet European no-homies in the workhouses that
Himmler had just set up.

               "Definition: Low-tech wormer: an individual who
               uses old fashioned media to do his phreaking. 
               Example: using the now tons of discarded carbon
               to print the code for a worm. Distribute the  
               newsletter by placing the carbon on a sheet of
               gelatin, running the prints and using it as  
               wrapping paper for food. Note: current federal law
               prohibits the use of paper to transmit written
               symbols (see Omnibus Recycling Act) but no law
               says you can't wrap food with it!"

               Source: The New Anarchist's Cookbook.

     

     The pedal-truck had entered a narrow road that ran through
South Campus. Hanson had the truck park a block away from the
warehouse. The good thing about a pedal truck is that few people
want to steal it when they find out all the work it involves to
just get it to go. The four of them walked over to the warehouse
across the street, avoiding a board-man who was trying to sell
them brain-stim tatoos. 
     Sitting at the warehouse door was a chimp with a brain-boost
wearing the blue Central Services uniform. The easiest score of
all, chimps could read cards but could not piece together the
complex underpinnings of a scam. Hanson decided he could skip
plan A and go directly to plan B now that he saw the guard was a
chimp. He smiled and walked up to the grizzled looking chimp, who
was lethargicly playing Solitaire on a wood crate.
     "I'm here for the shipment. This is my permit."
     The chimp grabbed the card and placed it into the net choke.
A green slip came out and the chimp looked at it slowly. A nod of
his head was followed by the release of a lever which raised the
metal door. Good, the skeleton page worm is still valid. The four
ran in and quickly pulled the door shut. It was important not to
raise suspicion; it was also necessary to keep out the tatoo
seller who was milling around outside. Inside, Hanson knew that
they had hit the motherload. Along the wall was a rack filled
with Mountain bike parts.
     "We have to be quick about this," Hanson whispered as he
pulled out several cans of spray paint from his sheetsack. The
paint inside was a special brownish-orange mixture that looked
just like rust when sprayed onto metal. One of the little origami
kid grabbed a can and started going over the bike parts. "Rust
never sleeps!" Within an hour the paint had dried and the four
started bundling together the chains, frames and wheels that they
would assemble the next day. The origamistas would have their new
power bikes, but for Hanson a mobile bike was in the works. Using
his artistic skills, Hanson would soon be riding around in a new
MolyTi Special hidden under a fake patina of rust. To complete
the illusion, the new GelSim seat would be hidden under an old
piece of burlap and rusty bolts would be attached to the frame
with wire. After reopening the door, the four ran the parts
across the street and into the truck using a relay approach. The
blue chimp watched attentively and nodded from time to time. When
the truck was full, Hanson told the old driver, "I'll be back at
my dome sometime tomorrow and we'll put everything together" The
origamistas smiled and soon the pedal truck disappeared down the
street. Hanson ducked down a side street to get out of view as
quickly as possible. He knew that as soon as the campus security
showed up, the tatoo seller would be able to fill in the details
of the heist that would be beyond the ability of the chimp to
relay. Hanson looked at himself. If he was going to an interview,
he had certainly come to appear as a most undesirable candidate.
Acid had streaked part of his black hair white, rust colored
paint had dripped all over his shirt and pants and 2 days of
stubble covered his face. No time to clean up, the interview was
in half an hour, the time it would take to walk to the office.
Besides, if they really want to hire me, my looks won't make any
difference. Walking northeast, Hanson quickly left behind the
warehouse section of South Campus. Besides himself and the tatoo
seller, Hanson noted that there were no people occupying this
neighborhood at all. Most of the metal sheds being used by
Central Services were marked with the simplified logos that made
up Standard Primate English. Several times, Hanson walked past
the shuffling 4 foot forms of the workchimps in their blue
uniforms, their hollow eyes staring up at him, and getting out of
the way quickly if he was in their path. Staring out the window
of an abandoned looking building was a gray haired chimp who eyed
Hanson with fear. The last building that Hanson had to walk past
to get onto the academic complex was a food bar. The two chimps
seated at the small metal food trough looked up at him and
stopped eating. Hanson ran across the street as quickly as he
could, dodging a cart full of scrap metal that was being driven
in by a chimp wearing a Central State cap. Hanson rarely came
into town, and all of a sudden something had really bothered him.
Do I really want to work here? Fear gagged his throat. The final
image of the warehouse district that really disturbed him was of
a chimp toddler on a plastic trike, bubbly happy looking, and
pulling a little plastic wagon. In the wagon were a bunch of
bones, probably horse or pig bones, but from the distance across
the street, Hanson couldn't be sure. Turning away for one last
time, he headed toward the row of pine trees that ran along the
academic complex.

     "Modern historians are at a loss as to what specific event
could be pinpointed to as the beginning of the current American
Civil war. Rather, they emphasize that the general trends
building toward the collapse of the current Union had been in
place for many decades: the 8 trillion dollar federal debt, the
steadily eroding quality of life, the purchase of key American
industries by private creditors within the International Monetary
Fund, and the growth of a new American middle class raised on the
fruits of the Information Technology revolution, left little
doubt that any state able to declare independence from Washington
D.C. would do so. The outlaw congress of the Iowa Convention
published the famous Adam's Doctrine, lifting verbatim from the
Founding Fathers comments that made it a democratic right to
reject governance as it was currently practiced in Washington.
The forceful seizure of great tracts of land throughout Kansas by
the IMF to cover defaults on the debt led to great violence as
local populations fought against the newly installed German
landlords.
The retreat of the German security guards along a line demarcated
by the Mississippi river led to the publication of the Economic
Bill of Rights, having as its main passage, "No American citizen
shall ever be held liable for debt secured or maintained by any
organ of government."

          History of the IMF in the twenty-first century:
          Original source unknown.

     Several buildings in the Academic Complex were obviously
quite new. At least since the very last time that Hanson had been
here almost 5 years ago. Like thousands of other so called
residents, Hanson's hasty flight from Central State had been
signaled by the
firebombing of the Administration building with the ensuing riot
shutting down services for almost a month. At the interview,
Hanson would no doubt be quizzed on the meaning of these events
and his possible involvement with them. Hanson held out the worn
student identification card that still functioned for him from
time to time. When economic conditions permitted, Hanson was able
to avoid workhouse life by claiming that he was still enrolled in
the Doctoral program of the Department of Political Science. To
make the act more convincing, he would show the drudge ropers
several of the books he carried in his sheetsack, like "Harmony
and the New States" or "Brother Jim: An American Life". The
MetalFuzz were guests in the states, and often didn't hide their
disdain for Brother Jim, but someone actually getting a Doctorate
in this stuff must be so mind burnt that he was completely
harmless.
     Hanson remembered one incident four years ago: sitting under
a tree one summer afternoon, he had been absorbed in a pair of
sunglasses that a workhouse drudge had traded him for a
grasshopper-bot Hanson once swiped from a landscaper as it left
the compound Hanson had been roped into. The glasses were a
common novelty at the time; they usually contained photos
inscribed in the lenses by a layered grating process. When the
wearer stared out through the lenses in bright light, holographic
photos would appear suspended out in front of the viewer's face,
the most common photos being life sized nude women. But these
glasses were quite different. An array of pages appeared in front
of Hanson, photos of pages from an old book whose sheets were
often creased and torn, edges ripped. The reader of the book was
told to read the book and pass the sunglasses on to someone else.
Using a small tab on the glasses allowed Hanson to focus in the
individual pages of the hologram. This was a photo of a complete,
uncensored, unrevised version of George Orwell's "1984" made from
a book many decades old! The Holy Grail for a cyberworm like
Hanson, the real book was rarely seen in any version other than
the burger wrappers that smeared their food contents blue with
mimeo ink from the few paragraphs that got out through the low-
techers roving library. And this was the real version at that.
The current library edition contained all sorts of crap about
Brother Jim and his defeat of Communism, changes made with the
"wonderful cooperation of the George Orwell estate". Jeez. 
     It was with understandable absorption that Hanson allowed
himself to be thrown off guard when the compound curfew fuzz
kicked his feet yelling "No more lunch hour!"
     This fuzz was typically outstate, proud of the fact that he
could only use Standard Primate English with his "Happy Debt
Holder Scum", typically cursing in German most of the time.
The guard quickly grabbed the sunglasses from Hanson's face and
the Brother Jim book he had been fake-reading from his hands.
     "You Doctor kid I hear? You know German?"
     Ya. Hanson knew. He had to pass the University exam in order
to maintain the stipend, but that was many years ago.
     "Here read this." The guard handed Hanson a crisp looking
little black book labeled 'Mein Kampf'. "Learn it. Feel it."
     The current Brother Jim administration had made it illegal
for the IMF host forces to bring in any non-English material; but
this didn't stop a group of MetalFuzzes from importing boatloads
of the 'Nazi Bible' into the country so that "finally these
screwed up Americans can think straight." The smiling guard then
handed Hanson back his glasses and let him spend the rest of the
afternoon under the tree reading. The next day Hanson found that
by remembering a few choice phrases from the book and shouting
"Sieg Heil" to the guards, he would be left alone to do what he
wanted. Pretty soon all the Americans in the summer compound were
imitating him. Especially effective was the practice of getting 
together with the guards and practice marching around, their
hands raised together in the Nazi salute. If they did that a few
times a day, the guards would get so lax that they could even run
out at a night and hit the beer stands. They made sure to bring
back a few bottles for the guards. One of the guards would make a
comment in English that Hanson didn't understand: "So you now a
real Hogan's Hero, Ya?"  An occasional drunken conference with
the guards on the "need for revolution" and things got so lax
that Hanson was able to get his own terminal smuggled into the
compound. After carving up a few cards for the Fuzz who could
then order all the IMF goods they wanted, Hanson was pretty much
told he could leave any time he wanted. "But be careful. Not all
are like us!" Up to that time, no-homies dreaded being roped in
by the IMF so much that they were eager to find work with any
American drudge who was rising up the ladder of the Plan. But
within a couple of years it had become quite apparent: sign up
for the Plan and get the worst work orders handed out by the IMF,
but if you fake out the Fuzz, work real hard for an hour or two
each day and sincerely ask the Germans to explain this or that
meaning of 'My Struggle', wear a 'Mit Blut und Eissen' T-shirt,
and your chances for survival and freedom became much better.
     The present now found Hanson entering the new administration
building. Under the dull light of a gray Michigan morning, the
new red granite facade hid any evidence of the firebombing that
occurred five years ago. All around him, Hanson was impressed by
the newness that meant that at one time or another everything had
been replaced at some time in the past five years. Standing at
the top of the new steps, he surveyed the crisp geometric forms
of the landscaping that went from the building in a line to the
north and neatly hid the monorail track. The expense was obvious;
pine trees that had been over 20 feet tall were completely wiped
out in the bombing five years ago. Yet now, in the exact same
spots were trees that reached 30 feet. From his vantage point
Hanson could make out another strange sight. On the northwest
corner of the South Campus was a cardboard shanty town erected by
another contingent of the Homeless Tribe. In years past the
attempts at putting up cardboard relief shelters right on the
grounds had been repulsed by the tacitly approved drunken raids
of the skinhead children who were attending the University while
their IMF administrator parents did their stint in the U.S. But
the size of this community meant the rules had changed. At the
edge of the community could be a seen a large drive-in-theater
screen.
     Close to the entrance was the typical stack of student
papers. Picking one up, Hanson was grateful that English was
still used on campus, if the headlines were any indicator:
          Border Buildup: IMF Agrees to Transfer of Military
Hardware to Indiana. South Brazil: Government Reports Evacuation
of Sao Paulo Complete. Amazonia: Mars Launch on Schedule. Western
Americans Included on Crew. Riot: Nazi Traditionalists Fight IMF
Over Land Rights, Clan Bought in to Mediate.
     Hmm. Western America. Poor people are left in peace there.
Give any indication you want to move there and risk having a
roper visit you in the middle of the night to tear your throat
out. The Jimbos and the Nazi's had a nice sounding phrase: "Any
debt holder caught attempting to leave the area of his currently
assigned work precinct will be arrested for treason against the
state." Depending on the zeal of the MetalFuzz, you could easily
be shot if your homeless condition was one that included a foot
sojourn heading west. Since Michigan was surrounded by water, it
was travel to the south of your assigned work district that
bought immediate suspicion. Travel north was no longer possible,
with the bombing of the bridge and snipers camping on the shores
of the large beach estates now traded around the IMF like so many
poker chips.
     Hanson's reflection shot back at him from the door's glass.
The paint, the filth and the stubble left no doubt that he was a
no-homie, an image enforced by the wild mane of black hair
streaked in white, looking so much like a skunk being torn to
shreds in a losing battle against a cyberfly.
     The walk into the now carpeted lobby bought a nod from the
reception chimp who sat behind the registration desk. The chimp
was one of those few ten percent of the brain-boost population
who could type slowly but with accuracy, and hence were in great
demand as office chimps. The chimp was even at home in the suit
he wore, wearing a velcro attached tie. A tap of the keys bought
a message to the overhead screen, the characters reading "You
can't come into the interview looking like this. I will let you
into the health club in the basement where you will clean up and
get your hair cut. Clean clothes will be available. I will let
them know what is happening. Be back at my desk at 11:00." A
genius. Most chimps only had a general concept of time, but this
one could think forward to something happening in the future.
Hanson looked down in embarrassment at the T-shirt he was
wearing. Beneath the paint streaks was visible the symbol of an
American flag, the stars in the upper-left rearranged so that
they formed the pattern of a Swastika." A logo at the bottom read
"IMF Summer Tour - The Broken Crosses" and on the back read
"Roadie". Shit, they could get real pissed if they saw this. Best
move was to hit the health club and throw it in the trash as
quickly as possible.
     The Broken Crosses was one of the truly funny media scams to
happen all last summer. A group of homeless skinheads had formed
a parody rock band using work permits that Hanson had hacked out
through an IMF net choking on a wormOS. Several times that summer
they had gotten onto college campuses doing their show, although
they skipped Central State for obvious reasons. Hanson had wormed
up a T-shirt kiosk so that it would print up these shirts, which
they exchanged by the hundreds for campus dorm food tickets. The
Crosses' lead singer had even managed to get fake registrations
so that they could spend the whole summer as 'guest artists from
Latvia'.
     Before long, a media virus from an unknown source was
proclaiming that the Broken Crosses was the most popular band of
the summer. The lead singer was soon seen on a Caroline Satellite
solemnly telling the interviewer of the many years of struggle
they had to go through in Latvia before they finally hit it big,
Thanks to all you loyal fans who stuck it out with us all these
years. The mania was an endless source of laughs; Hanson even
remembered one 18 year old girl telling him that her older
brother had some of their bootlegs from years ago. Standing
around on campus, adopting a fake Latvian accent and pretending
to 'manage' the Broken Crosses, got Hanson more sexual favors
than he had seen his whole life up to that point. Typical venues
for the group included such songs as "Let's Shave Hitler's
Mustache'; Hanson even contributed lyrics to song that got an IMF
Grade 4 Ban called "IMF and I am pissed!". Needless to say, the
Grade 4 Ban instantly catapulted the group to number 1.
     Before getting roped in, at the time the Broken Crosses'
media star had burnt out and the gig was up, Hanson had managed
to steal as much as 2000 student card numbers and all the files
that went with them. A whole block of them went to Chalker later
that year. Chalker, unfortunately didn't realize that if you ran
a group of foreign numbers all at once, the IMF was sure to get
tipped eventually, especially if they were student numbers from
rich kids' families. Hanson now felt sorry for Chalker. One step
forward and two steps back, welcome to the Plan.
     A push of the Health Club lock got Hanson into the shower-
room wear he quickly stashed his sheetsack into a locker and
slapped on a lock. After showering and wrapping himself in a
towel, he walked over to a barber chair where a chimp was waiting
for him. The scissors the chimp held looked like blunt
kindergarten ones. Slowly and precisely, the happy looking chimp
chopped on the wild, black mane for half an hour. Looking in the
mirror, Hanson could see that most of the white streaks were
gone. A little bowl-cuttish, but I've had much worse. The chimp
then gestured to several hangers on a rack that contained blue
blazers and matching slacks. After the right fit was found and
tried on, Hanson then stepped back to admire himself. Jeez, I
look just like a Brother Jim, he thought. In a sarcastic fake
southern voice, Hanson barked "No turning back! I'm stepping with
the Plan!" The barber chimp pursed his lips in a simian smile.
Hanson ran back up stairs, the clock at five to 11.
     "You can go into the first door on the left" read the
overhead character display.
     A tall, blond, blue blazer wearing man stepped from behind a
desk to greet him.
     "Mr. Arthur Hanson. Have a seat." The man said grinning from
ear to ear. Hanson sat down in the plush office chair. The office
was large, with several abstract paintings on the walls. "Do you
smoke? No? Good. At ten dollars a pack I should quit." 
     Hanson felt very nervous. Everything was new. Everything
smelled new. This is the big rope, I just know it.
     Dread knotted his stomach. A tall woman, about 6 foot four,
long blonde hair, stepped into the office scowling at the two of
them. Oh, shit, here it comes.
     "Bob, what do you think you're doing? Do you think that
maybe he's even had breakfast today? Christ."
     Bob burst out laughing, "Alright, I apologize. Let's head
down the hall and get you something to eat." The woman this time
cracked out into a smile. 
     Walking down the hall, the three of them passed several
University employees, all the same, all wearing Navy Blue and
smiling to each other. A three foot tall chimp carrying a file
folder ran into Bob's leg. Bob smiled, and said "Whoa there
little guy!" and patted him gently on the head. But so strange to
Hanson were the eyes of the chimp, widened in fear during the
three seconds that the pat lasted. When the pat ended, the chimp
quickly scurried away, the folder clutched tightly to his chest. 
     The three entered a large sunroom. Milling around the food
buffet were even more University employees. Their numbers now
confirmed for Hanson the fact that none of them were shorter than
six foot. The men were often 7 feet. Women of 6 five seemed very
common. And all had blond hair. Hanson was motioned to a chair.
Right behind him came the chimp pushed cart filled with Burgers,
Fries, and Onion rings. "Eat up!"
     The blonde woman had introduced herself as Susan, Vice
President for Business Development. Bob interjected, "Look here
Art, can I call you Art? Good. The monorail leaves right from
this building and goes directly to North Campus. You don't even
have to step outside if you want at all, and after all, who would
WANT to. When you get your car you just leave it home. Great
system I would say."
    Susan cut him off. "Bob, the poor guy must be so mixed up. We
haven't even told him why he's being called in for an interview!"
     More knots in Hanson's stomach. Yep, they're playing with me
alright.
     Bob held out his hand and gripped Hanson's tightly,
     "Congratulations, Mr. Hanson. You have been awarded the
degree of Doctor of Philosophy in Political Science. If you will
accept the position, we invite you to join our faculty as chair
of the department of Political Science. Your duties to commence
immediately with teaching duties to begin this Fall Semester.
Here are the keys to your house," Bob handed him a house card. 
     "The car should be in the garage tomorrow. If you need
anything at all contact this number and they'll get it for you.
Your regular faculty office will open next Monday; an assistant
will be there to set up your office this weekend. The info you
need should be right on the card. Now what?" Bob looked at Susan
who had been straining her face at him. "Just wait. O.K. do you
accept?"
     A half sound of "ya" left the throat of the now shocked
Hanson. "Good. O.K. Sue, go ahead and ask," replied Bob.
     Susan pulled out a music CD and handed it to Hanson. On the
cover was an overly pixellated photo of Hanson and the Broken
Crosses standing on the makeshift stage of last year's "IM
Pissed" concert. The title contained one of Hanson's old worm
permutations, for now the group had been labeled as 'Art Hanson
and the Broken Crosses'. Susan excitedly asked "Would you
autograph this for my daughter?" Then to Hanson's complete shock
the statuesque and reserved looking woman growled in a fake
Latvian accent "IMF and I am pissed! My daughter is going to be
so thrilled to find that you are working on Campus!" 
     Bob laughed. "O.K. Good buddy. Need anything at all just
call my office."
     The two administrators got up sharply from the table and
strode away, leaving a permanently bewildered Hanson sitting
beneath the hot mid-day sun now coming through the sun room
canopy.
     Half in a daze, he left and went back to the lobby. Facing
the reception chimp, he muttered in English, "Can you get a
message sent for me?" The chimp nodded yes.  A message was
written giving the location of the cardboard dome. Directions
were given to have it tacked to the door. The message read "Keep
everything you want, even the dome if you can use it. I won't be
coming back. I just got hired at the University."

     "Concurrent with the new Economic Bill of Rights was a
series of Acts which were quickly adopted by the newly Debt Free
States. The Fair Land Use and Homestead Act was quickly ratified
at the Convention held in Mexico City, home of the new League of
Debt Free Nations. Its most eloquent orators had to fight against
the accusation that old style Leninism would result, but
eventually even the staunchest critic was won over."