Bitmonk

By James Bishop

In a world where curiosity and wonder are stifled in the name of greater security, and the Sabet computer corporation dominates the industry, an unlikely hero emerges. Michael discovers a secret that his grandfather left for him, and as he delves deeper and deeper into the mysterious gift, he is drawn into a world of technology he never imagined. With the help of Atilla, an artificial intelligence training system, Michael battles for freedom of information, open-source operating systems, and curiosity.

James Bishop's fourth book b1tM0NK imagines a world where our current technology and legal system could take us, and warns us of the pitfalls of exchanging freedom for security. While hackers around the world are being criminalized, James Bishop imagines a world in which the hacker is the hero.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781312433830

James Bishop

James Bishop, Jr., is a writer, editor, and teach who has worked for Newsweek and for the White House on energy policy. In 1993, Bishop was awarded the William Allen White gold medal for best public affairs article. He lives in Arizona.

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>Introduction_

Og did not hide his discovery of the wheel. He did not keep it to himself or sell it to others. He asserted an idea, perhaps in stone, or maybe in wood. He might have even drawn it on a cave wall. Others saw that idea and made changes. Maybe the axle would work better in the center. Perhaps if we made it rounder like the trunk of a tree. Of course, they didn't speak English. They just grunted and made gestures. But the wheel got better. And everyone benefited from that collaboration. The wheel was open source.

Humans have always been adept at using tools, and it didn't take long before they realized the importance of how a tool is packaged for use. A hammer works much better with a handle, as does an ax. The accuracy of a bow can be improved simply by making it more comfortable in the hand.

A computer, too, is a tool. And likewise, it can be greatly improved by the way it is packaged for use. But packaging should never hinder the full use of the tool, even if it means others will use the tool in ways never intended by the inventor. For innovation sometimes happens this way.

The computer's packaging is called its operating system, or OS. An OS is a computer program or collection of programs that make it easier to manage the operation of the computer. It allows a computer to properly allocate its resources based on the needs of specific programs. An OS is also the interface between human and computer, the way we ask the computer to do things, and the way the computer communicates results back to us.

The first computer operating systems were developed in the 1950s and 1960s for large mainframe computers. They were not commercial endeavors and they were not sold, nor were their internal workings kept secret. Rather, those early operating system programs were open source, meaning that the internal code for the system was available to anyone who wanted to look at it or make suggestions, or anyone who could understand it. Thus, there was an opportunity for collaboration to make the operating systems better. And they did get better.

The advent of the microprocessor caused a significant drop in computer costs. One of the first personal computers to use a microprocessor was the Altair 8800. Its OS was a series of switches and lights. The Altair 8800 was sold with an empty circuit board to which the owner had to solder electronic components, essentially building his or her own computer. It was thus fairly inaccessible to all but the most ardent computer and electronics enthusiasts. Its OS was also open to everyone, but was largely in the form of wires.

Soon, other personal computers were developed. Computers were no longer only at the disposal of an elite group of scientists and military personnel. The personal computers had operating systems that were more user-friendly, incorporating command-line prompts, where the user typed commands to the computer on a typewriter-like keyboard. Each brand of computer had its own proprietary OS, which was usually free with the purchase of the computer.

Then the personal computers entered the business world, and the smaller, less expensive home computers were squeezed out of the market by more expensive computers that could work in both business and at home.

Operating systems changed from command-line, text-based systems to graphical user interfaces, making computers more accessible to the non-expert masses. Many of the computer companies no longer made operating systems for their computers. Rather, they allowed another large corporation to make their OS. And that company made a lot of money selling their OS. With that money came power, and that large corporation squeezed out the other OS companies.

But there was a rogue OS in those days, and it was free. It was completely open, open source, and cost nothing. Anyone could look at the programming, the code in which it was written, change it if they wanted to, and even learn from it. The large company who sold their OS said that the free OS could not be secure because anyone could see the internals, how it works. However, by the very nature of its openness, that free OS became more secure than the expensive one because vulnerabilities were quickly identified by programmers all over the world. And by collaboration, the sharing of knowledge, it got better.

Only a handful of operating systems remained. For a long time there were only three. Then there were two.

Most computers ran Sabet OS, developed by the Sabet Corporation. Computers that used the other, rogue OS were owned by people called hackers. Their OS was different and more powerful.

The world economy changed, and data became the new commodity. Information and the storage or manipulation of information were new assets. As a result of the growing importance placed on data, computer security became a major concern. In the name of security, governments and major corporations suppressed certain liberties.

The unscrupulous hackers, called crackers, made malicious computer programs that attacked these governments as well as major corporations. Crackers used their technical prowess to launch attacks on companies that were attempting to suppress freedom of expression. Their attacks sometimes resulted in the breaching or destruction of data.

With the advent of mobile computing, attacks on data could now be launched from anywhere in the world. All a hacker needed was a connection to the satellite-based SabetNet and jailbroken SabetVision computer goggles, simply called Sabets. A Sabet was jailbroken when the operating system was cracked, allowing hackers to use it in unintended ways.

Sabet Corporation convinced the world governments that computer security could be virtually guaranteed by making other operating systems illegal. This would ensure that all computers ran Sabet OS, and Sabet would ensure that there was no access to the lower internals of the computer. The OS law, or Sabet's Law as it came to be known, would also guarantee a world-wide computer compatibility, allowing governments to more easily disseminate information to the public. And it would make it easier for those governments to monitor and control the public's access to information.

In time, the hackers died out with their knowledge of that older, rogue OS.

Although the early hackers died out, there was still a hacker spirit that lived on. It was the spirit that drove a few to want to know about things. Why was this thing made a certain way? How does it work? How can I change it to make it do something else? How can I change it to make it better?

This kind of knowledge was judged as subversive and a threat to security. After all, the manufacturers had our best interests in mind, and who would question that? Curiosity killed the cat, people said. So it was best to not be curious, to not ask questions. Just accept things as they are. Otherwise, you'll be like those evil hackers of old. Learning was okay, as long as you only learned what was taught. And if you were chosen to work in the manufacture of something, you would then be trained in how things were done.

Curiosity and wonder were stifled in the name of greater security, and at a great cost. New innovations had to come from trained innovators who worked at the large corporations. Invention was no longer in the public domain. The great inventors of history were villainized. Thomas Edison, Nikola Tesla, Alexander Graham Bell, Guglielmo Marconi, Robert Goddard... the list went on. Subversives, they were called. And why? Because they dared to wonder about things. They dared to wonder why things did what they did. They dared to ask questions.

But no power in the world can stop someone from asking questions. As the great bitmonk is so fond of saying, Question everything.

>_

In the beginning, the Developer created the algorithm and the flowchart.

And the flowchart was without form and void, and eraser crumbs were upon the face of the paper.

And the spirit of the Developer stared upon the face of the paper.

And the Developer said, Let there be code. And there was code.

And the compiler saw that it was good.

And the evening and the morning were the first of many sleepless nights...

>01_

The hot, dry wind blasted my parched face with burning sand, and it stung with every gust. The wind buffeted hard, then relaxed for a few seconds. I used the opportunity to open my eyes again and look across the desert floor to the dunes in the distance. I hoped I would find water there; my canteen was almost empty.

Thunder crashed in the red and dark sky, but there would be no rain.

I started again, not fully walking but half stumbling toward the distant dunes, fighting the wind and the sand with each step. Another gust, and my chapped lips stung. I closed my eyes and pressed onward.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to look. An old man with a dark face and intense, light blue eyes stared back at me. His face and bald head were more weathered than mine, and he seemed to have been in the desert his whole life. His skin was so taut and dry that his face looked like a skull, his skin a thin leather stretched over it, and his mouth did not close. Between his parched lips were crooked and yellowing teeth in what seemed to be a permanent smile. But the smile was not a smile at all. It was a cringe.

Please, he aspirated through his dry throat. Please, help us.

The thunder crashed again, and I looked behind the man at a crowd of followers, millions of haggard people dragging along in the desert, sunburned and parched, ragged clothes being torn by the harsh wind. They moved like lava, flowing slowly but unstoppable.

He repeated, Please, help us.

I shrugged my shoulders in helplessness and said, What do you want me to do?

The beast will not let us drink enough water. Lead us to the water.

A shadow cast over the desert. I looked up and a great black beast looked down upon us, hunger in its evil red eyes.

The weathered man said, Please hurry.

I looked back at him, and he was no longer the weathered old man. He was my grandfather, Dave.

Michael, lead them to water. Hurry!

The wind gusted again, and grandpa Dave's head turned to dust, blowing into the desert air. Then the rest of him also dissolved, and he was no longer there. But his voice still spoke. Hurry up, Michael. Hurry!

The wind dissolved the crowd, and then the land. The dunes blew into the wind, and the desert floor, and the heat, and the monster... all gone in the wind.

Michael! Hurry your ass up!

The desert became my bedroom, and my grandpa's voice became my dad's. As I awoke, I remembered setting the Sabet to play rainstorm last night. It usually falls off when I roll over in bed, but it was still on. I looked at the player projected on my Sabet screen and winked on the stop button. The thunder and raindrops stopped, and the player vanished.

Grandpa Dave had been dead for about three months, but every night since then I'd had the same dream. I don't really believe in all that beyond the grave crap, but there was something very real about the dream.

Michael, you better not still be in bed!

I yelled back, No, I'm getting ready, as I still lay in bed, closing my eyes. I hate my dad. I know people say stuff like that all the time, but I actually really hate him. It's wrong, I know. I just can't help it. It's probably because he hates me. And because we disagree on everything.

Grandpa, for example. I loved Grandpa Dave. I loved spending time with him, listening to him talk about when he was a kid. But dad hates him. Or I guess I should say hated him.

Last Christmas I went to go see Grandpa Dave. Mom drove me out there. Dad didn't want to go. His own father on Christmas. I guess I see his point, though. I don't like spending Christmas with my father, either.

I had to get moving. And to get moving, I needed some pulses. I opened my eyes again and looked for the music icon, floating about a foot above my head. I winked on it. The music player started, and I winked on the Wakeup playlist.

The Sabet spoke: Are you sure you want to change the current playlist? The words also appeared in the middle of my ceiling.

I hate computers. Didn't I just wink on the Wakeup playlist? Stupid Sabet piece of crap. I winked on Yes. It's no wonder people get frustrated and throw their Sabets out the window. Throwing mine out the window would just mean I'd be without it until mom and dad decided to get me a new one. Besides, Grandpa Dave bought this one for me. He bought all of my Sabets. And, as Grandpa Dave says, It would just be giving more money to Sabet, and that rich bastard doesn't need another dime from anyone. Very true. Well, he used to say that.

Michael, you ready?

It's not like I needed to get dressed up or anything. The funeral was three months ago. Today, we were just going to pick up his old stuff. I felt like a vulture, going there to take Grandpa's stuff. I didn't want to be a part of that. I just wanted to remember him as he was.

I'll meet you in the car, Dick.

That's my mom. And yes, my dad's name is Dick. It's actually his name. Rather prophetic of his parents, don't you think?

Rusty Spike is one of my favorite bands, and King of the Universe is one of their better tracks. I turned the volume up until I could almost feel the vibrations on my temples from the Sabet. Grandpa said his parents used to tell him he'd go deaf by listening to his music too loud. Now that the Sabets used bone induction for sound, I could play Rusty Spike with the volume all the way up and not go deaf. Not as quickly, anyway. A little numb on the temples perhaps, but not deaf.

I made my way downstairs, then out to the car. The morning was dull gray and the air damp, but only the lawn was wet from the sprinklers.

Our neighborhood was nice, but I never liked how everything looked so fake. The trees on the side of the road were planted in concrete. Like that ever happens in nature. I'm assuming someone thought it looked nice that way. It doesn't.

I winked on the overlay settings, then selected Grid. All the flat surfaces on my street suddenly had grids on them, the buildings turned into neon blue outlines, and the trees became neon green outlines. Much better. It was still fake, but it went well with the next Rusty Spike track that had just started, From The Sun To The World. An early one, but always a great one.

We passed Billy's house. Billy lives there with his mom. I think he's retarded or something. Anyway, his dad left a long time ago, probably because he couldn't handle dealing with Billy.  Kind of depressing, huh?

The ride to Grandpa Dave's place usually took about twenty minutes. Grandpa had a lot of property, and I guess it used to be a farm or something. In his will he gave the land and the house to my uncle, which is cool because dad would have probably just sold it. So he wrote out what he was giving everybody, and I didn't really want anything, but I guess he wrote some crazy stuff in the will. Dad wouldn't let me see it, but he said Grandpa wanted me to have an old desk. At least I'll have something to help me remember him. And it's gotta be better than the crap desk that dad bought me.

We passed the tall building where I used to go to see the psychologist. When I was seven years old I took apart our toaster. I knew about the Sabet law, but I was just curious. Doctor Sarpinsky, the psychologist, drilled into me about how curiosity leads to destruction, that the Sabet law is there to protect us, and that opening things up just leads to compromised safety.

I went there for about six months. Finally, I just fed the doctor all the crap he wanted to hear, smiled a little while I said how opening things was subversive, so I didn't have to go back anymore.

Grandpa told me that my crime wasn't opening the toaster. It was getting caught. That's why I liked Grandpa. He was cool.

We pulled off the freeway, then drove down to the left where Grandpa's farm sat off a dirt road. At least Grandpa's road was lined with trees that were actually planted in dirt. It looked much nicer. I winked on Overlay and turned it off. The neon blues and greens faded into the natural greens of the trees, the honey gold of the field in back of his house, and the weathered whitewash on his house. Back to reality.

Grandpa Dave really liked living way out here, away from the city and everyone watching everyone else. He was always that way. He had something against authority, but he kept it to himself so he wouldn't get into trouble. Maybe that's why dad didn't like him.

Dad should have been a cop instead of working construction. Maybe he failed a psych test. Maybe they told him, Dude, you're even too much of a jackass for us cops! Most cops I've met were way cooler than my dad.

Grandpa Dave taught me just to keep those urges, that desire to open things up, to myself. So he would sit and tell me about when he was a kid, how he would open things up. And he'd tell me what was inside and how some of those things work. And sometimes we would open things up together. But I couldn't tell anyone. So that was our secret.

He never told me about a desk, though. I never even saw a desk at his house. It was probably in the shed somewhere. He had a lot of crap in the old shed behind the house.

We pulled into the front yard and got out of the car. Dad said, Let's hurry up and get out of here. I guess I don't have to say how I feel about him again. You get the picture.

Where's that desk he gave you?

I shrugged my shoulders. I think it's in that shed over there. I'll go look. At least that got me away from him for a while. Mom and dad went into the house while I walked to the shed.

I had seen Grandpa come into this shed a few times, but I never went in. I just saw it from a distance, and it always looked pretty full. The door looked like it was about to fall off.

I loosened the rusted hasp and pulled on the bottom of the large wooden door. The bottom pulled out, but the top half lagged. Then the top half opened and the bottom half pushed back in as if the door were made of rubber and hinged half way up. Finally, the door opened and the bottom dragged in the hard dirt.

The barn was crammed full of all kinds of stuff. I thought to myself that if we had a yard sale with all this stuff, we could feed the starving children of the world.

I squeezed past a giant... whatever the hell that giant wooden thing was. There was a giant metal box on top of one of the tables. It looked like an oversized calculator. It plugged in to the wall, but it looked like it was from the 1900s. I moved a very heavy cardboard box out of the way, then looked around a bit more. My Sabet amplified the scarce light in the barn, and I saw something that looked like a desk in the very back corner.

As I made my way to the desk, I saw that there was a note on it. I picked up the note and read it. For Michael. It was like he had been saving this thing just for me. The desk was huge and very old. I rolled the top up and saw that the inside of the desktop was full of little compartments. This was a very cool desk. I had to move a few other things to make a path for the desk. I moved chairs, cabinets, and other things, lifting them on top of other chairs and cabinets. Once I had a clear path I pulled the desk over to the door of the shed.

As I pulled the desk across the yard toward the car I thought about how I was going to get the desk up the stairs in our house to my bedroom. I'd work on that later. One crisis at a time. I loaded the desk into the back trunk of the car and tied it down, then got into the car and waited.

An hour later dad emerged from the house with a couple photo albums, and mom had a box full of silverware. It took them an hour to find that. Sometimes I feel like I'm surrounded by idiots. They're like zombies, sucking the brains right out of me. The longer I'm around them, the more brains get sucked out of me. And I'd be stuck with Night of the Living Brain-Dead and his lovely wife for another twenty minute car ride. Goodbye college education.

The ride back home was uneventful. I got bored with the Grid overlay and asked the Sabet for a list of all overlays. Grid, MLP, Armageddon, Numbers, Picasso, Hipgnosis, Renaissance. I switched it to MLP, which changes everything to a cartoon-like view, brightly colored surfaces with lots of rainbows and brightly colored ponies. Very odd, but it's one of Kelly's favorites. You haven't met her yet. You will.

As we pulled into our driveway, one of the ponies flanked the car. I seem to recall Kelly calling this one Scoots or something like that.