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(You can read the first 25% of this story for free; if you like it,
you can read the rest for $.99 (payable by paypal or credit card.)
In the future, the Minuteman software system listens to all phone calls,
reads all messages, watches everything, to keep Americans safe... but
what happens when it mis-hears what a young man says?
A story taken from today's headlines, but written a
decade before the unauthorized
presidential spying scandal of 2005, Privacy Most Public
addresses the age old question-- Who's watching the watchers?
Privacy Most Public
by Andrew Burt
"Oswald."
Despite the background noise, it distinctly sounded like
"Oswald."
The Sentry had already noted the word "President" and the use
of the future tense--this was definitely interesting. It spun off a
thread to begin analysis.
The Sentry's data described that circuit as an audio-only cell
phone, on hook and in listen mode; an unremarkable apartment in San
Diego among the hundreds of millions of rooms that the Sentries
monitored constantly. The datastream had a considerable amount of
background noise that made it hard to resolve words, so the Sentry
understood why it couldn't be certain.
Try the standard set of filters to disprove, but clear the
automatic purge flag to save the earlier "historical" data from the
minutes before.
The filters didn't help, it still sounded like Oswald; maybe.
Nonetheless: President, future tense, possibly Oswald--that was
enough to warrant upgrading to Do Not Discard.
The Sentry listened.
* * *
Crack-tssszzzzzz! The egg spread out evenly over the griddle
until the white almost touched the sizzling bacon.
"I couldn't agree more," Emery DeFreece said, cracking another
egg onto the griddle, "he's just dragging the country down, and I'd
like to see something to stop it." Talking around a bite of toast,
he continued, "I mean, Varnell's old, he's obviously incompetent, he
could probably get sick and die any time anyway. But, it's not like
we're swimming in options."
"Yeah, they sure won't impeach him," Rod Maritz said from the
kitchen table, continuing his roommate's thought. "It'd take years
the way they move in Congress, by then his term's up, and I doubt
he'd be healthy enough to last another eight years. Besides, you
don't get to be President without having a lot of powerful friends.
I mean, we can mouth off all we want, but unless we take control,
our sorry asses are stuck on this train 'til the end of the line.
Like you said, where's an Oswald when you need him." He swallowed
the rest of his orange juice and stood up. "I need some more juice,
man, and hurry up with those eggs--I gotta get going. I've got
plans for today, named Alyssa."
* * *
"Oswald." There it was again in the other voice, clearer this
time; more future tense; and implied action. Oswald, President,
future, action--the Sentry upgraded this dataset's state to Analyze:
Increment the "save" flag from temporary to permanent, enqueue it
for a Bloodhound, create a thread to locate any of the prior
minute's data that might be untouched in the "least recently used"
buffer list, and keep listening.
As the Sentry continued its vigil, the Bloodhound Evidence
Correlation module pulled the next item from its list, this one from
a phone sentry, high priority. The Bloodhound set to work,
methodically gathering data together to help the Minuteman Criminal
Defense System determine if this was what the humans called a "live
one"; or, as usual, one of the endless sets of harmless remarks,
misunderstandings, or even movie dialogue. But hot or cold, every
scent must be tracked. The Bloodhound pressed onward.
Probable match on voices to registered tenants of designated
apartment, Maritz, R. (eight months of one year lease), and
DeFreece, E. (four months). No prior datasets for same location.
Valid driver's licenses. Minor traffic citations, Maritz. Auto
insurance lapsed, Maritz. Employer files: Frequent job changes;
nothing unusual. Current occupations: Cuisine Delivery Artist
(synonym-linked to "waiter") at Tuck's on the River, DeFreece;
Remote Installer III at The Custom DashWorks, Maritz. Nothing
unusual. No criminal convictions. Multiple juvenile arrests,
Maritz, records off-line. Noted. Not on known list of suspected
terrorists, smugglers, foreign agents, etc., at least by name or
similarly sounding or spelled names. The Bloodhound looked up
physical characteristics of the likely voices, matched those against
similar lists; nothing found. Other physical databases: Facial
match on Maritz, numerous peaceable anti-government demonstrations.
Noted.
Financial accounts past and present: Low balances, no large
deposits on record, no large withdrawals, profile of recent activity
consistent with prior activity. Scan for unusual recent purchases
via the sales tax tracking system--the Bloodhound noted two
transactions at department stores known to sell weapons and
ammunition. Also, a dataset from a bookseller, marked "decrypt only
for probable cause." Noted.
Newspaper/magazine subscriptions, paper and electronic, indexed
by name or mailing address: Nothing unusual... nothing
unusual...--three months into year's subscription to Take the
Streets, this address; estimated readership 4,000, topic:
anti-government / revolutionary, a publication flagged as "always
include for probable cause / escalate priority." The Bloodhound
included this item in the case dataset and executed what some witty
programmer had coded as the statement, "raise(eyebrow)." As
instructed, the Bloodhound immediately submitted this case to the
Magistrate module as medium priority, then continued the quest for
more incriminating data.
Though the Bloodhound was a sophisticated electronic detective,
capable of collecting data from seemingly limitless sources,
efficiently sniffing for details that might be relevant to a
dataset, it was without the logic to resolve whether a case had
merit--thus it fell to the Magistrate to decide if a potential
breach of law was involved. The Magistrate was by far the most
complex software module in the system, responsible for determining
whether to alert the humans about a potential crime, but neither
wasting their time on false alarms nor overlooking a serious
incident. The Magistrate, indeed the entire Minuteman system, was a
software work of art.
Thus, inside that same few seconds, with the conversation still
echoing in the heads of the two young men enjoying a Sunday morning
breakfast, the Magistrate dequeued the case and set to work.
* * *
Stuck with the dishes again, Emery thought. Rod, as usual,
found a way to dodge his responsibility; it was his turn this week.
Alyssa would be upset if he was late again, Rod offered as an
excuse. Yeah, three strikes out of three dates, and you're outta
here--Emery almost said it, even started the umpire's hand motion,
but stopped at just a thumb's up to Rod and a sly smile. Besides,
Rod's idea of a clean plate was anything that water and a drying
towel couldn't knock off. Best just to do them, only a momentary
delay on his way to a little sun and surf.
In the short time he'd known him, Emery had come to think Rod
was more style than substance, there being no exception when it came
to relationships. Not that Emery felt either of them was anything
better than above average in good looks, but it was Rod who was
going out all the time. On the other hand, Emery wasn't interested
in what Rod proudly called his "babe of the month club", and was
content to wait for some magical event. Emery waved a soapy hand as
Rod headed out with what passed for his idea of fine food (which
Emery felt sure could be summarized as "anything wrapped in
insta-heat"), and wondered if Alyssa would share Rod's bachelor
attitudes toward picnic fare.
He'd only met Alyssa Vanaara once. Hardly your drab stereotype
of a fed, eh? was how Rod had introduced her with a private wink.
She'd seemed really down to earth--not Rod's type at all, and Emery
wondered what they had in common. She was an environmental analyst
for the state, a chemist or somesuch, with a couple degrees beyond
the "just barely passing" high school diploma Rod boasted about with
a grin. Granted that put her ahead of Emery too, though at least
he'd done the college thing, even if he'd only bounced around minor
jobs in the growing number of years since graduating. A degree in
hospitality management wasn't useless, despite the endlessly
sluggish economy, but if the right thing just hadn't come along yet,
well, so be it in business as in romance.
Maybe the same patience applied to roommates, Emery decided,
and plunged his hands back to their cleansing task.
* * *
Rod Maritz jogged down the building steps and angled across the
courtyard toward his car on the street, grocery bag in hand,
mouthing the words to the song on his EarMan. He was content from
the breakfast he'd talked his roommate into cooking again. Cleaning
up, too. It always seemed so much better when he'd earned it.
What a dupe. Emery didn't have Rod's brash, devil-may-care
attitude, he was more of the I'm not making eye contact so don't
look at me type. Except when he did get singled out, when he put on
an act of false bravado, as if he wasn't really being manipulated,
rather, he was only a moment behind you and just about to suggest
whatever you'd said. Breakfast, for example, had been "his" idea.
Rod flickered by the thought of the time he'd talked Emery into
crevice jumping--no net. Only a damn fool of a rank beginner would
have actually tried to leap the double-skull fissure Rod led them
too, but before Rod had started the task of talking him back out of
the jump, Emery had scurried off and hurled himself toward the far
side. Rod smirked at the memory. He had to admit, though, Emery
had guts; Rod wouldn't have tolerated living with a wimp. Good
thing there had actually been a net.
Perhaps their common self-reliance derived from neither of them
having any family: Their parents both had disappeared when each was
in their mid-teens, almost a decade ago. Admittedly, in Rod's case,
they'd just told him to get lost before they packed off. Emery's
mysteriously vanished, like so many others who'd held certain
unpopular views back then. Rod had his theories about that, and
Emery might even be coming around regarding those conspiratorial
views. Yes, Rod was feeling quite satisfied with his morning's
quota of manipulation.
Beyond the contentment, he was charged with anticipation of
sharing this cloudless blue sky with Alyssa. She was a much tougher
nut to crack, and he wasn't sure how much longer he'd enjoy the
challenge. A while more, at any rate--Rod inspired himself with the
thought that each date with her revealed another of the vast array
of scenic, isolated settings for a rendezvous that she knew,
important earnings for use in the post-Alyssa long term.
This was going to be a fine day indeed.
As he opened the trunk to store the bag, he noticed a dark blue
sedan turn past, unusual for its ominously dark windows. The
passenger's head and gaze followed him through the open window as it
rolled by.
Rod straightened up and shut the hatch as they double parked
not far in front of him.
A man and a woman emerged, both in business suits as dark and
imposing as the car. The woman waved at him with a standard,
clipboard style datapad in her hand as they started toward him.
"Hey," she called, "are you Roderick Maritz?"
Rod took a halting step forward, stopped on hearing his name.
Rod could see his picture on her datapad as she folded and clipped
it at her side, and noted from the glimpse of background that it
couldn't be more than a couple days old. "Ye-es, what can I do for
you?"
The pair, now standing close on each side, nodded curtly to
each other. Startled by a prick on his back, he began to turn
around, but his knees buckled. Head swimming, he lurched into their
grasp. His last blurred memory was of the dome light inside their
car.
The pair then started towards the building, pausing at the
entrance only long enough to swipe an access card.
* * *
Three o'clock in the afternoon. What he Hell is going on here?
Emery thought, again scouring the room with his eyes for anything he
hadn't seen dozens of times before. He must have been unconscious
almost an hour. He'd simply awakened on a cot, then been led here
with a monotonous set of turns down hallways, all alike. He thought
he might have seen Rod down one corridor, but it was too brief and
distant to tell.
None of his suited escorts would speak to him except to utter
monosyllabic commands. Stand. Walk. Turn.
They'd acted as dead as this room: Off-white walls and
ceiling, no decoration or distinction. One door, locked; no
windows. A worn wooden table in the middle of the room. Four hard
chairs, one on each long edge of the table, one in each corner
nearest the door. Old, uniformly placed fluorescent lights glowing
with slightly different color were the only disruption in the room's
cheerless regularity.
So he sat at the table in one of those hard chairs, teeth
clenched, arms crossed, legs crossed. At least he'd been wearing a
watch when the his and hers goons had barged in and kidnapped him
from plans of carefree sunshine to stale air and dingy walls.
He ran his hands through his hair again, massaged the back of
his neck where he felt his headache was, and let out a long breath.
What the hell was going on, and why was it taking so long? This was
worse than being ignored in a doctor's office; at least at the
doctor's you know where you are and why you're there. Three fucking
o'clock. Five hours since they'd just stormed in. He replayed the
scene in his mind over and over, trying to puzzle out who they were,
what they wanted. But, like a pawn in a chess game, he had no idea
what forces moved him or why.
They must be watching all this. So, what am I going to do in
here, he thought, start revealing state secrets? Confess to crimes?
Say I'll do anything, just let me out? I'm certainly not worth
ransom to anyone. Are they reading my body language, to see when
I'm softened up enough for whatever they want? What would they
want? Defiance? Cowering? Is this torture? Well... shit.
Maybe if there's somebody listening I can get something going,
I don't care what they think. He stood up. "Hello? Hello! Is
there anyone watching this? Hello-ooo! This is fucking borrrring!"
Feeling suddenly self-conscious, but still bored and angry, he
snorted and sat back down. He stared at the ceiling again. Now,
how many pits were there in each ceiling tile?
Another half-hour, or perhaps an hour, passed as Emery lost
track of time.
* * *
"Mr. DeFreece? I'm Stanislav Turecek," said the athletically
fit, gray-haired man entering the room, snapping Emery instantly
alert. His body language projected intensity and no nonsense.
Behind him came a stern looking woman, no older than fifty, lips
drawn tight into a small frown, but businesslike; and a balding man
who seemed fidgety, distracted, uninterested, almost shy. "This is
Paula McKenzie and Charles Greenlee. Sorry to keep you waiting,
but, Sunday, you understand. Can I get you something, coffee,
water?"
"You can tell me what the fuck is going on! I want some
answers." He began to vent his anger, until he remembered he didn't
know where he was, or who these people were. And how dry his mouth
was. "Water. Please."
Turecek leaned out the door, repeating "Water" to someone in
the hall before closing the door and facing Emery. "Yes, we have
answers--and many questions."
Turecek took the chair across the table while McKenzie had
already pulled up one from the corner; Greenlee had slumped back in
the far corner.
"Mr. DeFreece, before we begin I need to explain the nature of
this situation to you. I'm with the United States Secret Service.
Mr. Greenlee here is an observer from the court, to ensure all
procedures are properly followed and witness these events; and Ms.
McKenzie is your Counsel Ad Litem, better known as your 'instant
lawyer'. I apologize for the course manner of your detainment, but
I'm afraid that's standard procedure in a case like this. Ever
since Miami, you understand."
Emery began to speak, but Turecek held up his hand. "Before
you say anything, you need to know that this interview is being
recorded and any statements or actions you make can and will be used
against you in a court of law. I'm going to explain your rights in
full detail, please remain silent until asked to say anything."
Emery sighed in slight relief that he was at least in the
theoretically safe hands of the government, not some unknown thugs.
The accusation against him must be pretty steep, though, to warrant
what he'd only heard vaguely about, the no-talk arrest. Drugging
the suspect was a twist he hadn't considered, but in retrospect it
he could see the utility.
"I'm sure you've seen this in movies, but please read along
with me", Turecek said, pulling two datapads out of his briefcase
and sliding one toward Emery.
Turecek touched his pad, and a pleasant voice began reading the
text that scrolled on the pad before Emery.
"(i) Per United States law, any person arrested or detained for
questioning shall have his/her entire contact with police or other
designated officials recorded in both video and audio, to the extent
feasible with reasonable effort, including but not limited to
initial contact, transportation, interrogation, and incarceration.
(ii) Detainee shall have the benefit of Counsel from the
earliest convenient time, by means of a recognized Counselor Ad
Litem or by detainee's own Counsel if such Counsel shall present an
order of appearance within four (4) hours of recitation of these
rights.
(iii) All evidence currently possessed by detaining officials
will be presented prior to interrogation; any evidence obtained
under the Automated Software Surveillance Act shall necessitate an
explanation of the nature and manner of collection of the evidence
so obtained.
(iv) Other rights guaranteed by this section to be explained by
Counsel as necessary.
(v) Detainee shall acknowledge understanding of these rights by
signature or thumbprint."
Movies usually faded out after the first sentence or two of the
"Amended Miranda Rights", thought Emery; but, yes, this was all
common knowledge. We watched, we saw, we convicted.
Paula McKenzie, his "instant lawyer", asked him, "Now, Mr.
DeFreece is it, do you understand these rights?"
"Yes, but--"
"Please put your thumbprint on the datapad, here," she
interrupted.
Again the pawn, he mechanically pressed his thumb to the
datapad's square with the icon of a fingerprint, and the pad beeped
in acknowledgment.
She continued. "Good. Now, Mr. DeFreece, Sunday isn't my
favorite day to be down here, but if you need a lawyer, here I am.
Do you have other counsel I can immediately notify or do I stay?"
Emery felt hot and dizzy. This was moving too fast, out of
control. Never having needed a lawyer he'd never thought about
them, except for the general uneasiness that lawyers meant trouble.
Serious trouble. The stakes suddenly seemed higher, the peril
greater even than before when he simply hadn't known. He shook his
head to clear it. "I don't have one."
"Well, yes, you do. As my client, my first piece of advice to
you is keep quiet. Now that that's settled, let's listen to what
you're up against." She paused to see if he had anything to say; he
appeared to be following her advice to remain silent. "Mr.
Turecek, it seems we're ready."
Turecek touched his pad again, and the pleasant voice
continued, now in a more informal tone no doubt meant to put
suspects at ease; it sounded like a bad documentary.
"As mandated by the ASSA, that is, the Automated Software
Surveillance Act, or what most people commonly think of as the
'Minuteman' system, any time Minuteman is used to collect data that
is to be used as evidence, full disclosure of that mechanism is
required. You, however, as a Disclosed-to party, are required to
keep the information we reveal to you strictly confidential between
you and your counsel, under penalties of perjury and treason.
"As you're probably aware, all video, data and audio
communication lines are constantly monitored for keyword content per
the ASSA, in order to prevent serious crimes before they happen.
Phones, radios, televisions, video displays, and so on, are
permanently in monitor mode even when not in use. Ordinarily this
data is recorded only for a brief time then discarded, and never
observed by any person, maintaining your full privacy. When the
system detects an abnormal pattern of usage, based on sophisticated
software techniques to recognize and correlate words together and
weigh them for potential criminal content, then the first level of
the system, what you've probably heard termed a 'Sentry,' sends this
on to other levels of the system, such as the Bloodhounds and
Magistrates. The Bloodhound is a searching subsystem that locates
any possibly relevant data regarding your case, having the full
authority to search government records, corporate databases,
medical, etc. This is passed on, still without inspection by any
person, to what is called the Magistrate, which analyzes the data to
determine if a crime may have been or may be committed. If, and
only if, it finds there is a high probability of this, does it alert
the appropriate agency."
Listen, she'd said; Emery was too numb to do anything else. Of
course he knew about Minuteman. Who didn't? The Surveillance Act
had passed nearly twenty years ago, shortly after Danny Lee
Schroff-Martin attempted to assassinate the President with his
home-made nuclear bomb. Fortunately for the President, Danny had
mistaken 12:00 P.M. with 12:00 A.M. The people of Miami weren't so
lucky: They'd been sleeping when a good part of the city was
obliterated. The last straw was Danny's release on a technicality,
mistakes made during his arrest, despite the incontrovertible
evidence against him. That an angry mob had hunted him down and
literally ripped him apart (and a few of the mob themselves--it was
hard to tell who's flesh one was grabbing, they'd said) was
understandable, but only fanned the flames of outrage.
The public had quickly embraced the concept of "preventive
medicine" through pervasive and allegedly secure, humanless
eavesdropping of all conversations and on-line data. All new
phones, radios, televisions, computers, anything that could display
video or play audio, were mandated to include a government supplied
chip to operate in full-time reverse: Radios would listen,
televisions would see. The data would only be seen by secure
software, not people, so they sold it "as if it nothing had
changed." The software had been carefully named "Minuteman", for
its connotations of patriotism, security, and vigilance. Nor did it
hurt that it was also the name the older generation remembered as
long ago decommissioned nuclear missiles, used to ensure the
country's safety during a similarly catalyzing threat. Add some
reforms to due process, to seemingly prevent anyone's rights from
being stepped on--such as full time recording of arrests, court
observers, and instant attorneys; streamline the judicial process;
and it was a pill the country had swallowed like candy.
The privacy debate had been short before the Supreme Court
ruled it constitutional, since no human beings ever saw any data
except when probable cause had already been established by the
software. A few test cases were paraded around with great ceremony.
The matter was settled.
In fact, crime and fear receded dramatically thereafter.
Illegal drug use was only a memory, there being almost nowhere safe
to use, sell, or make them. White collar crimes decreased after
noted Wall Street wizard Suresh Hilfinger's securities fraud
conviction, showing that Minuteman kept the board room just as safe
as the streets.
By the time it was fully implemented after some ten years,
almost ten years ago now, there was no significant trace of anxiety
about universal monitoring. 'Sentries' was still one of the highest
rated reality shows, playing raw sentry footage of crimes and crimes
prevented, as were its spinoffs, 'The World's Stupidest Criminals'
and the many telenovels people licensed of their own lives, with the
government's cut going to reduce taxes. Everybody was a star.
The reduced crime rate now mostly consisted of crimes of
passion, where clear evidence was usually on file and convictions
rapid; plus the many people sentenced for intent, stopped before
they actually did anything. Given the crisis atmosphere then,
people simply accepted the necessity, and watched their language,
until not talking about anything sensitive became routine. After
all, only bad people talked about bad things; if you didn't act like
a criminal, you had nothing to fear.
So, Emery knew there were prying eyes and ears everywhere.
He'd performed his life hoping for a telenovel deal like all the
kids. But, like most people, since he wasn't planning any crimes, he
never gave it any thought, essentially forgetting Minuteman was his
other roommate. Until now.
The recording stopped, and Turecek continued grimly.
"In your case, and we'll lay out the evidence shortly, Mr.
DeFreece, the Minuteman system detected your intent to assassinate
the President of the United States. Conviction carries...
--That's the first 25% of the story.
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beyond
the last star
a
bird in hand
