MICROCHIPS NEVER RUST      "Hitting the close button caused four asterisks  
                           to appear. Oh, shit, I've been caught, groaned  
Part 1                     Hanson. A press of the disclosure option        
                           brought news that he was totally unprepared for."

Eric Miller

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 brought 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 recycled 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 camouflage 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 you leave a work

house 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 a 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!"

-- 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 kids 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 Brought 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."

Eric Miller is a graduate student at Michigan State University where he studies the use of Computer Aided Design (CAD) in architectural and product design. Other academic interests include Artificial Life, Virtual Reality, and Cyberspace culture. Recreational interests include mountain biking and cross-country skiing in Michigan's beautiful forests, painting, and composing electronic music as well as writing fiction.

millere@student.msu.edu