Доктороу Кори, Scroogled- библиотека РусЛит

Scroogled Кори Доктороу
        Кори Доктороу
        Scroogled
        УGive me six lines written by the most honorable of men, and I will find an excuse in them to hang him.Ф ЧCardinal Richelieu
        УWe donТt know enough about you.Ф ЧGoogle CEO Eric Schmidt
        Greg landed at San Francisco International Airport at 8 p.m., but by the time heТd made it to the front of the customs line, it was after midnight. HeТd emerged from first class, brown as a nut, unshaven, and loose-limbed after a month on the beach in Cabo (scuba diving three days a week, seducing French college girls the rest of the time). When heТd left the city a month before, heТd been a stoop-shouldered, potbellied wreck. Now he was a bronze god, drawing admiring glances from the stews at the front of the cabin.
        Four hours later in the customs line, heТd slid from god back to man. His slight buzz had worn off, sweat ran down the crack of his ass, and his shoulders and neck were so tense his upper back felt like a tennis racket. The batteries on his iPod had long since died, leaving him with nothing to do except eavesdrop on the middle-age couple ahead of him.
        УThe marvels of modern technology,Ф said the woman, shrugging at a nearby sign: Immigration Ч Powered by Google.
        УI thought that didnТt start until next monthШФ The man was alternately wearing and holding a large sombrero.
        The U.S. government had spent $15 billion and hadnТt caught a single terrorist. Clearly, the public sector was not equipped to Do Search Right.
        Googling at the border. Christ. Greg had vested out of Google six months before, cashing in his options and Уtaking some me time"Ч which turned out to be less rewarding than heТd expected. What he mostly did over the five months that followed was fix his friendsТ PCs, watch daytime TV, and gain 10 pounds, which he blamed on being at home instead of in the Googleplex, with its well-appointed
24-hour gym.
        He should have seen it coming, of course. The U.S. government had lavished $15 billion on a program to fingerprint and photograph visitors at the border, and hadnТt caught a single terrorist. Clearly, the public sector was not equipped to Do Search Right.
        The DHS officer had bags under his eyes and squinted at his screen, prodding at his keyboard with sausage fingers. No wonder it was taking four hours to get out of the god damned airport.
        Expand allЕ
        УEvening,Ф Greg said, handing the man his sweaty passport. The officer grunted and swiped it, then stared at his screen, tapping. A lot. He had a little bit of dried food at the corner of his mouth and his tongue crept out and licked at it.
        УWant to tell me about June 1998ШФ
        Greg looked up from his Departures. УIТm sorryШФ
        УYou posted a message to alt.burningman on June 17, 1998, about your plan to attend a festival. You asked, ТAre shrooms really such a bad ideaШТФ
        The interrogator in the secondary screening room was an older man, so skinny he looked like heТd been carved out of wood. His questions went a lot deeper than shrooms.
        УTell me about your hobbies. Are you into model rocketryШФ
        УWhatШФ
        УModel rocketry.Ф
        УNo,Ф Greg said, УNo, IТm not.Ф He sensed where this was going.
        The man made a note, did some clicking. УYou see, I ask because I see a heavy spike in ads for rocketry supplies showing up alongside your search results and Google mail.Ф
        Greg felt a spasm in his guts. УYouТre looking at my searches and e-mailШФ He hadnТt touched a keyboard in a month, but he knew what he put into that search bar was likely more revealing than what he told his shrink.
        УSir, calm down, please. No, IТm not looking at your searches,Ф the man said in a mocking whine. УThat would be unconstitutional. We see only the ads that show up when you read your mail and do your searching. I have a brochure explaining it. IТll give it to you when weТre through here.Ф
        УBut the ads donТt mean anything,Ф Greg sputtered. УI get ads for Ann Coulter ring tones whenever I get e-mail from my friend in Coulter, Iowa!Ф
        The man nodded. УI understand, sir. And thatТs just why IТm here talking to you. Why do you suppose model rocket ads show up so frequentlyШФ
        Greg racked his brain. УOkay, just do this. Search for Тcoffee fanatics.ТФ HeТd been very active in the group, helping them build out the site for their coffee-of-the-month subscription service. The blend they were going to launch with was called Jet Fuel. УJet FuelФ and УLaunch"Ч that would probably make Google barf up some model rocket ads.
        They were in the home stretch when the carved man found the Halloween photos. They were buried three screens deep in the search results for УGreg Lupinski.Ф
        УIt was a Gulf War Ч themed party,Ф he said. УIn the Castro.Ф
        УAnd youТre dressed asЕШФ
        УA suicide bomber,Ф he replied sheepishly. Just saying the words made him wince.
        УCome with me, Mr. Lupinski,Ф the man said.
        By the time he was released, it was past 3 a.m. His suitcases stood forlornly by the baggage carousel. He picked them up and saw they had been opened and carelessly closed. Clothes stuck out from around the edges.
        When he returned home, he discovered that all of his fake pre-Columbian statues had been broken, and his brand-new white cotton Mexican shirt had an ominous boot print in the middle of it. His clothes no longer smelled of Mexico. They smelled like airport.
        He wasnТt going to sleep. No way. He needed to talk about this. There was only one person who would get it. Luckily, she was usually awake around this hour.
        Maya had started working at Google two years after Greg had. It was she whoТd convinced him to go to Mexico after he cashed out: Anywhere, sheТd said, that he could reboot his existence.
        Maya had two giant chocolate labs and a very, very patient girlfriend named Laurie whoТd put up with anything except being dragged around Dolores Park at 6 a.m. by
350 pounds of drooling canine.
        Maya reached for her Mace as Greg jogged toward her, then did a double take and threw her arms open, dropping the leashes and trapping them under her sneaker. УWhereТs the rest of youШ Dude, you look hot!Ф
        He hugged her back, suddenly conscious of the way he smelled after a night of invasive Googling. УMaya,Ф he said, Уwhat do you know about Google and the DHSШФ
        She stiffened as soon as he asked the question. One of the dogs began to whine. She looked around, then nodded up at the tennis courts. УTop of the light pole there; donТt look,Ф she said. УThatТs one of our muni WiFi access points. Wide-angle webcam. Face away from it when you talk.Ф
        In the grand scheme of things, it hadnТt cost Google much to wire the city with webcams. Especially when measured against the ability to serve ads to people based on where they were sitting. Greg hadnТt paid much attention when the cameras on all those access points went public Ч thereТd been a dayТs worth of blogstorm while people played with the new all-seeing toy, zooming in on various prostitute cruising areas, but after a while the excitement blew over.
        Feeling silly, Greg mumbled, УYouТre joking.Ф
        УCome with me,Ф she said, turning away from the pole.
        The dogs werenТt happy about cutting their walk short, and expressed their displeasure in the kitchen as Maya made coffee.
        УWe brokered a compromise with the DHS,Ф she said, reaching for the milk. УThey agreed to stop fishing through our search records, and we agreed to let them see what ads got displayed for users.Ф
        Greg felt sick. УWhyШ DonТt tell me Yahoo was doing it alreadyЕФ
        УNo, no. Well, yes. Sure. Yahoo was doing it. But that wasnТt the reason Google went along. You know, Republicans hate Google. WeТre overwhelmingly registered Democratic, so weТre doing what we can to make peace with them before they clobber us. This isnТt P.I.I."Ч Personally Identifying Information, the toxic smog of the information ageЧ"ItТs just metadata. So itТs only slightly evil.Ф
        УWhy all the intrigue, thenШФ
        Maya sighed and hugged the lab that was butting her knee with its huge head. УThe spooks are like lice. They get everywhere. They show up at our meetings. ItТs like being in some Soviet ministry. And the security clearance Ч weТre divided into these two camps: the cleared and the suspect. We all know who isnТt cleared, but no one knows why. IТm cleared. Lucky for me, being a dyke no longer disqualifies you. No cleared person would deign to eat lunch with an unclearable.Ф
        Greg felt very tired. УSo I guess IТm lucky I got out of the airport alive. I might have ended up ТdisappearedТ if it had gone badly, huhШФ
        Maya stared at him intently. He waited for an answer.
        УWhatШФ
        УIТm about to tell you something, but you canТt ever repeat it, okayШФ
        УUmЕyouТre not in a terrorist cell, are youШ
        УNothing so simple. HereТs the deal: Airport DHS scrutiny is a gating function. It lets the spooks narrow down their search criteria. Once you get pulled aside for secondary at the border, you become a Тperson of interestТЧand they never, ever let up. TheyТll scan webcams for your face and gait. Read your mail. Monitor your searches.Ф
        УI thought you said the courts wouldnТt let themЕФ
        УThe courts wonТt let them indiscriminately Google you. But after youТre in the system, it becomes a selective search. All legal. And once they start Googling you, they always find something. All your data is fed into a big hopper that checks for Тsuspicious patterns,Т using deviation from statistical norms to nail you.Ф
        Greg felt like he was going to throw up. УHow the hell did this happenШ Google was a good place. ТDonТt be evil,Т rightШФ That was the corporate motto, and for Greg, it had been a huge part of why heТd taken his computer science Ph.D. from Stanford directly to Mountain View.
        Maya replied with a hard-edged laugh. УDonТt be evilШ Come on, Greg. Our lobbying group is that same bunch of crypto-fascists that tried to Swift-Boat Kerry. We popped our evil cherry a long time ago.Ф
        They were quiet for a minute.
        УIt started in China,Ф she went on, finally. УOnce we moved our servers onto the mainland, they went under Chinese jurisdiction.Ф
        Greg sighed. He knew GoogleТs reach all too well: Every time you visited a page with Google ads on it, or used Google maps or Google mail Ч even if you sent mail to a Gmail account Ч the company diligently collected your info. Recently, the siteТs search-optimization software had begun using the data to tailor Web searches to individual users. It proved to be a revolutionary tool for advertisers. An authoritarian government would have other purposes in mind.
        УThey were using us to build profiles of people,Ф she went on. УWhen they had someone they wanted to arrest, theyТd come to us and find a reason to bust them. ThereТs hardly anything you can do on the Net that isnТt illegal in China.Ф
        Greg shook his head. УWhy did they have to put the servers in ChinaШФ
        УThe government said theyТd block us otherwise. And Yahoo was there.Ф They both made faces. Somewhere along the way, employees at Google had become obsessed with Yahoo, more concerned with what the competition was doing than how their own company was performing. УSo we did it. But a lot of us didnТt like the idea.Ф
        Maya sipped her coffee and lowered her voice. One of her dogs sniffed insistently under GregТs chair.
        УAlmost immediately, the Chinese asked us to start censoring search results,Ф Maya said. УGoogle agreed. The company line was hilarious: ТWeТre not doing evil Ч weТre giving consumers access to a better search tool! If we showed them search results they couldnТt get to, that would just frustrate them. It would be a bad user experience.ТФ
        УNow whatШФ Greg pushed a dog away from him. Maya looked hurt.
        Every time you visited a page with Google ads, or used Google maps, or Google mail Ч even if you sent mail to a Gmail account Ч they collected your info.
        УNow youТre a person of interest, Greg. YouТre Googlestalked. Now you live your life with someone constantly looking over your shoulder. You know the mission statement, rightШ ТOrganize the WorldТs Information.Т Everything. Give it five years, weТll know how many turds were in the bowl before you flushed. Combine that with automated suspicion of anyone who matches a statistical picture of a bad guy and youТreЧФ
        УScroogled.Ф
        УTotally.Ф She nodded.
        Maya took both labs down the hall to the bedroom. He heard a muffled argument with her girlfriend, and she came back alone.
        УI can fix this,Ф she said in an urgent whisper. УAfter the Chinese started rounding up people, my podmates and I made it our 20 percent project to fuck with them.Ф (Among GoogleТs business innovations was a rule that required every employee to devote 20 percent of his or her time to high-minded pet projects.) УWe call it the Googlecleaner. It goes deep into the database and statistically normalizes you. Your searches, your Gmail histograms, your browsing patterns. All of it. Greg, I can Googleclean you. ItТs the only way.Ф
        УI donТt want you to get into trouble.Ф
        She shook her head. УIТm already doomed. Every day since I built the damn thing has been borrowed time Ч now itТs just a matter of waiting for someone to point out my expertise and history to the DHS and, oh, I donТt know. Whatever it is they do to people like me in the war on abstract nouns.Ф
        Greg remembered the airport. The search. His shirt, the boot print in the middle of it.
        УDo it,Ф he said.
        The Googlecleaner worked wonders. Greg could tell by the ads that popped up alongside his searches, ads clearly meant for someone else: Intelligent Design Facts, Online Seminary Degree, Terror Free Tomorrow, Porn Blocker Software, the Homosexual Agenda, Cheap Toby Keith Tickets. This was MayaТs program at work. Clearly GoogleТs new personalized search had him pegged as someone else entirely, a God-fearing right winger with a thing for hat acts.
        Which was fine by him.
        Then he clicked on his address book, and found that half of his contacts were missing. His Gmail in-box was hollowed out like a termite-ridden stump. His Orkut profile, normalized. His calendar, family photos, bookmarks: all empty. He hadnТt quite realized before how much of him had migrated onto the Web and worked its way into GoogleТs server farms Ч his entire online identity. Maya had scrubbed him to a high gloss; heТd become the invisible man.
        Greg sleepily mashed the keys on the laptop next to his bed, bringing the screen to life. He squinted at the flashing toolbar clock: 4:13 a.m.! Christ, who was pounding on his door at this hourШ
        He shouted, УComing!Ф in a muzzy voice and pulled on a robe and slippers. He shuffled down the hallway, turning on lights as he went. At the door, he squinted through the peephole to find Maya staring glumly back at him.
        He undid the chains and dead bolt and yanked the door open. Maya rushed in past him, followed by the dogs and her girlfriend.
        She was sheened in sweat, her usually combed hair clinging in clumps to her forehead. She rubbed at her eyes, which were red and lined.
        УPack a bag,Ф she croaked hoarsely.
        УWhatШФ
        She took him by the shoulders. УDo it,Ф she said.
        УWhere do you want toЕШФ
        УMexico, probably. DonТt know yet. Pack, dammit.Ф She pushed past him into his bedroom and started yanking open drawers.
        УMaya,Ф he said sharply, УIТm not going anywhere until you tell me whatТs going on.Ф
        She glared at him and pushed her hair away from her face. УThe Googlecleaner lives. After I cleaned you, I shut it down and walked away. It was too dangerous to use anymore. But itТs still set to send me e-mail confirmations whenever it runs. SomeoneТs used it six times to scrub three very specific accounts Ч all of which happen to belong to members of the Senate Commerce Committee up for reelection.Ф
        УGooglers are blackwashing senatorsШФ
        УNot Googlers. This is coming from off-site. The IP block is registered in D.C. And the IPs are all used by Gmail users. Guess who the accounts belong toШФ
        УYou spied on Gmail accountsШФ
        УOkay. Yes. I did look through their e-mail. Everyone does it, now and again, and for a lot worse reasons than I did. But check it out Ч turns out all this activity is being directed by our lobbying firm. Just doing their job, defending the companyТs interests.Ф
        Greg felt his pulse beating in his temples. УWe should tell someone.Ф
        УIt wonТt do any good. They know everything about us. They can see every search. Every e-mail. Every time weТve been caught on the webcams. Who is in our social networkЕdid you know if you have 15 Orkut buddies, itТs statistically certain that youТre no more than three steps to someone whoТs contributed money to a ТterroristТ causeШ Remember the airportШ YouТll be in for a lot more of that.Ф
        УMaya,Ф Greg said, getting his bearings. УIsnТt heading to Mexico overreactingШ Just quit. We can do a start-up or something. This is crazy.Ф
        УThey came to see me today,Ф she said. УTwo of the political officers from DHS. They didnТt leave for hours. And they asked me a lot of very heavy questions.Ф
        УAbout the GooglecleanerШФ
        УAbout my friends and family. My search history. My personal history.Ф
        УJesus.Ф
        УThey were sending a message to me. TheyТre watching every click and every search. ItТs time to go. Time to get out of range.Ф
        УThereТs a Google office in Mexico, you know.Ф
        УWeТve got to go,Ф she said, firmly.
        УLaurie, what do you think of thisШФ Greg asked.
        Laurie thumped the dogs between the shoulders. УMy parents left East Germany in Т65. They used to tell me about the Stasi. The secret police would put everything about you in your file, if you told an unpatriotic joke, whatever. Whether they meant it or not, what Google has created is no different.Ф
        УGreg, are you comingШФ
        He looked at the dogs and shook his head. УIТve got some pesos left over,Ф he said. УYou take them. Be careful, okayШФ
        Maya looked like she was going to slug him. Softening, she gave him a ferocious hug.
        УBe careful, yourself,Ф she whispered in his ear.
        They came for him a week later. At home, in the middle of the night, just as heТd imagined they would.
        Two men arrived on his doorstep shortly after 2 a.m. One stood silently by the door. The other was a smiler, short and rumpled, in a sport coat with a stain on one lapel and a American flag on the other. УGreg Lupinski, we have reason to believe youТre in violation of the Computer Fraud and Abuse Act,Ф he said, by way of introduction. УSpecifically, exceeding authorized access, and by means of such conduct having obtained information. Ten years for a first offense. Turns out that what you and your friend did to your Google records qualifies as a felony. And oh, what will come out in the trialЕall the stuff you whitewashed out of your profile, for starters.Ф
        Greg had played this scene in his head for a week. HeТd planned all kinds of brave things to say. It had given him something to do while he waited to hear from Maya. She never called.
        УIТd like to get in touch with a lawyer,Ф is all he mustered.
        УYou can do that,Ф the small man said. УBut maybe we can come to a better arrangement.Ф
        Greg found his voice. УIТd like to see your badge,Ф he stammered.
        The manТs basset-hound face lit up as he let out a bemused chuckle. УBuddy, IТm not a cop,Ф he replied. УIТm a consultant. Google hired me Ч my firm represents their interests in Washington Ч to build relationships. Of course, we wouldnТt get the police involved without talking to you first. YouТre part of the family. Actually, thereТs an offer IТd like to make.Ф
        Greg turned to the coffeemaker, dumped the old filter.
        УIТll go to the press,Ф he said.
        The man nodded as if thinking it over. УWell, sure. You could walk into the ChronicleТs office in the morning and spill everything. TheyТd look for a confirming source. They wonТt find one. And when they try searching for it, weТll find them. So, buddy, why donТt you hear me out, okayШ IТm in the win-win business. IТm very good at it.Ф He paused. УBy the way, those are excellent beans, but you want to give them a little rinse firstШ Takes some of the bitterness out and brings up the oils. Here, pass me a colanderШФ
        Greg watched as the man silently took off his jacket and hung it over a kitchen chair, then undid his cuffs and carefully rolled them up, slipping a cheap digital watch into his pocket. He poured the beans out of the grinder and into GregТs colander, and rinsed them in the sink.
        He was a little pudgy and very pale, with the social grace of an electrical engineer. He seemed like a real Googler, actually, obsessed with the minutiae. He knew his way around a coffee grinder, too.
        УWeТre drafting a team for Building 49ЕФ
        УThere is no Building 49,Ф Greg said automatically.
        УOf course,Ф the guy said, flashing a tight smile. УThereТs no Building 49. But weТre putting together a team to revamp the Googlecleaner. MayaТs code wasnТt very efficient, you know. ItТs full of bugs. We need an upgrade. YouТd be the right guy, and it wouldnТt matter what you knew if you were back inside.Ф
        УUnbelievable,Ф Greg said, laughing. УIf you think IТm going to help you smear political candidates in exchange for favors, youТre crazier than I thought.Ф
        УGreg,Ф the man said, УweТre not smearing anyone. WeТre just going to clean things up a bit. For some select people. You know what I meanШ EveryoneТs Google profile is a little scary under close inspection. Close inspection is the order of the day in politics. Standing for office is like a public colonoscopy.Ф He loaded the cafetiиre and depressed the plunger, his face screwed up in solemn concentration. Greg retrieved two coffee cups Ч Google mugs, of course Ч and passed them over.
        УWeТre going to do for our friends what Maya did for you. Just a little cleanup. All we want to do is preserve their privacy. ThatТs all.Ф
        Greg sipped his coffee. УWhat happens to the candidates you donТt cleanШФ
        The Stasi put everything about you in a file. Whether they meant to or not, what Google did is no different.
        УYeah,Ф the guy said, flashing Greg a weak grin. УYeah, youТre right. ItТll be kind of tough for them.Ф He searched the inside pocket of his jacket and produced several folded sheets of paper. He smoothed out the pages and put them on the table. УHereТs one of the good guys who needs our help.Ф It was a printout of a search history belonging to a candidate whose campaign Greg had contributed to in the past three elections.
        УFella gets back to his hotel room after a brutal day of campaigning door to door, fires up his laptop, and types Тhot assesТ into his search bar. Big deal, rightШ The way we see it, for that to disqualify a good man from continuing to serve his country is just un-American.Ф
        Greg nodded slowly.
        УSo youТll help the guy outШФ the man asked.
        УYes.Ф
        УGood. ThereТs one more thing. We need you to help us find Maya. She didnТt understand our goals at all, and now she seems to have flown the coop. Once she hears us out, I have no doubt sheТll come around.Ф
        He glanced at the candidateТs search history.
        УI guess she might,Ф Greg replied.
        The new Congress took 11 working days to pass the Securing and Enumerating AmericaТs Communications and Hypertext Act, which authorized the DHS and NSA to outsource up to 80 percent of intelligence and analysis work to private contractors. Theoretically, the contracts were open to competitive bidding, but within the secure confines of GoogleТs Building 49, there was no question of who would win. If Google had spent $15 billion on a program to catch bad guys at the border, you can bet they would have caught them Ч governments just arenТt equipped to Do Search Right.
        The next morning Greg scrutinized himself carefully as he shaved (the security minders didnТt like hacker stubble and werenТt shy about telling him so), realizing that today was his first day as a de facto intelligence agent for the U. . government. How bad would it beШ WasnТt it better to have Google doing this stuff than some ham-fisted DHS desk jockeyШ
        By the time he parked at the Googleplex, among the hybrid cars and bulging bike racks, he had convinced himself. He was mulling over which organic smoothie to order at the canteen when his key card failed to open the door to Building 49. The red LED flashed dumbly every time he swiped his card. Any other building, and thereТd be someone to tailgate on, people trickling in and out all day. But the Googlers in 49 only emerged for meals, and sometimes not even that.
        Swipe, swipe, swipe. Suddenly he heard a voice at his side.
        УGreg, can I see you, pleaseШФ
        The rumpled man put an arm around his shoulders, and Greg smelled his citrusy aftershave. It smelled like what his divemaster in Baja had worn when they went out to the bars in the evening. Greg couldnТt remember his name. Juan CarlosШ Juan LuisШ
        The manТs arm around his shoulders was firm, steering him away from the door, out onto the immaculate lawn, past the herb garden outside the kitchen. УWeТre giving you a couple of days off,Ф he said.
        Greg felt a sudden stab of anxiety. УWhyШФ Had he done something wrongШ Was he going to jailШ
        УItТs Maya.Ф The man turned him around, met his eyes with his bottomless gaze. УShe killed herself. In Guatemala. IТm sorry, Greg.Ф
        Greg seemed to hurtle away, to a place miles above, a Google Earth view of the Googleplex, where he looked down on himself and the rumpled man as a pair of dots, two pixels, tiny and insignificant. He willed himself to tear at his hair, to drop to his knees and weep.
        From a long way away, he heard himself say, УI donТt need any time off. IТm okay.Ф
        From a long way away, he heard the rumpled man insist.
        The argument persisted for a long time, and then the two pixels moved into Building 49, and the door swung shut behind them.