Insider X (22 page)

There seemed to be no logic to these questions, Na thought.  Why do they care about this stuff?  She kept clicking on answers.  She was getting tired.  How long had she been doing this?

Crush said some words of encouragement.  “You’re doing great, Na.  Not much longer to go.”

It was almost like he could read her mind at times.  What color am I thinking now, she said in her head.  She visualized a juicy red strawberry.  REDREDRED.  Crush didn’t answer.

Okay.  She kept answering questions.  There was a long string of slang terms and American phrases she had to answer.  This time she had to type in a word or phrase that meant the same thing.  They gave an example.

Kike
.
  The correct answer that was typed in was: ‘Jew boy’.

Okay, she could do this.

Pan face
.
  Na squirmed.  She typed in ‘slanty eyes’.

Jarhead
. 
Na typed in ‘Marine’.

Tea Party
.
  Na typed in ‘politicians who drink tea’.

The words and phrases had no particular theme, it seemed to her.  Just a mishmash of stuff.  A lot of the words and phrases were just mean words.  Not nice.  Some were terrible, in fact.  Words that Americans would use while cussing.  Words that racists would use.  Words that bigots would use.  Were racists and bigots the same thing?  She was glad they didn’t ask that question, because she couldn’t remember.

She had no idea how she did, because this time it didn’t tell her if she picked the correct answer or not.  The last phrase in the long list was:

Juicy toes
. 
Juicy toes?  What in the world?  She typed in ‘toes that have juice spilled on them’.

Finally.  Done.  Finito.

“I’m pooped,” she said.

“Is ‘I’m pooped’, A, a vegetable; B, a type of dog; C, an expression meaning you are tired; or D, the same thing as number two?” Crush said.

“Please no more,” Na said.  “I can’t take anymore.”

Crush smirked.

“Did you write those questions?” Na said, hoping he didn’t.

Crush looked at her.  This time she could tell what he was thinking.

“I guess not,” she said.  “Sorry.  Some of those questions were terrible.  You said they are trying to find my strengths?”

Crush nodded.  “We all had to take these tests.  Mine had different questions, as I took the tests years ago.  They are trying to determine to what extent you understand American culture.  The questions on religion, schooling, politics, pop culture, music, and everything else will help us know what we need to focus on in your training.  Based on your answers, you have done very well.  You have what they call a very well-rounded understanding of Americans.  This will make you a valuable asset in the Blue Army.”

“Because I know who Snoop Dog is?  And that I know that Katy Perry has more Twitter followers than Lady Gaga?” Na said.  “That is considered valuable?”

Crush nodded his head again.  “Yes, very much so.  It will all make sense later why they want to know what you know.  Are you tired?”

“Is that another joke?” Na said.

Crush smiled.  “Let’s take a break, it is almost lunch time.  Do you want some ice cream?”

“Are you being serious?” Na said.

“Do you not like ice cream?” Crush said.  “Would you rather have a cappuccino?”

“You are not being serious,” Na said.

Crush laughed.  “Yes I am.  You do not believe me.  Come.  Get up.  We will get some cappuccino.”

“What type of place is this that serves ice cream and cappuccino before lunch?” Na said.

“Backwards,” Crush said, whispering.

She almost didn’t hear him.  She looked at him, but he was already walking ahead of her now.  They weren’t going to the cafeteria.  He appeared to be leading her someplace new.

37

57 kilometers outside Chengdu

GOLDEN APPLE GROVE was a ghost town.  Homes the size of mansions sat abandoned with dirt yards choked with weeds.  No sod had ever been laid.  The driveways were still dirt; asphalt had never been poured.  Plywood covered windows.  Wires hung where light fixtures should be.

This was one man’s vision.  Mansions for millionaires.  A gated community that catered to the elite.  Hundreds of these homes; all abandoned, all empty, all rotting now.  The bank that had funded this massive development had shifted the defaulted loans into another column, so they were now off the balance sheets.  It was easier that way.  Red ink was sloppy and ugly.  Much better to have everything in the black.

The State, who had directed the bank to make the loans, wasn’t about to ask persnickety questions.  As for the developer responsible for it all, he was working on another enterprise now, getting loans from other banks.  No questions were sent his way either.  It helped that his father was a high-ranking government official.  It also helped that the China Machine didn’t stop to inquire into things no one wanted to hear about.  Build, build, build was the mantra.  Sustainable growth.  Keep the train going.  That was all that mattered.

Money could be found elsewhere.  That was the great thing about money in Brave New China.  It could always be manufactured, could always be lent, could always be shifted from one column to another.  Banks loaned to banks who loaned to developers.  The developers built.  Where the money went was always a sleight-of-hand trick.  Which cup has the ball?  Is it under this one?  No.  How about this one?  No.  Then it must be under this one?  No again.

Oops.  Where did the ball go?  Wrong question.  We don’t need to know.

The State just wanted growth.  Build more.  Let the new townhomes, condominiums, and mansions all remain empty.  Whole towns could be found just like this one.  People had been pushed off that land, kicked out of their homes, to create ghost towns.

Mei had a different take on all of it.

She called it “mei housing”, drop the ‘i’.  As in
me, me, me!
  Live rent free.  Everyone should do it!

“How do you like my new home?” Mei said to Marks and Lip.

38

FROM THE OUTSIDE, place could have been profiled on ‘Cribs’.  Marks admired the digs.  Mei was living large.  Inside, however, left a little to be desired.  The rooms were unfurnished, unheated, and lacked drywall in most spots.

“Nice,” Lip said.  “Love what you’ve done to the place.”

Johnny Two-cakes was already settled in.  He was in an adjacent room that had a ceiling that was only open rafters.  The walls around him were just studs and electrical wires.

“You guys have power?” Lip said.                                                                            

“Of course,” Mei said.  “And electricity.”

Marks smirked.  Three youths from Team Freedom were hanging out with Johnny Two-cakes.  He was showing them how to pull the feed, access the “fire hose” of data that was coming from Facility 67096.

Lip and he apparently had done well.  Johnny Two-cakes actually seemed pleased.  He was all set up with his gear.  He was using a wood door that was off its hinges and two sawhorses as a table.  Lots of wires and Cat6a cables.  ‘A’ stood for augmented, as explained by Lip.  To Marks, a cable was a cable.  To Lip, Cat6a was the “cat’s meow”.

“Can’t believe all these homes were set up this way,” Lip said, checking out one of the jacks.

“Isn’t it great?” Mei said.  “I have two hundred and fifty homes and each of them has super slick fast Internet access.”

“How many of your crew is here?” Marks said.

“Only a few,” Mei said.  “About seven hundred.”

Marks raised an eyebrow.  “That few, huh?  Didn’t want to bring more?”

“Okay, silly,” Mei said.  “We’ve taken over all the houses.  This particular house is mine.  I chose it because the toilets here work.”

“They do?” Lip said.

“As long as you don’t need to flush,” Mei said.  “I don’t think we’ll stay long.  Particularly if you go the bathroom, Lipster.”

“You got a ‘log sheet’?” Lip said.

“Log sheet?” Mei said.

“In the bathroom,” Lip said.

“What is a log sheet?” Mei said.

“You don’t want to know,” Marks said.  He walked over to Johnny Two-cakes.

“Anything good, yet?” Marks said.

Johnny Two-cakes didn’t respond.  Lip walked over, as well.

“Earth calling Johnny Two-cakes,” Lip said.  He waved his hand in front of Johnny Two-cakes.  Johnny Two-cakes blinked and looked up.

“Do you mind?” Johnny Two-cakes said with a sigh.  “I’m working here.”

“Well,
excuse me
,” Lip said.  “We do all the work, and you get to have all the fun.  What’s wrong with that equation?”  Lip looked at Marks.  “By the way, did you notice that I used ‘we’?  You’re welcome.”

Marks found a seat.  Furniture was a little limited.  He had to make do with several upturned painter buckets that were stacked together.

“Here’s my ticket,” Lip said.  “We’re ready for the matinee.”

Johnny Two-cakes spoke Mandarin to the three youths sitting with him.  Whatever he said to them made them stand up and leave.

“They can stay,” Lip said, as they walked off.

“No,” Johnny Two-cakes said.  “They have work to do.  Unlike two people I know.”

“Who’s not pulling their weight?” Lip said.  “We’ll kick their ass.  Meat, find ‘em and go give them a chocolate swirly in the toilet.”

Johnny Two-cakes, aka ‘Mr. Happy’, double blinked.  Lip, aka ‘Babel’ (like in Tower of Babel), took a seat next to Mr. Happy.

The three stooges: Meat, Mr. Happy and Babel.  Mei came over to join them.

“Where should I sit?” Mei said.  She looked at Marks.  “You have room?”

Make that the four stooges.  Ivona Tinkle gave Marks a wink and sat down sideways on his lap.  She gave a little wiggle.

“Now how am I going to see?” Marks said.

“You can see just fine,” Mei said.  “Show us, Mr. Happy,” Mei said.

Lip looked at Mei and Marks.  “You two need to get a room,” he said.

“I have a room,” Mei said.  “And a house.  What are you talking?”

“About,” Lip said.

“What?” Mei said.

“What are you talking
about
,” Lip said.  “That’s how it’s said.”

“I need English lessons from you?” Mei said.  “Mr. Log Sheet.  Ha ha, very funny.  What do you write?  Houdini?”

“Houdini?” Lip said.

“You don’t know Houdini?” Mei said.  “How about, ‘Corn’?  Or ‘Coiled Black Snake’?”

“I get those two,” Lip said, his brow furrowing.  “But what is Houdini?”

Mei wiggled again on Marks’s lap.

“Houdini,” Mei said.  “Now you see him...”                                                             

“Quit wiggling,” Marks whispered.

“Am I wiggling?” Mei whispered back.  She kept wiggling.

Lip’s face lit up.  “Now you don’t!” Lip said.  “That’s a good one.”

“Do you want me to give you a dollar,” Marks whispered to Mei.

Mei stopped wiggling.  “A dollar?  You insult me.  Okay, Mr. Happy, we’re waiting.  Show us the show.” 

Johnny Two-cakes adjusted one of the screens.  “Can you guys see?”

“Who cares about them,” Lip said.  “Can I drive?”

Johnny Two-cakes sighed.  He scooted his seat and Lip took over his keyboard.  Lip moved the mouse and opened up the program.

39

WHAT PULLED UP on Lip’s screen was not quite what Marks expected.  Lip gave a running play by play on how the program worked.  Of course the only one who needed to listen was Marks.  And the only one who didn’t care to listen was Marks, but that was beside the point.

The screen was showing a live stream of what was coming out of Facility 67096.  There was too much data to show all of it.  That would be like trying to sip water from a fire hose.  Lip started to sift for samples; batches of data that were reassembled bits and bytes, which moments before had been going the speed of light over the wire.

The wire.  They still used archaic terms; holdovers from the days that copper wire cables were pulled from New York to London by steam ships.  To send a wire by Western Union was the way it was done back then—tappity tap with one of Mr. Morse’s telegraph gadgets.  It was a different day now.  Lots more cables on the seabeds of oceans.  They didn’t use copper anymore.  Fiber optics was the wire of choice.

More “bandwidth” with fiber optics.  About a thousand times more than copper.  Whatever bandwidth meant.  Well, Marks wasn’t that bad, it had something to do with how many megs or gigabytes per second could go down the pipe.  Copper worked fine for voice signals, but not too well when higher “bit rates” were needed.  That would be a speed thing—“bit rates”.  How many bits could be transmitted per second.

So, basically—to break it down—bandwidth was speed for the junk.  “Junk” was Marks’s lingo for all that tech baloney.

“I don’t need a running play by play for how this works,” Marks said.  “Just put the junk on the screen.”

“Junk?” Lip said.  “Is that your technological term to describe what we’re backhauling here?”

“Hush, Marks,” Mei said.  She seemed interested in the gobbledygook that Lip had been spouting.  “So, your packet sniffer has an integral optical splitter?” Mei asked Lip.

“Yep.  It’s created a mirror image of all the contents on the cable.  I’m sending it back over the SEA-ME-WE 3 cable.  So the boys and girls back home can get a looksee too.”

“You’re routing everything through the Shantou landing station?” Mei said.  “But can’t they see?”

“Sure,” Lip said.  “But take a look.”  He clicked his mouse and a sample pulled up.  “That’s live,” Lip said.

Soccermom-72911
had posted a comment on an article about Starbucks.  The article, Marks skimmed it quickly, was about a coffee mug that was blinged out with Swarovski crystal.  It was retailing at Starbucks’s stores for one hundred and fifty dollars apiece.

Soccermom-72911’s post was short and sweet:

Please bring them back, these make wonderful holiday gifts!  I highly recommend this product.

“Heavy,” Marks said.  “Regular activist there.  Should we get her for treason?”

“For liking Starbucks?” Mei said.  “Is that a crime in the US?”

“Definitely,” Marks said.  “Five dollars for a cup of Joe?  Criminal.”

“Coffee costs two bucks,” Lip said.  “Tall skinny lattes cost four.  Nothing costs five bucks there.”

Marks snorted out of his nose and added dryly, “Do you want me to repeat their menu prices for you?”

“Not now,” Lip said.  “Look at this one.”  He pulled up another post by Soccermom-72911.  It was on another website.  She’d left it a few minutes ago under an article about a shooting.  Two teenagers had been killed by a police officer in a Chicago suburb.

I am afraid sometimes.  So many blacks in hoodies wander through my neighborhood.  They have backpacks on, but they don’t go to school.  They are hoodlums that are just looking for houses to break into.  They broke into my neighbor’s house.  I saw two of them.  Two blacks.  Young.  Maybe sixteen?  Blacks have violence in them.  It was breed in them during slavery times.  “Bucks” were what they were called.  Big Bucks who would work hard all day.  They are violent people by nature.  This cop did a good thing shooting those two boys.  They were probably hoodlums.  I also can’t help thinking that less blacks means more safety for the rest of us.

“You’ve got to be kidding me?” Marks said.  “That’s Soccermom’s post?  And it’s coming from the Facility?”

“Did you listen to anything Johnny Two-cakes said during his brief?” Lip said, turning his head.

“Yes, Stanley,” Mei said.  “Did you listen?” She turned and looked at him disapprovingly.

“Get back to wiggling,” Marks whispered.

“Wake the dragon?” Mei whispered back.

“Are you guys talking dirty over there?” Lip said.

“No,” Mei said.  “Show us more.”

Lip pulled up another live stream.  It showed a larger batch with more profiles and their respective posts.  There were over one hundred and ninety posts under that same article about that shooting outside Chicago.  The article was less than an hour old.  Posts were being added as they watched.  Many of the new posts were calling out Soccermom-72911 as being racist.  Some of them were calling her a “dumb bitch”; another said “go back in your hole you stupid cun7!”  Many of the comments just added fuel to the fire.  A whole firestorm of hate was being unleashed.  Their names, or “handles”, were an interesting mix.

IguanaLuv
was acting like a voice of reason.  But even her (or his) posts were less than politically correct. 
Workingdad-1200
and
GearHead
had each left misogynistic posts criticizing others. 
Maureen
claimed to be a grandmother who remembered when buses were segregated: “it made things so much simpler back then… we didn’t have any of these troubles we have today”. 
Olivia Spinnochia
was agreeing with Soccermom-72911 for being brave enough to “speak the truth”.  “I’m afraid too.  I live on a fixed income and can’t afford to live in a safer neighborhood that doesn’t have blacks,” Olivia said. 
PopeyeEatsSpinnach
was calling out everyone for being “sick fucks” and a bunch of “ugly faggots”.  “And you grandmothers can go kill yourselves.”

00000007… NavySeal… ArmyVet-54… Tyrone…

They were all leaving posts.  Marks skimmed through them. 
Tyrone
was talking “white meat”.

I like ‘em young and juicy.  Get me some juicy toes.  I’ll fuck all them beecheez!

“What is beecheez?” Mei said.  “Is that cheese made from bees?”

“Close,” Marks said.  “But I can’t tell you what juicy toes is.  This is the garbage that the Blue Army is doing right now?  What they’re writing?”

“Yep,” Lip said.  “Pretty obvious what they’re trying to do.”

Johnny Two-cakes nodded.  “Seeds of dissent, gentlemen.”

“What about me?” Mei said, pretending to be annoyed.

“And ladies,” Johnny Two-cakes said.  “They’re driving wedges, trying to disrupt our way of life.  Here it appears they’re trying to incite a race riot.  A common tactic of theirs.  They see our country as a powder keg; it’ll just take the right match.  Race.  Religion.  Ethnicity.  All powder kegs in their eyes.  All targets.  The sad thing is, for every ten posts the Blue Army writes somebody back in the States is drawn into the ugliness.  Perception is—to anyone looking at these comments—is that Americans are full of this ugliness.  That this is what most of us really think.”

“Whatever happened to sticks and stones,” Lip said.  “And words aren’t supposed to hurt us?”

“See the Twitter feeds?” Johnny Two-cakes said.  He pointed to another live stream that was on one of the other monitors.  “You remember the Miss America incident last September?”

“Sure,” Marks said.  “That was messed up.”

Mei leaned in.  “Tell me,” she said.  “What happened to Miss America?”

Lip turned around again and looked at Marks.  “Don’t tell me you read the paper?”

“Didn’t need to,” Marks said. “It was all over the news.  Heard it on the car radio.”

“Are you going to tell me, or not?” Mei said.  “What happened to Miss America in September?”

“Blue Army happened,” Johnny Two-cakes said.

“Man, these guys are really crafty,” Lip said.

“I’m getting annoyed,” Mei said.  She did a little bounce on Marks’s lap.

“Ouch,” Marks said.

“That didn’t hurt,” Mei said.

“It did.  Do it again,” Marks whispered.

“Will you two stop, or go get a room,” Lip said.

“Why does he keep telling us to get a room?” Mei said.  “We have a room.  Lipster, you make no sense.  Tell me about Miss America or I’m going to pee in my pants.”

“That I want to see,” Lip said.

“Me pee in my pants?” Mei said.  “That turns you on?”

“Are you kidding?” Lip said.

Marks realized it was entirely possible that Mei was not joking, and Lip might just provoke her, if this went on much longer.  “Hold on,” Marks said.  “I’ll brief you.”

He told her the deal.  How in September of 2013, Miss Nina Davuluri was crowned Miss America.  She was a beautiful girl, who just happened to be of Indian descent.  An American, schooled in America, raised in America, she was targeted.  A beautiful girl—

“Enough!” Mei said.  “You said beautiful twice.  I understand.  She was pretty.  What happened to her?”

Lip snickered.  Marks continued and told how Miss Davuluri was crowned on a Sunday night.  That night and all into the next day, Twitter exploded with hate tweets that called her “an Arab”, a “sand nigger”,  a member of “Al Qaeda” and other stuff that was so disgusting it made you want to puke.  Their Twitter handles were people who claimed to live in Alabama, Texas, and other states.  Handles looked real, had histories of other tweets that seemed to validate they lived where they said; made them look real—with girlfriends, pictures of their dogs… whole nine yards.

“Geotags,” Lip said.  “Don’t forget the geotags.  They made it look like the entire US was voicing their opinions.  Tweets coming from every other state.”

“Wait,” Mei said.  “I remember.  Yes, that would be them.  Online Blue Army.”

“All those hundreds of tweets,” Marks said.  “All those cretins having a field day on Twitter.”

“All not real,” Mei said.  “Yes, Online Blue Army is very devious.  But that stuff is child’s play to them.  Show us more, Lip.”

Lip moved his mouse and brought up another live feed.

“Now this is ingenious,” Lip said.

Marks skimmed what was on the screen.

“I don’t get it?” Marks said.  He was looking at a webpage that was titled “Tea Party For America”.  He didn’t see any posts.  “Where is the fake stuff?”

“It’s all fake,” Lip said.  “The entire website.”

“No kidding?” Marks said.  He skimmed the site.  It looked legitimate.  Members could sign in.  It sold Tea Party products.  Tee shirts, coffee mugs, keychains…

Subtle stuff.  Tee shirts that said “The Party for Real Americans!”.  “End Government.  Vote Tea Party!” said a coffee mug.

“They’ve embedded themselves in various organizations,” Johnny Two-cakes said.  “Best way to influence is to pretend to be one of us.  Find a group, then skew their message.  Not enough that it’s obvious.  But enough to push it incrementally.  Drive it to the fringes.  Whatever direction will cause the most disruption and incur the most damage.”

Lip sifted for other samples.  He pulled up another batch.

“This is fake too?” Marks said.

On top of the page was the heading: “Joe’s Car Talk!”.  It was a car enthusiast website.  There was a picture of Joe (middle-aged bald guy smiling) and a little summary on him.  Real detailed.  How he’d been a gear head since he was thirteen.  Used to tinker with engines in his uncle’s shop.  Lived in Jersey.  Went on to give all sorts of details about himself, including his likes and dislikes.  All time faves, worst cars every made…

Real opinionated guy, it seemed, as Marks skimmed the page.

“Joe” had just done a new blog post on his site.  It was a lineup of three SUVs.  A little comparison study that he wished he could see… “like NOW!”  The new “Caddy”, “Bavaria’s latest”, and “an unexpected Dark Horse surprise!”  Apparently, Shuanghaun Automobile had made quite a splash with their new SUV at the Global Show in Tianjin.  “Can’t get this baby in the US, yet.  But if these performance numbers are true, I might be eating Chinese by the end of the year,” Joe went on to say.  He was willing to make a bet, though, that “Good ‘ol Detroit Steel will still win the day”.  “Them slanty-eyed engineers in China haven’t beat us, yet.  And I don’t see it happening anytime soon.”

Mei made a little laugh.  “Slanty-eyed.  Oh, how those Americans hate us Chinese.  Why would Chinese people ever want to live there?”

Johnny Two-cakes nodded.  “Multiple agendas with this one.  One is obvious.  Discourage Chinese people from wanting to live in the US.  The PLA is concerned with the brain drain that has occurred over the last decade.  The best and brightest leaving for America.  So they try and make America into a place of intolerance.  Not exactly that hard to do.  Just augment those voices already in the US.  Make them seem like they’re ubiquitous.  That even regular Joe here is a hater of the Chinese.”