Reports on the Internet Apocalypse
Page 18
“That is not a problem,” he said.
“Right, but now the harder part,” I interrupted. “We need Anonymous to hack all the Jumbotron screens in Times Square to play this video on a loop starting at noon while I’m doing a PeepHole broadcast. And at some point, to directly broadcast my PeepHole broadcast from the screens.”
“That is also no problem,” he said.
“This is important,” Margo said. “It’s no time for bravado.”
“It’s not bravado,” he insisted. “We already know how to do that. We’ve been planning the prank for weeks. We were gonna run a Photoshop of Obama and Senator Melissa Bramson having sex, but your idea is much better.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Well, maybe you can include the Photoshop at the end too,” Tobey suggested. “Win-win.”
“Thank you, Fawkes,” I said, ignoring Tobey, and placed a flash drive containing the presentation in his hand. This Friday at noon.”
“Anonymous is with you, Gladstone.”
“I’ve been burned by you before,” I said.
“Gladstone, I read the book. You’ve been burned by everything,” he said, “But you’re still here, and I will do my best, as well as anyone can do, to make sure we get the right collaborators. And to that end, maybe you should go out the back way, it’s—”
“I got this,” I said, remembering my last 4chan escape from more than a year before, and pulled open the closet door. A naked man in a Nixon mask, who had clearly been masturbating in the closet, fell wanking to the floor. Hentai porn prints spilled out everywhere.
“Goddammit, Glendoria4,” Fawkes shouted. “How many fucking times!”
* * *
And so I sat in a New York hotel room, a guest in my own city with a woman from L.A. Nowhere left to go and no place I’d rather be. Stanton had sent a fax from L.A. to the Mansfield Thursday night. Attention: Parker Lawrence. Everything was on for Friday. All I had to do was make this last night feel more like home, like pulling up the covers tight after you’re already in bed.
That night I held Margo while we watched TV. The rumors had spread. The people were going to gather. No permit had been obtained, but no specific presentation had been promised and no violence was expected. All everyone knew was that they should bring a fedora, sports jacket, and phone because Gladstone was coming home.
“I love you, Wayne,” she said.
“I’ve almost gotten used to you calling me Parker.”
“I like calling you Parker,” she said, “But for now, I wanted to make sure you knew I had the right guy.”
I smiled and tucked her hair behind her ear. “I love you so much, Margo, that even if I hated your fucking guts, I’d still want to spend every single day with you.”
She laughed, and I asked, “Do you understand?”
“I totally understand,” she said. “I hate you too.”
I reached over to the bedside lamp, making sure to keep Margo on my chest, and shut off the light.
We had a very late breakfast in the morning and then walked out separately to Times Square. I needed to do this alone, and if bullets were to start flying, I didn’t want Margo anywhere near me. The crowd wasn’t quite New Year’s Eve, you could still move and walk, but about 75 percent of the people were wearing sports jackets and fedoras, or even better, Gladstone masks. Margo was somewhere in this crowd of everyday people, but she was wearing a $2,000 sports jacket she’d stolen from Stanton’s closet and a hat that once belonged to David Bowie.
The time on my iPhone read 11:55 and I worked my way to that riser in the center of Times Square beneath the biggest of the many giant screens. As a child, waiting for Broadway show tickets with my mom and dad on Christmas, Times Square was skyscrapers and one giant movie screen. Now it was a bunch of televisions stapled to buildings, but it was still the best place I could think of, and I hoped hijacking twenty TVs would have the same impact as holding one movie screen hostage.
At 11:58, Margo’s presentation started playing on every single screen in Times Square. Silent, but explosive. It started with a simple message: “Gladstone and the Internet will be here in moments.” All the Gladstones in the crowd started pointing and looking among them. The next message flashed: “Get ready to download the PeepHole app. Follow WGladstone.” Most of the crowd probably already had the app on their phones, considering PeepHole’s downloads had shattered all records the week before with the advantage of being the only app available during the Apocalypse. Still, a heads-up couldn’t hurt, and I’m sure Stanton appreciated the financial reward of being a revolutionary. Unfortunately, my username was “WGladstone” because even in the Apocalypse, I wasn’t the first one to try to register “Gladstone.”
At noon, the screens all changed again: “THE INTERNET IS BACK!!!” I opened up my Gmail and sent a test to myself. It went through. Anonymous had hacked the screens, the ICANN crypto officers had staged a revolt, and now it was up to me to keep it going. I opened my PeepHole app and hit Broadcast, holding my phone in front of my face on the highest step of the riser. I was online, but I waited. I wanted to give everyone a chance to follow me, to find me, to realize they were connected and able to listen. And after another two minutes, I looked out into a crowd of sports jackets and fedoras and saw a phone where nearly every face should have been. And I laughed because those with iPhones had apples in front of their faces like living re-creations of Magritte’s Son of Man.
“Hello from the Internet,” I said, and even though the sound came out of my mouth I heard it everywhere. It was coming out of all the phones in Times Square, bouncing from the M&M building to Ernst & Young, like speaking into a powerful microphone. I checked the screens to make sure the presentation had changed to Rowsdower’s footage.
“My name is Wayne Gladstone,” I said, and I had to stop there because the crowd erupted into cheers. “Thank you, but our time may be limited,” I said. “On all these screens around me you will see Former Special Agent Aaron N. Rowsdower being murdered by his NSA boss, Patrick Dunican. I know many of you know Rowsdower from my journal, where I was kind of a dick to him, but he was a good man. He was my friend. He helped me. And his teeth were totally normal, by the way. Anyway, he fought to bring the Internet back to all of you, and he was murdered. That name again is Patrick Dunican, but Dunican was killing for another. On behalf of the same man who murdered my ex-wife, Romaya Petralia, and ICANN crypto officer Michiko Nagasoto. On behalf of the man behind so many of these bombings. The same man who took the Internet from us in the first place. Special Agent Rowsdower was murdered trying to give evidence to the government. So today, I give that evidence to you. All of you here today must bear witness to the evidence Rowsdower tried to share in vain.”
I waited for Rowsdower’s footage to finish playing, blood dripping from his forced smile. “The man behind the Apocalypse, the terrorism, the murder, is Hamilton Burke.” The screens filled with Burke’s image, and I could tell by the reaction that the crowd didn’t want to believe. “Anonymous has gathered the records,” I said. “Look carefully and you will see a paper trail tying Burke to murder and terrorism.” The incriminating documents flashed by one by one, finally resting on an image of Hamilton with Neville. Faces peeked out from behind phones. It was too dense for them. Too many words. And too much not about the Internet.
“Switch to me,” I said. It was a message to Anonymous and suddenly every single screen in Times Square was transmitting my PeepHole broadcast, and everyone had the audio from their phones to match with the images on the big screen. I took out Margo’s phone, where I’d transferred Bhattacharyya’s confession and hit Play, holding her phone in front of mine. Times Square was now filled with Neville, a sick Indian Englishman, confessing almost from the grave.
“My name is Neville Bhattacharyya,” he said. “Tech Global founder, ICANN crypto officer, and, to my dishonor, willing collaborator with Hamilton Burke. I was one of the many people in power collaborating to provide gaps in the Internet’s s
ecurity protocols that allowed Hamilton Burke to stage cyberattacks. I am sorry. But I must also stress that after those attacks, it was the United States government who shut down the Internet. First at the hubs, turning it off like a switch, but even when it returned, they metered it out, bit by bit, pursuant to their directives and inclinations. One monster’s tantrum became an excuse for the systemic restriction of a public commodity. Please do not forget that as we move forward. But if all goes as planned, today the Internet will be returned to you, and I hope it remains. Good luck.”
I put Margo’s phone back in my pocket and checked my watch. The Internet had been on for six minutes. “We’re still broadcasting,” I said, and the crowd cheered. The same cheers I’d heard them give Hamilton. The cheers of people who had what they wanted. Good people, bad people, but all satisfied.
“In our current climate, I’m not sure everyone who had a part in this would want me to identify them by name, but I didn’t do this myself. It took an army. And not just an army of soldiers like Rowsdower, but an army of believers, businesspeople, and fools.”
That didn’t get much of a response, but I only said it for my friends anyway. Tobey and Margo were somewhere out there in that crowd, and Jeeves, Leonards, and Stanton were listening in. “Y’know, about a year ago,” I continued, “I said I wasn’t the Messiah. That anyone wearing the hat could be the Messiah. And in that way, we all did this today, so thank you!”
The crowd cheered again, and that was good, because now I was really going to lose them. I lowered my phone so I could peek out between its top and the brim of my hat. There could be hit men at any one of the literally hundreds of windows around me. But what would be the point of killing me now? The information was out there.
“Before I go,” I said, “I did want to tell you one more thing. This army we put together that pulled the Internet back from the hands of tyrants is not undefeated. When it comes to the Internet, we are always vulnerable.”
Even though my voice was still bouncing off every Times Square surface, it started to sound thin, unaccepted by an audience, and rattling until it fell like unwanted change on a dirty floor.
“The Internet connects us to everything, but if we’re not careful, we still see the whole of the world through a peephole. A tiny crack of our own design. We joke that we put filters on our Instagram pictures to make ourselves more beautiful to the world, but it works in reverse too. We filter what we take in. The Internet gives us unfettered power to control how we see the world. What information we receive. And like anyone with that kind of power and control, there comes the expectation of comfort. This is the new normal, the belief that we should not be challenged. That things should not make us uncomfortable. But some things are supposed to make us uncomfortable.”
I had a good ten seconds before everyone stopped listening, and it occurred to me you could lose an audience quicker than the government could cut an Internet connection.
“Look, I understand the importance of safe spaces,” I said. “I just spent the last six months hiding in an Australian mine because I’d lost everything I’d ever had and loved. It felt good to stay someplace where I had full control of what I let into my world, but if I stayed there, I never would have been able to build a life with the woman I love. I never would have seen my friends again. I never would have been with you here today. I know some of you don’t want to hear this, but that’s sort of the point. Soon, you’ll download all your other apps and watch something else.”
I was no longer the only voice. I’d started a murmur in the audience, perhaps by introducing the idea that there were other things to be watching.
“I’m in the middle of Times Square with all of you. And I’m sure some of you are absolute assholes and some of you are cruel and some of you are scared. You are victims and abusers and beggars and kings and I want to see all of you. And I want you to see me. One second,” I said.
I took off my coat and put it by my feet and then I took off my hat. I was exposed. I was shouting. “My name is Wayne Gladstone, and I’m home. This is my face. Show me yours. Throw off your hats. Lift up your phones. Gimme your hands. You’re wonderful!”
The hats flew like a graduation ceremony, and when they fell, I started shouting because I was holding the phone farther from my face, my other arm flapping wildly. “I’m here. I’m the asshole on the riser, waving. Take your shot. Are you a government operative? Are you a hit man for Hamilton Burke? Go for it. We know everything now. You won’t get paid. You won’t advance your career. You’ve been seen.”
The crowd returned to their prior stillness. After all, seeing me take a bullet would be the most epic of fails for an audience that hadn’t seen a YouTube humiliation for more than a year. They waited for me to fall and bleed, but I didn’t fall. I didn’t bleed. And after a moment I reached down and put my hat and jacket back on. “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” I said, and everyone started jumping again.
“There’s one more thing I have to do before I go,” I said. “Hamilton?” I asked. “You listening? Because this last part’s for you.” I brought the phone tight to my face and looked directly into the lens. “It’s over. You’re going to have to hide now, Hamilton. I know. I’ve been there. And I’m sorry. Unlike me who got to hide when the world went dark, we’re online now. We’ve returned what you took away, and that’s going to make your hiding all the more difficult.
“It’s sort of like when you turn a computer on in the dark. You ever do that? And suddenly a little tiny bug lands on the screen. You discover you’d been living with an insect and you never realized until it was drawn to the light. That bug’s a lot like you, Hamilton, because staying hidden isn’t in your nature. You’re the kind of man who needs to stamp his name on things. To own things. You need eyes on you or you cease to exist.
“Anyway, Hamilton, I have to go get arrested for criminal mischief if I remember my Crim Law from school, and you have to figure out how to end your existence. But before you go, I wanted to let you know I’ve been on the wagon for the last few months. I’ve been waiting for a special occasion.”
The flask with the booze from Stanton’s bar was inside my coat pocket, nestled with my old love letter to Romaya where the two had lived side by side for so long. And when I pulled the flask out, the letter came with it, catching the wind as if it had been waiting for its very first opportunity to be free. I watched it disappear into the Times Square crowd. It was gone.
“Hamilton,” I said. “I have here a flask of Beauté du Siècle by Hennessey, your brand if I remember correctly. Here’s to you, Hamilton. Goodbye.” I took a deep swig and returned the flask to my pocket. “Thank you all,” I said, “And remember, we need the evidence, so now’s a good time to hit Download, and if anyone does try to shut the Internet down again, well, then it’s up to all of you. Carry the news.”
Dear Wayne,
It’s only been an hour since I left. One hour since I watched them lead you back to your cell, and you snuck that last peek over your shoulder to see me crying behind the glass.
I don’t want you to worry. I wasn’t sad. I know I’ll see you soon. (Three to six months is soon, right?) I cried because even handcuffed and wearing prison clothes, I could see you were stronger than when we first met. You were more you. And with you, I am more me. This is what we do for each other.
I love you,
Margo
P.S. This is my only copy of this letter, and now it’s yours.
Acknowledgments
First, I would like to thank my editor, Peter Joseph, who had faith in this trilogy before it even existed. If not for Peter’s request for an epilogue in Book Two, Special Agent Rowsdower may have never ended up being the narrator of Book Three. Sometimes good things come from a tiny, thoughtful suggestion. I also want to thank my agent, Lauren Abramo, who navigated me through this entire process start to finish, dealing with a Gladstone who was a lot more sober, focused, and generally irritating than the Gladstone of these novels.
Music played an incredibly important role in these novels. Book One was composed almost entirely to Arcade Fire’s The Suburbs and Interpol’s fourth album. The soundtrack for Book Two was ELO’s New World Record and, to help me get into an Internet-less L.A. mindset, Don Henley’s “Boys of Summer” and “Sunset Grill.” I struggled to find a matching soundtrack in the early parts of Book Three. I revisited all the past recordings mentioned above and threw in some Crowded House and Beck with limited results. And then David Bowie’s Blackstar came out, and then he died.
I can’t really articulate what Bowie’s death meant to me. I had always found mourning celebrities somewhat false and foolish, but the impact was undeniable. I stopped writing the novel for a few days, and I was very lucky that during that time, Rick Moody reached out to me and asked if I would trade emails with him about Bowie’s final album and demise. Sure, it was an honor to write anything with a great novelist like Rick, but I was touched more by the belief that he was looking out for me. That he gave me a chance to grieve through writing, and I am very grateful.
I then immersed myself in the book, Bowie, and Blackstar, writing the second half of the novel faster than I’d ever written before. Bowie is everywhere in this book, and for a story that’s largely about learning to be brave, I think that’s as it should be.
Also on the list of people who did not get proper thanks, I must mention my friend Liz Coleman, who is best described as the benefactor of this trilogy. Over the last few years, Liz has done so many small favors to help this universe exist: keeping facts in her head to remind me about forgotten details, coming up with theories that I found illuminating and/or infuriating, and even proofreading drafts. It was invaluable. Also, she taught me to speak Australian and even shot video on the ferry to Manly. Thank you, Liz.