Title: The True Story of the InterNet The True Story of the InterNet
   Part II WebWorld & the Mythical 'Circle of Eunuchs' by Arnold Copyright
   1995, 1996, 1997 Pearl Publishing Arnold My name is Arnold, and I'm as
   sane as you are, probably saner. But I'm sitting here listening to
   Jesus #1 argue with Jesus #2, and you're not, so I'll resist the urge
   to try to convince you that I don't belong in Nuthouse Number Nine,
   Looney Level 'Leven. It's officially designated as the "Money Market
   Psychiatric Auditing Facility". That's what the 'Keyholders' call it.
   They are the people who get to go home at night. Half of them are
   nuttier than Jesus #1, but they're towing the line, preaching the party
   platform, so they have 'Level Two' classification and they get special
   privileges. Like lording it over levels Three through Eleven. The
   Keyholders get crapped on by the rest of the Fund'ers on the outside
   and when they come in for work they crap on us-with interest. They're
   allowed DDC's, eCa$h Direct Debit Cards, which they flash around on the
   inside every chance they get, acting like they're god-almighty, but on
   the outside they crawl around like worms, trying their best to act like
   'Ca$hmen', but getting their comeuppance when it comes time to pay and
   they have to show their DDC. Schultz used to be the biggest asshole
   among the current staff of Keyholders, but I got him busted to Level
   Three last week, so I'm finally gaining a bit of acceptance from the
   rest of the inmates. It's taken a long time. It's bad enough being sent
   for treatment in a facility run by your own government (where you have
   at least a modicum of social standing based on the Level you were
   downgraded from), but I'm not a citizen of the Money Market Channel, so
   I don't have any kind of peerage here. I'm a Net'er, a citizen of the
   InterNet Global Village, so on the outside I'm not subject to the laws
   of any of the 500 Channel Governments. At the end of Channel War III we
   got Armistice Agreements from all 500 Channel Governments recognizing
   us as an independent Government, with a one-time right to confer
   citizenship on the members of our underground movement. In return, we
   restored control of the transmission satellites back to their
   respective governments and agreed not to proselytize among the other
   Channel Governments' citizens. We also got free-roaming rights to all
   Transmission stations, including the Nuclear Laser Moon Unit, in return
   dismantling our Hackers Division and putting an article in the InterNet
   Bill Of Rights banning computer hacking in any way, shape or form. I
   can see you rolling your eyes, smiling smugly at me. Another guy in
   Nuthouse Number Nine, claiming sanity, but ranting and raving about an
   imaginary war that never really happened. "Next," you're telling
   yourself, "he'll be telling us old-wives tales about the 'Circle of
   Eunuchs' and claiming he was actually a member." I know Channel War III
   happened. I signed the Armistice Agreement. I was the Head Hacker.
   Jonathan The room started to spin, and Jonathan put his hand on the
   edge of his desk, to steady himself. He realized that he had stopped
   breathing, and he inhaled mightily, causing the room to spin even more.
   After a few moments, the room stopped spinning, but Jonathan's mind
   continued to remain enmeshed in a conflicting whirl of old memories and
   new fears-all engendered by the receipt of a simple CyberPost. A
   CyberPost from the past. A hundred years in the past. A CyberPost which
   had shown up on his personal GraphiCube this morning, a century after
   being sent via an antiquated communications mode which the Masters of
   Antiquity called email. A CyberPost addressed to an anarchist
   organization that had been outlawed for over a hundred years-the
   CypherPunks. Jonathan had immediately, instinctively, hit the illegal
   kill-switch on his ground-connection and booted his Telsa Snarf
   Barrier. He had needed time to stop the room-and his mind-from
   spinning. But how long had he been sitting here, motionless? GlobeNet
   Security would be re-establishing his ground-connection in a matter of
   minutes and he would have to have an answer ready for his cutting of
   the ground-link to Headquarters. Jonathan hastily saved the CyberPost
   to a disposable HydroCube that he could swallow, if need be. He pulled
   an Insta-Log chip of his own making out from under his seat and placed
   it online, booting down the Telsa Snarf Barrier at the same time, just
   as the GraphiCube launched an overlay of the Day Monitor, Rabin. Rabin
   did not look happy. "Third time this week, Jonathan, what's going on?",
   Rabin's frown twitched with impatience. "If I have to put you on
   report, I can guarantee that you can kiss your HomeWork Privileges
   goodbye." "I'm still working on that InfoWar Scrambler Mechanism for
   GS-7, Rabin." Jonathan thought quickly, knowing that he was skirting
   the edge of disaster. "Those damn wanna-be programmers that you
   assholes keep hiring to keep your relatives happy don't know the
   difference between a Test-Boot and a Transmit-Boot." Jonathan paused,
   then added, "I don't need my head on a chopping block because
   Headquarters thinks that I'm launching my own Channel Revolution."
   "Then file for Offline Work Authorization." Rabin snapped. "Every
   goddamn time I work on this crap they feed me?" Jonathan snapped right
   back at him. "I'm not supposed to need to work off-line on this
   project. It's supposed to arrive at my station in Test mode, Rabin, not
   in Nuke Headquarters mode. Do you want me to run this shit from your
   HomeStation, instead?" Rabin laughed, for the first time, and glanced
   down at Jonathan's Log File once again, confirming that he had killed a
   transmission from the InfoWar Scrambler Mechanism. "OK, Jonathan, I'll
   kill the report, but try to work on that stuff during someone else's
   shift, pal. The brass is running us ragged on one of their interminable
   pet projects and we've got to account for every millisecond of CPU use.
   They've got a full-court press on this one, and we're having trouble
   keeping our GelMem from overheating." Jonathan paused for a second, his
   mind working swiftly, and then made a giant leap forward toward a
   destination that was only now beginning to take shape in his
   subconscious mind. "I could get you some spare cycles, Rabin, if you're
   really that desperate." Rabin began to speak, then stopped, obviously
   wondering what this generosity on Jonathan's part was going to 'cost'
   him, in the long run. "Look, Rabin," Jonathan continued, filling in the
   empty space, "I don't want to lose my HomeWork Privileges, and I know
   that you can't keep burying my ground-connection kills, so I might as
   well shut down for the day and spend some time at Headquarters getting
   this shit straight. That will free up eighteen GelMem units at GS-7 for
   you, and you can steal my HomeWork cycles until the end of your shift."
   Rabin looked thoughtfully at Jonathan, decided that Jonathan was
   working in his own self-interest and thus would not expect to extract
   future concessions for this gratuitous offering, and nodded agreement.
   "Done." said Jonathan as he shut down his Headquarters programs.
   "Besides," he said with a wink, "I need to restock my liquor cabinet
   and the Headquarters commissary is a damn-sight cheaper than what these
   local-yokels are gouging for a good bottle of booze around here."
   Toad.com Rabin's face faded from the screen, as Jonathan kicked in
   Privacy Mode and fell back into his chair with relief. He realized that
   he was shaking slightly, and his thoughts returned to the CyberPost
   which was now sitting in the HydroCube at the back of his desk.
   CypherPunks. Mere mention of the name in public came with a gold-plated
   guarantee of a visit from GlobeNet Security. Even when speaking of them
   in private conversation, it was advisable to do so only in historically
   proper context, referring to them as the villainous instigators of
   Channel War II. Jonathan avoided discussing the CypherPunks, even
   privately, because of the mixed emotions of fear, shame, and curiosity
   that the name aroused in him. His grandfather had been a CypherPunk,
   and had been executed at the close of Channel War II. Jonathan had
   vague memories of late-night visits by strangers whose spirited
   discussions were so curiously enlivening that he would often creep into
   his grandfather's study to listen, though he was far too young to
   understand exactly what it was that they were discussing. Then came the
   sound of jackboots on the door, and his grandfather handing him down to
   his father and mother in the cellar. The muffled shots that rang out as
   he was carried to the waiting RoboShuttle. The wetness of his mother's
   tears falling from her cheeks to his as she clutched him closely in
   their flight to obscurity. The graveled roughness of his father's voice
   as he prepared his family for the harsh changes ahead in a life where
   their heritage and their history must be hidden from one and all. The
   CypherPunks had ruined Jonathan's life. Now, it looked like they might
   be about to do it again. Somehow, his past had caught up to him.
   Someone, somewhere, had targeted him for exposure as being genetically
   linked to one of the historical monsters of Channel War II. Jonathan
   threw the HydroCube on the InstaScanner and read the beginnings of the
   message header, once again.