Chapter Seven

Arline could have purchased a pack of cigarettes, a pack of beef franks, a bag of rice, and a rotational lock. Instead when returned home from the Chinese, Indian, and Mexican grocery, she purchased herself Hickory Chips, some post it notes, mini memo notebooks, and a can of iodized salt. For the amount of security you could get with a rotational lock, you were still bound by the type of cipher manufacturing companies were willing to give you, and the lock could simply be ripped out of something as then as paper. But with post it notes, it doesn't necessarily scream lock.

She wasn't breaking any laws that day, it was simply a matter of using legal items in a way they were never originally intended. She knew how to work around the system, find the cheapest price. Then come home and have an fusion cuisine meal all hot and nice. She treated her cyberspace adventures in much the same way, finding ways around the spam block rather than repeating the system message over and over again. And now she comes back home with her Zero Liability USBs, along with her new program that semi-automates the remote viewing process.

Living with her mother used to be a matter of dependance, yet now that she had finally come to live on her own, she found ways to hide what she was doing. And as long as she wasn't breaking any laws or smoking, all that would really happen was her mother would lecture her about how she spent her money. But she wanted things she couldn't always have, as poor as a prickly chav. She found the best deals in ethnic grocers, so she could find a way to secure her private keys in Zero Liability. If the program tester couldn't exchange keys securely, why should they expect others who use the program to?

Operational security was as important as any kind of cipher, even if one used ones more secure than the simplest of substitutions, the key still had to be secure. She had a bag of hickory chips on the bed.

She was ready to eat.

Chorizo Chilly Stew.

Arline, February 14th 2017 at 1:01 A.M. It feels breezy and wet. Wavy, and bouyant. Brown movement, wavy blue. Voyages long ago. Conflict unresolved. Nothing but wind. She found herself thinking of Mostafa Mahmou, Egypt. At first she did not quite understand how she had arrived at this location, and yet it feels right. Near the Nile, the large river that provided ancient times with water to live. She wondered, what, in some way, did these visions connect. She wondered, on some level, whether she had accidentally downed an actual Russian aircraft.

She wondered whether the Russians had murdered Anakarah's family, and whether Egypt might be next. She thought of Bangkok, that didn't do anything besides make Penang curry. All the conflicts of the world, and none of them felt resolved by the resignation of the Glynn, who had spoken with Russian officials off the record. Everything was watched and spied by the secret services. From phone lines to emails, everything about the person was watched.

Yet we stuff have a baboon for a president.

We still have a propagandists as ... well a propagandist. And yet the news wants us to argue about the conflict bout the president's daughter's T Shirt brand, even when they themselves are losing viewer ships by the day. Can the rain come again some other day, or shall the floods of cosmic Noah rain down from the sky in droplets of blood and ash against mankind.

The abject poverty is still rampant.

The US masks it. Yet the mask is cracking.

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