SPYWARE BOOK Page 2

  All activity in the apartment centered around the living room, which had evolved into a combination of office and bedroom. Shelves climbed every wall to the ceiling, each tier overflowing with software boxes, video disks, manuals and magazines. The forgotten bedrooms at the back of the apartment were used as further storage. The kitchen, besides the ajar fridge, contained only a microwave, paper plates and cups and plastic utensils. If food couldn’t be microwaved on a paper plate, Nog didn’t eat it.

  Unexpectedly, the largest of the monitors came to life. It spread over an entire wall and was paper-thin. The screen flickered wildly for a moment and somewhere a speaker chimed. The big screen paused, and then the notebook on his lap began to flicker. Someone was trying to get in touch with him using a chat utility over the net. Nog worked his tongue around in his mouth. Talking to unknown strangers, even over the net, made him nervous. He didn’t open a communications path right away, instead he got the userid of the person calling and checked it out. It was from a student account. Nog frowned and worried his tongue against his teeth. Why would a student contact him? Why tonight, of all nights?

  He checked further. Something flashed by on the screen that caught his eye. He scrolled it back up and learned that the student had not logged in for months, in fact, the account had never apparently been used before now. Nog wriggled his tongue. There was a familiar twinge of pain and a tiny amount of blood oozed into his mouth. It tasted salty.

  He opened a pathway.

  Who is it? he typed.

  The reply swam into being on the screen: It’s me.

  Nog considered dropping the connection. He didn’t like people who fooled around and played coy with him on the net. He liked to do it himself, of course, but not when he wasn’t the one in control.

  Identify yourself or be switched off.

  It’s your own personal Santa Claus, you fool. The one who gets you the things you don’t know how to get yourself.

  Nog chuckled to himself, and stopped lacerating his tongue. He relaxed back into his chair and switched over to his notebook for easier reach. Like what kind of things? he typed.

  Things with panties and rubber sheets.

  Nog laughed aloud, a croaking sound that the world rarely heard. He immediately felt a rush of arousal. Nog had long since tired of porn. He had been raised on it, but it had little effect on him these days. He had made million of dollars and he liked women, but they didn’t like Nog. Worse, he was too chicken to hunt for the ones who might hold their noses and cash his checks. He had finally found a fixer, someone who had fed him the women he wanted but didn’t have the guts to go find for himself. They would come to the door and knock discreetly. Usually, they be shocked at his wreck of an apartment and the grim realities of Nog himself. But they didn’t run screaming. They must have been briefed, Nog thought, by his benefactor.

  Nog paid for these women himself, while his friend did what he didn’t have the guts to do, he arranged for their delivery. What his benefactor wanted in return was something quite different.

  Why the secrecy? he typed.

  I want no record of this conversation, not now.

  Nog nodded to the screen. Okay, smart enough. Good move, using a student’s dead account. From now on, I’ll just use your handle: Santa.

  Fine. Santa it is.

  So what do you want tonight, Santa?

  Status report.

  Right on schedule and target. How about you?

  Good. Everything is prepared. We won’t speak again unless we must.

  Alright, but send me another lucky lady tonight.

  There was a pause.

  I think we should wait on that. This is the moment we’ve worked toward. I would prefer you stay on station and handle anything that comes up.

  Nog sighed disappointedly. He didn’t really care about this special software job. He was in it for the women. But he didn’t want his source to dry up for him, so he decided to go along.

  Agreed. Bye.

  Bye. 8-)

  And that was it. Nog touched a key to break the connection. He then went through several files to eradicate the text of the conversation as best he could. Not all traces could be eliminated, but it should all look innocent enough, if someone were to check up on it.

  He began the final process to finish the night’s work. Nearly half an hour later, the main monitor flared into life again. “Download initiated. Upload Complete,” the computer said in a soft, feminine voice. The computer made the words sound almost human. Nog started the next step by activating an icon on the screen of his notebook with the tiny wireless mouse. He patted his notebook affectionately. It was smaller and less powerful than the others, but he was fond of it because he could take it with him on his quarterly trips to Japan. He felt it was the most loyal of his machines.

  “This sure beats taking graduate classes,” Nog said aloud to himself and his humming computers. He chuckled, thinking about all the time he had wasted in school.

  Nog had graduated from U. C. Davis with a degree in computer science, but had never finished his masters. He had made his first million—and his second and his third—writing hit video games. After that he found he had little time left for school.

  As his electronic minions continued to work, Nog considered the rumpled sleeping bag on the couch that served as his bed. He rubbed his burning eyes and blinked. It had been a long time since he had last slept. What was it now, two days? Two days and this was the third night. He was exhausted, but everything was working as planned now, everything was moving ahead.

  Nog patted his laptop absently. He was ugly and he knew it. People shunned him, but his machines never did. The acne that cratered his face, the belly that overflowed his pants, the thick lenses that covered his eyes and the odd V-shaped chip that was missing at the tip of his tongue, none of these things had ever bothered his computers.

  Deciding it was time to rest, he set his notebook’s alarm clock software to awaken him when the transfers were complete. He rose with a grunt, aimed his backside at the couch and collapsed onto it. His notebook soon went into sleep-mode, causing images of a flapping pterodactyl to bounce around the screen in an endless, mindless fashion. Nog fell asleep thinking of flying pterodactyls. An exhausted smile played on his lips. Soon, people would regret shunning him.

  ... 82 Hours and Counting ...

  Classes had begun for Ray, and he was indeed burning.

  His eyes and throat burned, even the skin on his back seemed to burn. As he had often pointed out to others who said things like: Well, teaching doesn’t pay much, but it sure beats working! the one catch about teaching was that you had to perform when it came time for class. In college, there weren’t even any substitutes. It was a live show, mostly improvised everyday, and there were rarely any rehearsals. You went to class and you performed, or there wasn’t a show. Everything you did was stared at and evaluated by many sets of eyes. A bad day for the professor was a bad day for everyone.

  Today was a bad day. Students sat with their heads cradled in their hands, trying to keep them up. His tiredness had left them bored and fatigued, as if just watching him was somehow draining their energy. Students listlessly checked their email on their netbooks and slate computers. One young man in the back was asleep at his desk, his baseball cap pulled forward to block the harsh glare of the fluorescents overhead. Ray had sympathy for them, and tried to keep his energy up, but it was a losing battle.

  Ray felt his armpits go slick and his face began to burn with a wave of embarrassment as he slurred his words and repeated himself. He was bombing and he knew it. He hated the feeling and wondered briefly if this was how it felt to be a comedian with a silent crowd. He paused for a moment, fumbled with his notes and tried to think.

  Then he decided to switch topics to a sure-fire winner for this class. The long struggle he and Brenda had had with the system last night gave him the idea.

  “Class,” he said suddenly. “Let’s talk about viruses.”

  Th
e effect was electric. Slumped students whom he’d long considered narcoleptic sat up blinking. Ray gave them a gratified smile. Setting aside his notes, he turned his full attention to the class. For the moment, he had theirs as well.

  “Viruses are a major topic for this class, of course,” he began. “In years gone by, I would have assigned you all a final project in which you created your own virus for purposes of study.”

  “All right,” muttered someone.

  “I’m listening,” said a student who appeared to be sleeping in an upright position. Her name was Magic Avila and she normally spent every class with her eyes closed. She never took notes and rarely asked questions. True to her name, when it came time to take a test, she would get a perfect ‘A’ every time. Her effortless method of learning did seem like magic.

  “Fortunately or unfortunately, those days have passed us,” Ray continued.

  A collective groan of disappointment rose from the class.

  Ray smiled and felt their attentiveness. He took a deep breath and pressed ahead.

  “I know all too well why you want to hear about viruses. People are always fascinated by the dark side of their craft. Viruses represent power. They are destructive and illegal. Among software professionals, there is no greater crime than their creation. People who create and release software viruses are vandals, nothing more nor less. To us, they are what an arsonist is to a firefighter—what a biological warfare researcher is to a family doctor —what a heretic is to a cleric.

  “I will not ask you to write one, but you will gain the knowledge nonetheless. I can’t help that, for in order to understand them you must surely be given the secrets of their creation. Who, after all, would make a better arsonist than a firefighter?”

  There were scattered chuckles and the class leaned forward and settled in. He knew he had them now, they were ready for a good lecture. His head still burned, but he could push that aside now. He had a topic that he loved to lecture on and an interested audience. It was times like these that made teaching fun.

  “Let us first define what we are talking about. When your computer is infected with a virus, it isn’t an organic thing, like one of the two hundred-odd variations of the rhinovirus we call the common cold. Computer viruses are software, programs, sets of instructions for computers to follow that someone has deliberately created and distributed in order to cause others annoyance, grief or financial loss. Unlike the common cold, which has been with us for millennium and was never purposefully created by humanity, viruses don’t occur naturally. They are specifically designed and ingeniously constructed by one of us. Most often, in fact, by one of you,” here he paused and swept an accusing finger and eye over the crowd. The students responded to his dramatics with smiles and side-glances to their friends. They knew his lecture style by now.

  “Most viruses are written by graduate students in computer science. Many others are written by intelligence agencies, ours or those of foreign powers, for the express purpose of wreaking havoc among the computers of an enemy government.

  “Why us?” interrupted Alicia, a female student who always sat in the front row. Ray turned to her and noticed that she seemed more surprised by her interruption than he was. She was the quiet type, who rarely spoke out of turn in class, unlike some of the other overly-bright hooligans that Ray had to contend with on a daily basis.

  “Because,” sighed Ray, “you’re young, you have time on your hands, and most of all—” he paused, “—because you want to see if you can do it. You want the challenge.”

  “But that’s awful,” said Alicia, her face pinched.

  “Yes, possibly, but predictable. At this point in your careers, you have the time, and you know just enough to be dangerous. You are at the point in your lives that you are impressed by feats of beer consumption, last decade’s muscle cars and empty sexual conquests. If you’ve made it this far in the difficult field of computer science, then you are also impressed by original and creative coding.

  “But let me tell you right now, class, that the creation of wantonly destructive software is a federal crime and that I would not hesitate to turn in any of you who created and distributed such a thing.

  “You’d turn us in? Your own students?” questioned Magic. Her eyes were uncharacteristically open. There was a slight, pouting smile on her lips as she asked the question. She was an attractive girl, and the look on her face made Ray wonder if she had a crush on him.

  “Just as surely as I’d turn you in for building a bomb or setting fire to the dorms,” replied Ray evenly.

  “But it’s not the same thing,” protested Magic, “No one gets hurt.”

  “While it’s true that viruses have yet to cause any known deaths—unless you count the viruses used to disable Iraqi air defense systems in the Gulf Wars, that is—it is only a matter of time until they do. Please realize that there are millions of chances a day for software to cause a death. Car ignition and braking systems are controlled by software. Pilots fly airliners in blinding conditions, trusting their intelligent instruments. If these systems become susceptible to attack, many lives are at risk.

  “But let me backtrack a bit. In order to more thoroughly understand my position on this, we must examine the nature of viruses in greater detail. Classifying them in terms of behavior, viruses come in three primary flavors. One: the annoying virus. Built to sell something in most cases, rather than vandalize, the annoying virus is more of a prank than a felonious assault. One example I recall vividly. It simply caused a large image of a person’s hand to be drawn on your computer console every time you booted up your machine. The annoying part was that middle finger of this blue hand was extended upwards in a pose that we are all probably familiar with.”

  The class laughed aloud.

  Ray nodded to them, “Yes, well... Now, that was it for the virus. That’s all it did. If you hit any key, the image was gone and you could go on with your work for the day. Many of us found it mildly amusing and harmless and generally not worth the trouble of hunting down and erasing the carefully hidden files. The virus would of course attempt to spread itself to other machines whenever possible, so that soon everyone in the office was enjoying “Big Blue” as it came to be known.

  “After a few weeks, however, the humor wore thin. People gradually realized that they didn’t enjoy being flipped off by Big Blue every morning. It took us a few days to eradicate it from every disk we had, but we finally did it one weekend, with only a minimum of overtime and downtime.”

  “Do you still have a copy of that one on disk, Dr. Vance?”

  “Ah, no Magic, I’m sorry. As I was saying, there are a fair number of oddballs like that one. I recall another that caused my word processor program to only print in foreign character sets. Umlauts, accents and the like were rampant until you could get it cleaned off. About seventy-five percent of viruses are sales viruses or search engine hijackers. They perform mild trick like that. Unfortunately, some viruses aren’t harmless pranks. The second behavioral type, the data-destructive virus, is fairly common. Approximately twenty percent plus of viruses come under this category and amount to vandalism. In general, these viruses go for the most valued element of any computer system, the hard disk. They use many approaches, from the brute force of a low-level reformat to a subtle jumbling of the file allocation table, but the result is always the loss of hours upon hours of work. Often, this sort of thing does more damage to individuals rather than to companies, as companies tend to more carefully back-up their data.

  “Last on the list is the rarest and perhaps most feared type: the hardware destructive virus. These are indeed rare, but do exist.”

  “How can a program damage hardware?” asked Magic. Her question was very serious, but her eyes were still closed. Ray took this in stride, he was used to her by now and no longer found it disturbing to answer questions from a student who listened closely while she looked asleep. He suspected her mental circuitry operated differently than it did for most people. Many c
omputer people, when tested by experts, had odd brain behavioral patterns.

  “In most cases it can only be done by someone who has specialized knowledge of the hardware, such as the chip-burning virus that irreparably damaged the motherboards of personal computers by repeatedly sending a signal to them until some of the integrated circuits actually burned out. More recently, viruses have been reported that will destroy the hard disk physically by simply causing the read/write head to seek from one end of the platter to the other, banging it back and forth as fast as it will go until the actuator arm breaks.”

  “Jeez,” muttered another student. Ray always forgot his name and thought of him as the “guy with the baseball cap in the front row”.

  “Indeed,” said Ray. “Viruses can be nasty things.”

  “But how do they spread?” asked Alicia.

  “Ah! Now therein lies the true genius in any virus. Only part of the code of any virus is dedicated to ‘doing its thing’. The rest is dedicated to spreading itself, generally by copying a file from place to place at some point. There are many schemes here. Some viruses rely on an immediate and devastating effect, such as the moment you run the infected program, it erases your hard disk. The problem with this one, of course, is that the victim is far less likely to transmit the virus to someone else’s machine after such a gross and fatal attack. Much like an organic virus that kills its host too soon, the computer virus that attacks prematurely will not have much of a chance to spread before it is eradicated.

  “In fact, most viruses wait for a specific condition to attack, often waiting for weeks or even months before striking. This gives them a lot of time to spread before the threat can be realized. One classic example of this is the Michelangelo virus that was programmed to strike on February 17th, Michelangelo’s birthday. This type of virus is called the ‘time bomb’.