Margaret Killjoy (46:19)
And we're back. Other people debate the technical merits, but he has a hard time understanding one new app is blowing up pretty quickly. Lots of people attest to it being good, but this seems mostly based on them finding it easy to use. One person says they are still trying to use a smartphone, but then goes quiet. One account that was quiet for a while starts speaking differently. In the comments section on a formerly obscure site, someone says this is Big C. I'm free. A group of us are forming up at a secure location. Contact me through a secure channel. Jake knows that this is Cookie, a local organizer After a little struggle, Jake manages to get the most popular new encrypted communication apps temporarily installed on his tails instance, he joins one of the public channels that some comments encouraged using. It's basically like Telegram or Discord, a flood of posting and arguing. Folks who survived the raids using these new accounts try to imply who they are without saying it openly. It's an amateur hour shitshow of oblique flailing. Remember that one time we did that one thing? I was the one that wore green. Turns out one of the worst assholes in the scene was still free, and he is using the opportunity to crow even when the crude only you would know X Games imply an account is a given. Comrade Jake knows that such details could simply be copy pasted from a compromised device via some man in the middle attack, where the cops sit between two parties, relaying their messages back and forth as if they're the other person there is not enough to trust in an Internet post to meet up, Vera walks immediately to the house of her old friend Cat. She scopes the front from down the street, notices Kat's Subaru is missing, and makes her way in through the backyard. Vera has held on to a spare key for years, but their friendship is almost entirely offline. They don't even bring devices when they hang out. As far as the outside world knows, Cat is just another park ranger doing ecological restoration. Ten years ago, they burned down a condo together. Vera cries and trembles the second she closes the back door behind her, falling into a fetal position. Cat's House is pristine, beautiful, safe. Vera rocks back and forth, trying to remember breathing exercises. Has her heart always been this loud? Is she dying? After an eternity, she gets up and starts doing stretches and exercises. She pictures herself punching through the faces of the cops back at her house. She knows she needs to work out the adrenaline. Kat's house is like a warm security blanket. Everything is just right. Vera lies on the floor of the living room for hours, not moving, listening way too attentively to the sounds of cars going by. Is Cat even in town? Should she make something from her food in the pantry? The slow crunching sound of Kat's Subaru coming to rest in the driveway is an immense relief. Cat is surprised about the raids, but she grasps the severity, hugs Vera, and tries to throw lentils and veggies in an instapot while listening and asking questions. While dinner cooks, Kat brings out an old laptop she rarely uses, and they check the major news sites together, careful not to enter search terms or anything that might flag. In some sense, it's a relief to learn the raids were beyond just Vera's house. They're not targeted at Vera specifically, but no one seems to have been released yet, so it's clearly not safe to leave. Kat makes up a futon for Vera in the basement. Of course you can stay the night. You can stay as long as you need. Vera takes off her earrings and places them carefully beside her work bag. In each earring is a tiny sliver of a USB stick. Each of them is just like Jake's encrypted KeePass X database, encrypted file system, GPG keys, installation executables for VeraCrypt and KeePass X. In the morning, Vera will investigate what can be done with Kat's laptop. Julie and Maggie make three stops before heading out of town. First at Julie's bank, where she successfully empties most of her account into 5,000 in cash. But at Maggie's bank, the teller disappears for a long while and doesn't come back. You know what? Never mind. I'll go to a different bank, maggie says to another teller, using her best imitation Karen voice. They drive off, heads on a swivel for cop cars. Finally, they slip a note into a friend's mailbox explaining where to find their house key and some instructions for their lease. They collect every credit or debit card they have and tape them together under a seat, never to be used again. They take off quickly back roads to avoid license plate readers than long country roads. It's hard to navigate without their phones. Each of them picks a personality type and fashion style that signals no political or subcultural allegiance. They make up a backstory about how they're friends and try to bicker in convenience stores to avoid looking queer. They pick up a bumper sticker they'd otherwise be livid at and slap it on. At a campsite 200 miles away, they go through all their remaining belongings. They have a tarp, a tent, two sleeping bags, a gallon jug of water, a Sawyer microfiltration water purifier, a five gallon bucket of rice and beans, a camp stove, a couple pads, trashy books for boredom. They end up buying basic comforts like folding chairs. With their cash reserves. It's just a camping trip until it isn't. They go on a hike with their dog and talk about communities they can flee to. A land defense occupation that became permanent. A log cabin, squat built deep off of any path on federal land. A friend's organic farm with some partially abandoned yurts. They discuss the pros and cons of various cults they know. In the end, they drive to the furthest option, the organic farm. The drive is long. On a thin, winding back road, they stack up behind a long line of cars. Local vigilantes are performing an inspection to check for antifa. A middle aged white lady with an AR waves them through cheerily. Stay safe out there. The next town has a small rally for democracy along the central drag. Besides an Arby's, a couple dozen liberals in folding chairs hold cardboard placards making puns about the suspension of a cable news channel. At a gas station, Julie overhears two men confidently talking about the investment opportunities in real estate being opened up as all the cockroaches are removed. One night they sleep in their car in a Walmart parking lot on the advice of a friendly night auditor at a cheap motel. New regulations. I can't take a cash deposit and there's this thing I gotta enter your IDs into that wires them nationally. When they finally arrive at the farm and are allowed past the gate, there are already 15 other people there. Extended family of the owning couple, plus a couple of woofer hippies and two coteries of obvious radicals who are cagey and cold to anyone they don't know. Everyone is antsy. Different groups cook different food. Panicked envy flickers in some eyes. Two weeks in and Julie keeps to herself. Maggie spends her time trying to suck up to the owners and befriends an autistic nerd with one of the other radical groups, an old balding white dude in A black hoodie keeps snapping at their dog. A trip into town for bulk food goes badly after the nerd insists on wearing a mask and a confrontation breaks out with a local. A backed up toilet in the farmhouse makes the owner's dower for a couple days. One night, the situation boils over and folks start openly talking about the raids. There's fury over who has a device and who can be trusted to have a device, who is putting everyone else in danger, who has a right to be here, who has a right to anything. After someone brings up land back, someone else screams, who do you think you're fooling? Who are your people exactly? You're not indigenous, you're as, well, white as me. And an awkward physical fight breaks out. The next morning, there are immigration police visible in the distance at the neighboring farm. One of the hippies finds three young girls hiding down by the river and rushes them into one of the plastic yurts everyone else is hiding in. Dogs bark in the distance. Julie joins the couple that owns the farm in meeting the immigration agents. Her dog barks at theirs and they put them away. The immigration agents are some of the newly deputized conspiracy heads that barely have any training, and Julie is able to find common cultural ground with them, ranting about how genetically modified organisms are poisoning the land. Leaning hard into the Persona she studiously built on the road, the wannabe genocide heirs laugh at her jokes and leave, waving back to her. The girl's white uncle was allowed to remain, a nasty gash across his forehead. The rest of the family is being taken to one of the deportation camps, where people die of dehydration. He's profoundly grateful for the rescue of his nieces. Over the next month, the adjacent farms begin to merge. A dugout hiding spot becomes a tunnel network. Maybe it'll suffice to hide folks if cops return. Some new folks arrive, fleeing other things. Tensions break down. Relationships begin to form across the groups. One of the quieter members starts opening up, giving lectures on syntropic agriculture. And an array of projects rapidly consume all the spare land across the farms. As people get busy developing personal domains and projects to be invested in, the overall vibe improves dramatically. Food gets pooled. People become more open about what devices they held onto. But it doesn't matter as much because all of the old Internet is gone. A few specific corporate sites remain accessible, whitelisted by telecoms for the sake of commerce. But almost everything else is gone. You can get Amazon deliveries and send Gmail, but it's impossible to reach Wikipedia, much less Athens. Indie media or any noblogs. The Farm establishes a consensus on how devices are to be used. The owners maintain all of their devices in the farmhouse, air gapped from everyone else. News stories and everything else are downloaded to a USB by one person for an hour every day, then passed around the three laptops everyone else shares. There's one burner cell phone for the whole farm, bought with cash at one of the last Walmarts where that is possible. It's kept turned off and wrapped in plastic bags under a rock five miles away along the side of the road. It's for emergencies and strictly overseen usage. No one will put its SIM card in or turn it on near the farm or its stash location. Having swapped out plates and tags, Julie and Maggie occasionally drive into the local town. They sit behind a cafe in their truck while it's closed at night and tap into the still active WI fi with their laptop running. Tails signal is long gone. Tor is totally inaccessible. Even using the latest smuggled bridges on the plain Internet, they've managed to register two Gmail accounts using the Farm's collective burner phone. How can they find other comrades? How can they talk with them? Well, if you want to know, you're going to have to wait till next Sunday. But what you don't have to wait for is me and Greg talking about this chunk. Okay. And so section two that we just listened to, so much more happened. And okay, the first thing I want to say just sort of flag. There's a piece where they're like, oh, the autistic nerd. And I'm like, okay, we've all met that. Or maybe we are that, or whatever. And then it was like, oh, then they wore their mask to the store and refused to not. And I just want to flag that. I'm like, could have been phrased a little differently about making the autistic character be the one who does that. I don't know, whatever. Maybe that's me being too Twitter brained about it. And I don't know the. I have no idea about the neurodivergence or non neurodivergence of the author of this piece. Yeah, but okay, I have a bunch of questions about this part. And this is kind of the part where I'm like, that's part of why I brought you on.