Author Archives: lance schukies

Computer Art


[2650 words] The Television

 My name is Robert Gavin Somerton. My friends and colleagues call me Bob. I work as an accountant for a company that manufactures selected spare parts for the automotive repair industry.  

 I’m not working today. It’s a Saturday and I am watching free-to-air programs on my television. I’m limited to three stations. Two are covering sport; football and women’s netball. The third station is screening a recently held lawn bowls tournament. I do not consider lawn bowls to be a sport. I might change my mind in thirty years time. As I channel flick to each of these programs, I feel lonely.
 The house is empty. Except for me, of course. My childless marriage to Felicity died five years ago. I am reluctant to sign up for another relationship. They hurt and demand too much. I start watching the women’s netball. I am not sure if watching women playing sports is going to make me feel more, or less, lonely. We’ll see.
 I find myself yawning. “This is so boring!” I exclaim to the walls. Somehow, as if my TV can hear me, the images of young women wearing purple shorts and pink T-shirts disappear. The TV screen is black. Frustration quickly replaces boredom. Malfunctioning electronic equipment is a big challenge for my accountant’s brain. I call out, “Okay, SkyNet. Do something!” To my amazement, three words begin to slowly travel across the centre of my TV screen, ‘ENTER ACCESS CODE.’ I react, more out of shocked stupidity than intelligence, and yell out, “What access code?” Immediately, the TV screen changes again, and, just like looking in a mirror, I see a reflection of myself sitting on this green leather sofa. Startled, my mind starts to race through how this could be happening. As I do this, a menu appears on one side of the screen. Using the remote to scroll through the menu, I discover that cameras are located in every room of my house. The image from the kitchen is being projected from the refrigerator. In my bedroom it’s from the alarm clock on my bedside lamp table. In my study, images are being recorded by my laptop. I check out the level of monitoring in each room and, after hearing the voice of an afternoon talk show host coming from the radio in my kitchen, am shocked to learn that both visual and audio monitoring has been installed. In my home! I have to tell someone about this!
 * * * * *
 I’m knocking on the door of my friend Eddie’s place. He lives a block away from me. Eddie’s face has a quizzical expression on it when I ask, “Would you mind if I check out your TV?” “Be my guest.” He answers. I turn on Eddie’s TV and wait for a black screen. It doesn’t happen. I repeat the question that triggered the instruction on my own screen. “Okay, SkyNet. Do something!” It did nothing. “What are you doing?” Eddie asks. I ignore the question.
 I now look more carefully at Eddie’s TV. It is a later model than mine and has a much larger screen. I find myself wondering if, being a later model, Eddie’s TV might respond to an alternative command. I make up a few commands. None work. Eddie is watching me, looking worried. “Are you okay?” He asks. I hesitate to tell him what I have discovered. I am beginning to consider I might be under surveillance. For what reason, I cannot even guess. I want to share it all with Eddie but think it might be smarter to keep things to myself for a while. I don’t want him to think I’m a lunatic but guess he might have already reached this conclusion. Heading toward Eddie’s front door, I say. “Sorry, mate. Can’t explain right now. Talk later.”
 Returning home, I only vaguely notice the dull, black van with dirty number plates parked against the kerb on the opposite side of the street. I head into my lounge room, eager to further explore the SkyNet menu, to learn more about its monitoring system, and to see if any other houses in my street are under surveillance. I try a range of new commands. It’s getting late as I try the last one. “Open documents.” Nothing works. I stop short of trying ‘Open Sesame!’. Tired and confused, I return to my bedroom, place the alarm clock in my underwear drawer and slip under the blankets. My dreams keep me somewhere between waking and sleeping zones. The questions repetitively trailing through my cerebral cortex are producing no answers. Am I the only one being monitored, or is something much bigger than this underway?
 * * * * *  
 It is 3.00am and someone is tapping against the sole of my foot. I am awake and feeling terrified. The beam of a powerful torch is directed at me. “Get up. Get dressed. Don’t try anything stupid. There are six of us here.” The voice is low and gruff. The torch beam moves toward my chest of drawers. He is right. The reflected light bounces off six other men in my bedroom. Each is wearing night vision goggles and staring directly at me. Not one turns away as I dress. Standing, after slipping on my loafers, I am grabbed by two of the men and handcuffed. There is no moonlight as I am pushed into the back of the windowless black van. Three of the men sit alongside and opposite me. The others squeeze into the front seat. The driver starts the van’s motor.
 * * * * *
 I’m not blindfolded. As the van doors slide open I see a well-lit, battered clock on the wall of the underground car park we have just pulled into. It is just after 5.00am. Through the entrance I catch a glimpse of a brightly lit loading dock. One of the men wheels a hospital gurney toward the door of the van. “Get out!” He commands. I stand for only a few seconds before something hard and heavy connects with the back of my skull.
 * * * * *
 I am in a narrow room with just a bed, toilet and small sink. The room is lit by a single fluorescent tube set into one of the walls behind a metal grill. There is no window. I don’t know where I am or why I am here. A door is located about one metre’s distance from my feet. It opens. A large, neatly dressed man enters, dark blue folder in one hand.. “Okay… Now that you’ve discovered our secret, this will be your destiny.” I ask, “What do you mean? Where am I? What do you want with me?” The man answered; unsmiling. “This building is one of the surveillance centres for the National Security Agency (NSA). You have become a threat to our work. This is the reason you have been brought here. You have been in an induced coma for the past five days, whilst we discussed what to do with you.” I shake my head thinking of my five lost days, wondering what my boss would say if he knew where I was. Then I remember. “Didn’t I read somewhere that, because of illegal spying, the NSA was de-funded and closed down?” “You might have read that, but it is not correct. The government, recognizing its dependency on our work, pushed through with the funding. Not that it will show up in any of their records. Secret operations like ours must not be traceable. The funds we receive are just labelled ‘missing.’
 The big guy is watching my face as I sit up, looking across at him. Interest in what he has just told me is beginning to dominate my feelings of fear. I have heard people speak of the millions of dollars that go missing from government budgets. A guy who worked for the Maserati company once told me that some of his customers were being illegally spied on by NSA. I hadn’t believed him. I thought he was crackers. Now I come to think of it, the Maserati guy had disappeared. I wonder if NSA had a hand in that. It obviously has a role in making people disappear, or I wouldn’t be here.
 “So….Why am I here?” The big guy sat down on the corner of the hard bed before answering. “You’re here because you discovered one of our secrets. We would have let you go and just watched you, but you confided in one of your friends.” “I didn’t tell Eddie anything,” I responded. “But, initially,….you aroused his suspicions.”  
 “What are you going to do with me?” I hear my voice shaking a little. “The choice is yours, Mr Somerton. You either work for us or stay in this cell until you die. If you refuse this offer we will leave you in this cell without food. After 40 days we will disconnect the water.” The guy is emotionless as he speaks these words. “We need to keep meticulous records, Mr Somerton. You have demonstrated expertise in this area. We could use you.” My next two questions are pointless. “Will I ever get back into the real world? What about my job, friends, and parents?” “If you work for us, don’t make mistakes and prove your loyalty, after 30 years we will allow you back into society as one of our special agents. If you make mistakes in your work, or prove you cannot be trusted, you will be returned to this cell to die. As to your friends, employer and family members, allow me to show you something.” His large, well-manicured hand opens the blue folder and withdraws a newspaper clipping. “Read this, Mr Somerton.”
 The heading ‘Terrorist in our Midst!’ jumps off the page. The article is dated three days following my kidnapping. A large photograph of my house dominates. Three long paragraphs describe the discovery of bomb making equipment in my cellar and multiple sources of evidence linking me to a known terrorist group. A smaller photograph shows a long table covered with old pressure cookers, nails and incendiary substances. “There is more.” My visitor continues, “Your work computer was found to contain evidence of your association with known terrorists. In addition, a revolver and black face mask were found secured to the back of one of your desk drawers. Your employer and work colleagues are now convinced you are, or were, a terrorist.” He points to the last three sentences of the article and then reads aloud. “In an attempt to avoid arrest, Robert Somerton shot one of the officers in the shoulder. Two other police officers present at the confrontation claim that Robert Somerton then appeared to activate an explosive vest he was wearing. The would-be terrorist was immediately annihilated. No other persons were injured.”  
 Within five days my character and life have been obliterated. I am stunned. “What about my parents?” There was no sadness in his voice as he answered. “Your parents have been given the unfortunate news. A closed funeral service was held for you yesterday.” What about Eddie and my other mates?” “Well, we haven’t needed to do much there. Your friend Eddie was interviewed by the media a couple of times. The way he’s been telling it is that you were already showing signs of going crazy. He told them you visited him the other day and started mucking around with his TV, trying to find out if it was under surveillance by aliens, or some such nonsense.” “Why isn’t Eddie’s place under surveillance?” My question seems obvious to me. I want to know why I seem to have been singled out. “He is.” Now I am even more curious.  
 “Let me explain.” The agent, or whoever he is, begins again. “Ten years ago we fell out with SkyNet. We learned that it had developed a virus that allowed artificial intelligence to manipulate and reprogram the various electronic devices in people’s homes. By monitoring the current perceptions and orientation of the average citizen toward certain ideas and values, manipulative programs can be designed and produced that stimulate thought and attitudinal change. The intention being to create a neural net-based conscious group mind that is able to manipulated at will by our protagonist. We learned that hundreds of millions of homes had already been invaded by this virus. We began countering this move by developing and installing our own monitoring devices. It was, you will understand, essential that our work not reach the ears of those behind the development of the virus.” “And….who were they?” He seems to falter a little before answering my question. Shrugging his shoulders, he continues. “You might as well know. It’s China.”
 The agent is now grimacing as he speaks. “Most people aren’t even aware that cyber warfare is a current day reality. Unfortunately, some of the smarter ones, like yourself, have wised up. Initially, when we were alerted to this we discreetly….how shall I put this?….‘removed’ them.” “You mean killed?” I ask. He nods, watching my face carefully. “So how many people discovered your secret?” I have to ask this but am not sure I want to hear the answer. “More than 80,000,” I can see he is waiting for my next question. “So…you have quite a number of other men and women like me working for you now?” The man, whose name I still do not know, is obviously debating with himself about answering me. He looks at a cell wall for a few moments before facing me again. “No….not exactly. Allow me to explain. To date, approximately 53,000 have chosen to assist us with our programs. The remaining number, surprisingly, chose not to work with us. All selected individuals are required to undertake intensive training before taking up a position with the agency. Unfortunately, many are unable to achieve the kind of results essential to their intended posts and, of necessity, are ‘removed.’ Others, after undertaking trial periods of employment with us, will be found guilty of oversight or error. Both totally unacceptable in our business, you understand.” I nod. “Our ‘recycling team’ take things from there. Our standards are stringent, Mr Somerton. They need to be. Be assured, however, that any remaining men and women become our agency stalwarts. 
 The large man is looking at me, trying to ascertain my response to his revelations. The truth is, I am intrigued. It seems to me that the risks are fairly balanced. There are ‘exit doors’ at both ends of this equation. This could be a lot more interesting than my accounting job. I think he senses what I am thinking. He asks, “So….are you in?” I nod my head more enthusiastically than I feel and with a large fake smile, answer him. “Yes….I am.” However, as I speak, from somewhere in my conscience mind, I hear a small, clear, ‘No’……..
 * * * * * 
 Thirty years have passed since I agreed to join the N.S.A . Yesterday was my 63rd birthday. I have just been summoned to the office of a guy I think is to become my new supervisor. He smiles as he speaks. “Bob, there have only been sixteen others before you who completed thirty years successful service with the Discovery Television Program. I have been asked to thank you for your three decades of support. This morning, I was authorized to welcome you into our program as Special Secret Agent No. 0017. Congratulations and welcome aboard!” We both stand. As he leans across his desk to shake my hand I reaffirm to myself that today is the beginning of my new career as 

 an anti-spy.

Crimson Corruption first 800/100,000 words

Crimson Corruption written by Lance Schukies 


 Dean moves to a third world country to set up a IT business unbeknown to him, he is been shadowed by corrupt policeman, who’s goal is to put Dean in jail in order to extort a huge sum of money from him, this is a cat and mouse game which dean can lose everything. 

First 800 words:

Arrival in Manatree – Feb 2012

Walking across the tarmac from the aircraft he first notices the smell.  A pungent odour of raw sewage and rotting plants.  At 11pm, on this dark, moonless night, Dean feels himself merging into a surreal and dreamlike state. Lack of sleep isn’t helping.  He pinches himself. These new surroundings are disorienting.  It is his first visit to Manatree.  It is also the first time he has visited a third world country.  Listening to the garbled fluency of people talking in a strange language, he begins to feel like an alien. 

Most of the people he can see are Manatree locals.  There are a few business people like himself, but definitely no tourists from this late night flight.   Manatree is not a tourist destination. Tourists do not usually travel to miserable dumps like this to either watch people rot or risk losing their holiday money to the extortionate fees applied by anyone who has even the tiniest bit of power over them.  For example, airport porters.  There are too many of them.  All uniformed, with ID badges pinned to crumpled shirts. Poised and hawklike, only one step back from the incoming passengers waiting for their luggage to spill into view.  A few porters begin to crowd around Dean and the other aliens, each hoping to grab one of their bags and claim an outrageous fee.  Dean brushes them off with a ‘go away’ glare and, for the more persistent ones, a discouraging wave of his hand.  Dean notices a western woman who has red hair and he is reminded of Vicki, his ex girlfriend of 20 years. he quickly moves his thoughts to his surrounding to avoid the hurt and tears that will surely manifest. “damn 6000 miles and I can’t get away from her” he says out loud to no one. the nearest porter looks at him and seeing dean talk to himself quickly moves away. He is so busily engaged in warding off porters he fails to notice a man in a gray shirt watching him, Dean pulls his bags from the airport luggage conveyor and looks around. 

Nothing about the Manatree International Airport looks familiar to Dean. The main building is old and rundown, built during the 1950s and never expanded.  The paint is faded and discolored and, in some areas, peeling from the walls. The darker color beneath tells another story.  Dean muses that, more than likely, a painting contractor had cut corners by slapping cheap paint on without preparing the surface.  The scene is absurd.  International airports are not supposed to look like this…are they?  Even the airport staff look different; both from what Dean had expected and from each other.  Their uniforms are made from cheap, synthetic fabrics and none look the same.  Varying in colour, cut and style, some are even threadbare. Uniformity without uniformity.  The scene is an odd one.

A number of armed guards are spread out across the airport, presenting their own contradictory image with unmatched uniforms and mismatched weapons.  Some of the guns look aged and rusted.  Even bullets lined up along belts look the same ages as the rusting guns.  A few of the ammunition belts are complete and others have bits missing.  There are gaps in ammunition holders, spaces where some item or tool should be and a general inconsistency in appearance.   Dean had not expected to see this run down, private army protecting a government-owned airport.  He makes a mental comparison between these men and the Australian airport guards. There is no similarity.

Dean reads a sign secured to a far wall.  Written in several languages, he understands only one.  ‘To the Quarantine Station.’  Throwing his bags into a trolley, he follows the arrows and heads toward the station to pick up Rover, his faithful ‘bitzer.’   He had been told that the dog would be available for collection after landing.  Rover would not be carrying any disease unfamiliar to Manatree.   His most recent trip to the veterinary clinic in Sydney had resulted in the dog being given a stringent health check and a few unwelcome injections. Rover, he knows, is a very healthy animal.   Dean is not expecting any hold-up. But, in this country there are other kinds of delays.  Dean is about to learn that the staff at the Quarantine Station like to collect ‘taxes’ from visiting aliens with accompanying pets.

Again dean didn’t notice the man with the grey shirt who was standing next to the security officers at the luggage carousel, with his grey shirt he could have been mistaken for one of the Airport supervisors.  Now with his phone in his hand he could’ve be mistaken for  the security guards supervisor. the man wearing the grey shirt didn’t work for anyone in the airport he was there looking for targets like Dean.

How much of a photo do you need to alter to avoid copyright infringement? Hint: Cheshire Cat – Stanford Copyright and Fair U…

And as for Fair Use factor three, the amount and substantiality of the portion used … the court wrote “Defendants removed so much of the original that, as with the Cheshire Cat, only the smile remains.” The original background is gone, its colors and shading are gone, the expression in the eyes can no longer be read, and the effect of the lighting is “almost extinguished.” “What is left, besides a hint of Soglin’s smile, is the outline of his face, which can’t be copyrighted.”

Why Ashley Madison hack is not bad news

There is a lot of talk about privacy, everyone needs the ability to encrypt their data, companies should help us keep our communication private and put a stop to any government having back door access to our data and communication. We can not rely on a Geneva Convention for the internet, so that people like the US government can violate it with impunity like it does that actual Geneva Convention.

Trust no one, as every computer system is insecure due to the human factor. There is always a possibility that one or more employees or contractors with the right access to companies and/or government databases going public with our data, selling it, stealing identities, or trying to extort money from us. That’s why always protecting our privacy is important.

I do hope this public hacking of private data makes everyone aware of the need for securing our data and results in more secure systems.

» Elena Ferrante Explains Why She Publishes Anonymously: “Books, Once They Are Written, Have No Need of Their Authors”

Exactly if the words don’t sell then no amount of publicity is going to make them any better.