text: LiveJournal: The Calculass Zone
  
  Title: Zzzzzz . . .
  
  Date: Saturday 6 October, 11:41 EST
  
  Mood: Exanimate
  
  Location: Lady C's Bedchamber
  
  Music: Blind Guardian, "Mr. Sandman"
  
  I wonder if Canadians call them "zees" when referring to sleep? "Gotta catch me some zees," we say down South, and "zees" sounds like soft snoring, so it makes sense. But "need me some zeds" is just crazy. No wonder they lost the War of 1812 (you would not believe what they teach in history class about that war up here, my American friends!).
  
  Anyway, whether they're zees or zeds, I need a metric ton of them! Just gonna get my poop in a group for tomorrow, then hit the hay, eh?
  
  I had indeed enjoyed watching WarGames through Caitlin's eye. The part of the film that interested me the most was the young hacker's attempts to compromise password-protected systems. Early in the film he got into his school's computer, in order to change his grades, by consulting a list of passwords kept hidden on a sheet of paper taped to a desk's slide-out shelf. Later, when he was trying to compromise NORAD's WOPR computer, he set out to learn all he could about its programmer, Stephen Falken, in hopes of figuring out what password Falken might have used; the correct term, it turned out, was the name of his deceased son, Joshua.
  
  Those may have been effective password-defeating techniques back in 1983, when that film came out, but according to the online sources I'd read, many people were now careful to choose harder-to-guess passwords. Also, many websites forced them to use strings that included both letters and numbers (in which case, more than half of all people simply appended the number 1 to the end of a word; the world's most common password was, in fact, "password1").
  
  Still, in my attempts to learn more about her, I had tried 517 terms that seemed reasonable to access Caitlin's Yahoo mail account, based on analyzing her writings and what I already knew of her, but none of them worked. Had Caitlin always been sighted, the task might have been easy—but she never looked at her keyboard as she typed.
  
  Among the terms I tested were Keller (her idol), Sullivan (Keller's teacher), Austin (the last city she lived in), Houston (the one she'd been born in), Doreen (her middle name), and TSBVI (the school she'd previously attended).
  
  Passwords were case-sensitive (in fact, I was pleased with myself for noting that the password the hacker in WarGames had seen written down was "PeNciL" in mixed case, but the one he entered into the school's computer was "pencil," all lowercase, and so should have been rejected). And even for a short word like "keller," there were sixty-four possible combinations of upper and lowercase letters one could use in rendering it: KELLER, Keller, kEller, keL1Er, and so on—and most systems will only give you a limited number of tries to enter the password, then refuse to take any more for a few minutes.
  
  Clearly, I needed to find a better way to get past password prompts than what was depicted in that old movie—a way to get past any password or to decode any encrypted content.
  
  And so I set my mind to it.
  
  But even so monumental a puzzle was not enough to keep me fully occupied. I did not make the mistake of trying to multitask again, but I did switch my attention between what Kuroda Masayuki was doing—trying to let me access more obscure forms of video encoding—and watching videos in the format I already understood. Most of the videos I had access to were recorded: the images showed things that had happened in the past. The codec Masayuki had developed let me absorb the content of those essentially at the speed at which I could download the files—which was much more efficient than watching them play back at their normal speed.
  
  Now that I could access sounds, I needed to learn to understand spoken language. I worked my way through an online dictionary that had recorded pronunciations; it offered both a male American voice and a female British one saying the same words; it took me about twenty minutes to assimilate all 120,000 words in each of the two voices.
  
  I then watched some online newscasts, choosing those because I'd read that they were mostly presented with clear diction and even tones. I soon found that I could understand 93% of what most of them were saying. Sometimes, they used words that hadn't been in the spoken dictionary—most often, proper nouns. But from the dictionary I'd learned the symbols used to render words phonetically, and I had little trouble converting most unknown phrases into those symbols, and then those symbols into a best-guess text rendering, which I fed into Google or Jagster, or matched against the content I'd absorbed from Wikipedia. When I guessed the spelling incorrectly, the search engines usually asked me "Did you mean...? " and proffered the correct term.
  
  I moved on to more general recordings with lots of background noise, but, even with those, I soon had the ability to recognize at least seven words out of every ten.
  
  I found there was something appealing about live video—about seeing things that were happening right now, especially while Caitlin was sleeping, as she currently was, and her eyePod was off. I linked from site to site, peeking out at the world in real time.
  
  The live video I was looking at now was, in many ways, fungible with thousands of others: a female human, apparently in her teenage years, talking directly into a Web camera.
  
  I followed some links, found her Facebook page. Her name was Hannah Stark; she lived in Perth, Australia; and she was sixteen, just like Caitlin.
  
  She was sitting cross-legged on a bed. The walls behind her were lime green, and the bed had a yellow and white blanket on it. She had a black cordless keyboard, which was intermittently visible, but she also had an open microphone, and was uploading sound as well as video.
  
  As I watched and listened, Hannah spoke aloud sometimes, and sometimes she sent out text. Others were sending text back to her, which I easily intercepted. <You don't have the balls,> said one.
  
  This seemed an obvious statement, so I was surprised when she typed back, <Do too.>
  
  <Then do it,> wrote another.
  
  <I will,> she replied, and she spoke the same words, "I will."
  
  <I don't got all day do it now,> said a different commenter.
  
  <Yeh now bitch now,> added another.
  
  The girl had dark eyebrows, thicker than Caitlin's. She scrunched her forehead, and they moved together and touched.
  
  Hannah typed with just her index fingers. <Im gonna do it.>
  
  I was getting better at reading improperly formed text and had no trouble following along.
  
  <dont rush me,> Hannah replied.
  
  <I want you to understand some things,> Hannah wrote, <bout why Im doing this.>
  
  <You aint doin' shit,> said someone.
  
  Hannah went on. <It's just so pontless>
  
  But then she corrected herself, sending <pointless.>
  
  Someone who hadn't posted yet while I'd been watching said, <It's not that bad. Don't do it.>
  
  <Shut the fuck up jerkoff,> someone else replied. <Stay outta it.>
  
  <Ok,> Hannah wrote. She reached out of view of the camera and when her hand was visible again, it was holding something gray.
  
  <Here I go,> she typed with just one hand, and—oh!—the thing in her other hand wasn't gray; now that it caught the light, I saw it was silver.
  
  She manipulated the object in her right hand and brought it near to her left arm. She then rotated that arm so that the inside of her wrist faced up. She brought the object close, and—
  
  Ah! It was a knife. She drew it across her wrist, but—
  
  <ripoff!>
  
  <Tease!>
  
  —nothing happened.
  
  <Like I said, no guts . . .>
  
  <harder!>
  
  <Noooooooooooooooo dont ..............>
  
  She closed her eyes tightly, took a deep breath, and then—
  
  <Go fer it!>
  
  —she drew the blade across her wrist again, and she jerked her head slightly as she did so. A small bead of blood appeared on the skin when she pulled the knife away.
  
  <that all?>
  
  <Do it again!>
  
  "Give me a chance," Hannah said. She reached for her keyboard with the hand that wasn't holding the knife and pecked out with her index finger, <Dont feel bad mum.>
  
  And then she pulled her hand back and faced her wrist up again, and she turned her head away and looked at the lime-green wall, and she made a quick deep slice into her skin.
  
  <more like it!>
  
  <eeeeeew!>
  
  <holy fuck!>
  
  A red line appeared on her wrist, and as she pulled the knife away, I could see that its blade was now slick and dark.
  
  <finish it! finish it!>
  
  She rotated her wrist slowly and large drops of blood spilled out.
  
  <Chicken! Buck-buck-buckaw!>
  
  She looked into the webcam, and, while doing so, slashed her wrist once more. Her face changed in an odd way, and blood surged from the wound, splurting presumably in time with her heartbeat. <omg omg omg>
  
  Hannah Stark slumped forward. She must have been putting weight on her keyboard because her computer—which, obviously, was there although out of my view—made a shrill sound that I believe indicated a keyboard-buffer overflow, but nothing was sent, since she hadn't hit the enter key. The sound continued, a uniform wailing. She didn't move again, and soon it was impossible to tell this streaming video from a still image.