Marcel looked up from his laptop as Roscoe stamped through the living room.

"Slushy boots! For chrissakes, Roscoe, I just cleaned."

Roscoe turned to look at the salty brown slush he'd tracked over the painted floor and shook his head.

"Sorry," he said, lamely, and sat down on the floor to shuck his heavy steel-shank Kodiaks. He carried them back to the doormat, then grabbed a roll of paper towels from the kitchen and started wiping up the mess. The landlord used cheap enamel paint on the floor, and the road salt could eat through to the scuffed wood in half an hour.

"And paper towels, God, it's like you've got a personal vendetta against the forests. There's a rag bag under the sink, as you'd know if you ever did any cleaning around this place."

"Ease the fuck off, kid, you sound like my goddamned ex-wife," Roscoe said, giving the floor a vicious swipe. "Just ease back and let me do my thing, all right? It didn't go so good."

Marcel set his machine down reverently on the small hearthrug beside his Goodwill recliner. "What happened?"

Roscoe quickly related his run-in with the law. Marcel shook his head slowly.

"I bet it's bullshit. Ever since Tijuana, everyone's seeing spooks." The ISPs on the Tijuana side of the San Ysidro border crossing had been making good coin off of unwirer sympathizers who'd pointed their antennae across the chain-link fence. La Migra tried tightening the fence gauge up to act as a Faraday cage, but they just went over it with point-to-point links that were also resistant to the noise from the 2.4GHz light standards that the INS erected at its tollbooths. Finally, the radio cops got tired of ferreting out the high-gain antennae on the San Diego side, and they'd Ruby-Ridged the whole operation, killing ten "terrorists" in a simultaneous strike with Mexican narcs who'd raided the ISPs under the rubric of shutting down narcotraficante narcotraficante activity. TELMEX had screamed blue murder when their fiber had been cut by the simple expedient of driving a backhoe through the main conduit, and had pulled lineage all along the Rio Grande. activity. TELMEX had screamed blue murder when their fiber had been cut by the simple expedient of driving a backhoe through the main conduit, and had pulled lineage all along the Rio Grande.

Roscoe shook his head. "Bullshit or not, you going to take any chances?" He straightened up slowly. "Believe me, there's one place you don't want to go."

"Okay, okay, I hear what you're saying."

"I hope you do." Roscoe dumped the wad of towels in the kitchen trash and stomped back into the living room, then dropped himself on the sofa. "Listen, when I was your age I thought it couldn't happen to me, either. Now look at me." He started thumbing his way through the stack of old magazines on the coffee table.

"I'm looking at you." Marcel grinned. "Listen, there was a call while you were out."

"A call?" Roscoe paused with his hand on a collector's copy of 2600: The Hacker Quarterly 2600: The Hacker Quarterly.

"Some woman, said she wanted to talk to you. I took her number."

"Uh-huh." Roscoe put the magazine back down. Heads it's Janice, tails it's her lawyer, Heads it's Janice, tails it's her lawyer, he thought. It was shaping up to be that kind of day; a tire-slashing and an hour of alimonial recriminations would complete it neatly. Marcel pointed at the yellow pad next to the elderly dial phone. "Ah, shit. I suppose I should find out what it's about." he thought. It was shaping up to be that kind of day; a tire-slashing and an hour of alimonial recriminations would complete it neatly. Marcel pointed at the yellow pad next to the elderly dial phone. "Ah, shit. I suppose I should find out what it's about."

The number, when he looked at it, wasn't familiar. That didn't mean much-Janice was capable of moving, and her frothingly aggro lawyer seemed to carry a new cellular every time he saw her-but it was hopeful. Roscoe dialed. "Hello? Roscoe. Who am I talking to?"

A stranger's voice: "Hi there! I was talking to your roommate about an hour ago? I'm Sylvie Smith. I was given your name by a guy called Buzz who told me you put him on the backbone."

Roscoe tensed. Odds were that this Sylvie Smith was just another innocent kiddee looking to leech a first-mile feed, but after this morning's run-in with the law, he was taking nothing for granted.

"Are you a law-enforcement officer federal employee police officer lawyer FCC or FBI agent?" he asked, running the words together, knowing that if she was any of the above she'd probably lie-but it might help sway a jury toward letting him off if he was targeted by a sting.

"No." She sounded almost amused. "I'm a journalist."

"Then you should be familiar with CALEA," he said, bridling at the condescension in her voice. CALEA was the wiretap law, it required switch-vendors to put snoopware into every hop in the phone network. It was bad enough in and of itself, but it made the noncompliant routing code that was built into the BeOS access points he had hidden in a bus locker doubly illegal and hence even harder to lay hands on.

"Paranoid, much?" she said.

"I have nothing to be paranoid about," he said, spelling it out like he was talking to a child. "I am a law-abiding citizen, complying with the terms of my parole. If you are are a journalist, I'd be happy to chat. In person." a journalist, I'd be happy to chat. In person."

"I'm staying at the Days Inn on Main Street," she said. "It's a dump, but it's got a view of the Falls view of the Falls," she said in a hokey secret-agent voice, making it plain that she meant, "It's line of sight to a repeater for a Canadian wireless router."

"I can be there in twenty," he said.

"Room 208," she said. "Knock twice, then once, then three times." Then she giggled. "Or just send me an SMS."

"See you then," he said.

Marcel looked up from his machine, an IBM box manufactured for the US market. It was the size of a family Bible, and styled for the corporate market. They both lusted furiously after the brushed-aluminum slivers that Be was cranking out in France, but those laptops were way way too conspicuous here. too conspicuous here.

Roscoe pointed at the wireless card protruding from the slot on the side nearest him. "You're violating security," he said. "I could get sent up again just for being in the same room as that." He was past being angry, though. In the joint, he'd met real crooks who could maintain real project secrecy. The cowboy kids he worked with on the outside thought that secrecy meant talking out of the side of your mouth in conspiratorial whispers while winking Touretically.

Marcel blushed. "It was a mistake, okay?" He popped the card. "I'll stash it."

The Days Inn was indeed a dump, and doubt nagged at Roscoe as he reached for the front door. If she was a Fed, there might be more ways she could nail him than just by arresting him in the same room as an illegal wireless card. So Roscoe turned around and drove to a diner along the block from the motel, then went inside to look for a wired phone.

"Room 208, please . . . Hi there. If you'd care to come outside, there's a diner about fifty yards down the road. Just turn left out of the lobby. I'm already there." He hung up before she could ask any awkward questions, then headed for a booth by the window. Almost as an afterthought, he pulled the copy of 2600 2600 out of his pocket. The hacker magazine (shut down by a court injunction last year) was a good recognition signal-plus, having it didn't violate the letter of his parole. out of his pocket. The hacker magazine (shut down by a court injunction last year) was a good recognition signal-plus, having it didn't violate the letter of his parole.

Roscoe was halfway down his first mug of coffee when someone leaned over him. "Hi," she said.

"You must be Sylvie." He registered a confused impression of bleached blond hair, brown eyes, freckles. Must be straight out of J-school. Must be straight out of J-school. "Have a seat. Coffee?" "Have a seat. Coffee?"

"Yes please." She put something like a key ring down, then waved a hand, trying to catch the waitress's eye. Roscoe looked at the key ring. Very black, very small, very Nokia. Rumor said they were giving them away in cereal boxes in France.

"Suppose you tell me why you wanted to meet up," Roscoe said quietly. "Up front. I can tell you right now that I'm out on parole, and I've got no intention of doing anything that puts me back inside."

The waitress ambled over, pad in hand. Sylvie ordered a coffee. "What were you charged with?" she said. "If you don't mind my asking."

Roscoe snorted. Score one for the cool lady Score one for the cool lady-some folks he'd met ran a mile the instant he mentioned being a con. "I was accused accused of infringement with a side order of black crypto, but plea-bargained it down to unlawful emissions." of infringement with a side order of black crypto, but plea-bargained it down to unlawful emissions." Score two Score two-she smiled. It was a weak joke, but it took some of the sting out of it. "Strictly no-collar crime." He took another mouthful of coffee. "So what is it you're doing up here?"

"I'm working on a story about some aspects of unwiring that don't usually make the national press," she said, as the waitress came over, empty mug in one hand and jug in the other. Roscoe held his up for a refill.

"Credentials?"

"I could give you a phone number, but would you trust it?"

"Point." Roscoe leaned back against the elderly vinyl seat. Young, but cynical. Young, but cynical.

"Well," she added, "I can do better." She pulled out a notepad and began scribbling. "This is my editor's name and address. is my editor's name and address. You You can look up his number. If you place a call and ask for him, you'll get put through-you're on the list of interview subjects I left him. Next, here's my-no, an-e-mail address." Roscoe blinked-it was a handle on a famous Finnish anonymous remixer. "Get a friend to ping it and ask me something." It was worth five to twenty for black crypto-anonymity was the FCC's worst nightmare about the uncontrolled net. "Finally, here's my press pass." can look up his number. If you place a call and ask for him, you'll get put through-you're on the list of interview subjects I left him. Next, here's my-no, an-e-mail address." Roscoe blinked-it was a handle on a famous Finnish anonymous remixer. "Get a friend to ping it and ask me something." It was worth five to twenty for black crypto-anonymity was the FCC's worst nightmare about the uncontrolled net. "Finally, here's my press pass."

"Okay, I'll check these out." He met her eyes. "Now, why don't you tell me why the Wall Street Journal Wall Street Journal is interested in a burned-out ex-con and ex-unwirer, and we can take it from there?" is interested in a burned-out ex-con and ex-unwirer, and we can take it from there?"

She closed her eyes for a moment. Then she dangled her key ring again, just a flash of matte black plastic. "These are everywhere in Europe these days, along with these." She opened her purse, and he caught a glimpse of a sliver of curved metal, like a boomerang, in the shape of the Motorola batwing logo mark. "They're meshing wireless repeaters. Once you've got a critical mass, you can relay data from anywhere to anywhere. Teenagers are whacking them up on the sides of buildings, tangling them in tree branches, sticking them to their windows. The telcos there are screaming blue murder, of course. Business is down forty percent in Finland, sixty in France. Euros are using the net for telephone calls, instant messaging, file-sharing-the wireline infrastructure is looking more and more obsolete every day. Even the ISPs are getting nervous."

Roscoe tried to hide his grin. To be an unwirer in the streets of Paris, operating with impunity, putting the telcos, the Hollywood studios, and the ISPs on notice that there was no longer any such thing as a "consumer"-that yesterday's couch potatoes are today's participants participants!

"We've got ten years' worth of editorials in our morgue about the destruction of the European entertainment and telco market and the wisdom of our National Information Infrastructure here in the US, but it's starting to ring hollow. The European governments are ignoring ignoring the telcos! The device and services market being built on top of the freenets is accounting for nearly half the GDP in France. To hear the telcos! The device and services market being built on top of the freenets is accounting for nearly half the GDP in France. To hear my my paper describe it, though, you'd think they were starving in the streets: it's like the received wisdom about Canadian socialized health care. Everyone paper describe it, though, you'd think they were starving in the streets: it's like the received wisdom about Canadian socialized health care. Everyone knows knows it doesn't work-except for the Canadians, who think we're goddamned it doesn't work-except for the Canadians, who think we're goddamned barbarians barbarians for not adopting it. for not adopting it.

"I just got back from a month in the field in the EU. I've got interviews in the can with CEOs, with street thugs, with grand-mothers, and with regulators, all saying the same thing: unmetered communications are the secret engine of the economy, of liberty. The highest-quality 'content' isn't hundred-million-dollar movies; it's conversations with other people. Crypto is a tool of 'privacy' "-she pronounced it in the British way, "prihv-icy," making the word seem even more alien to his ears-"not piracy."

"The unwirers are heroes in Europe. You hear them talk, it's like listening to a course in US US constitutional freedoms. But here, you people are crooks, cable thieves, pirates, abettors of terrorists. I want to change that." constitutional freedoms. But here, you people are crooks, cable thieves, pirates, abettors of terrorists. I want to change that."

That evening, Marcel picked a fight with Roscoe over supper. It started low key, as Roscoe sliced up the pizza. "What are you planning this week?"

Roscoe shifted two slices onto his plate before he answered. "More dishes. Got a couple of folks to splice in downtown if I want to hook up East Aurora-there're some black spots there, but I figure with some QOS-based routing and a few more repeaters, we can clear them up. Why?"

Marcel toyed with a strand of cooling cheese. "It's, like, boring. When are you going to run a new fat pipe in?"

"When the current one's full." Roscoe rolled a slice into a tube and bit into an end, deftly turning the roll to keep the cheese and sauce on the other end from oozing over his hand. "You know damn well the Feds would like nothing better than to drive a ditch-witch through a fiber drop from the border. 'Sides, got the journalist to think about."

"I could take over part of the fiber-pull," Marcel said.

"I don't think so." Roscoe put his plate down.

"But I could-" Marcel looked at him. "What's wrong?"

"Security," Roscoe grunted. "Goddamnit, you can't just waltz up to some guy who's looking at twenty-to-life and say, 'Hi, Roscoe sent me, howzabout you and me run some dark fiber over the border, huh?' Some of the guys in this game are, huh, you wouldn't want to meet them on a dark night. And others are just plain paranoid. They wouldn't want to meet you you. Fastest way to convince 'em the FCC is trying to shut them down."

"You could introduce me," Marcel said after a brief pause.

Roscoe laughed, a short bark. "In your dreams, son."

Marcel dropped his fork, clattering. "You're going to take your pet blonde on a repeater splice and show her everything, and you're afraid to let me help you run a new fat pipe in? What's the matter, I don't smell good enough?"

"Listen." Roscoe stood up, and Marcel tensed-but rather than move toward him, Roscoe turned to the pizza box. "Get the Wall Street Journal Wall Street Journal on our side, and we have some credibility. A crack in the wall. Legitimacy. Do you know what that means, kid? You can't buy it. But run another fat pipe into town, and we have a idle capacity, upstream dealers who want to know what the hell we're pissing around with, another fiber or laser link to lose to cop-induced backhoe fade, and about fifty percent higher probability of the whole network getting kicked over because the mundanes will rat us out to the FCC over their TV reception. Do you want that?" He picked another cooling pizza slice out of the box. "Do you really want that?" on our side, and we have some credibility. A crack in the wall. Legitimacy. Do you know what that means, kid? You can't buy it. But run another fat pipe into town, and we have a idle capacity, upstream dealers who want to know what the hell we're pissing around with, another fiber or laser link to lose to cop-induced backhoe fade, and about fifty percent higher probability of the whole network getting kicked over because the mundanes will rat us out to the FCC over their TV reception. Do you want that?" He picked another cooling pizza slice out of the box. "Do you really want that?"

"What I want isn't important, is it, Ross? Not as important as you getting a chance to fuck that reporter, right?"

"Up yours." Roscoe returned to his seat, shoulders set defensively. "Fuck you very much." They finished the meal in silence, then Roscoe headed out to his evening class in conversational French. Marcel, he figured, was just jealous because he wasn't getting to do any of the secret-agent stuff. Being an unwirer was a lot less romantic than it sounded, and the first rule of unwiring was nobody talks about unwiring nobody talks about unwiring. Maybe Marcel would get there one day, assuming his big mouth didn't get everyone around him arrested first.

Sylvie's hotel room had a cigarette-burns-and-must squalor that reminded Roscoe of jail. "Bonjour, m'sieu," "Bonjour, m'sieu," she said as she admitted him. she said as she admitted him.

"Bon soir, madame," he said. he said. "Commentava?" "Commentava?"

"Oy," she said. "My grandmother woulda said, 'You've got a no-accent on you like a Litvak.' Lookee here, the treasures of the Left Bank." She handed him the Motorola batarang he'd glimpsed earlier. The underside had a waxed-paper peel-off strip, and when he lifted a corner, his thumb stuck so hard to the tackiness beneath that he lost the top layer of skin when he pulled it loose. He turned it over in his hands.

"How's it powered?"

"Dirt-cheap photovoltaics charging a polymer cell-they're printed in layers, the entire case is a slab of battery plus solar cell. It doesn't draw too many amps, only sucks juice when it's transmitting. Put one in a subway car, and you've got an instant ad hoc network that everyone in the car can use. Put one in the next car, and they'll mesh. Put one on the platform, and you'll get connectivity with the train when it pulls in. Sure, it won't run for more than a few hours in total darkness-but how often do folks network in the blackout?"

"Shitfire," he said, stroking the matte finish in a way that bordered on the erotic.

She grinned. She was slightly snaggletoothed, and he noticed a scar on her upper lip from a cleft-palate operation that must have been covered up with concealer earlier. It made her seem more human, more vulnerable. "Total cost of goods is about three euros, and Moto's margin is five hundred percent. But some Taiwanese knockoffs have already appeared that slice that in half. Moto'll have to invent something new next year if it wants to keep that profit."

"They will," Roscoe said, still stroking the batarang. He transferred it to his armpit and unslung his luggable laptop. "Innovation is still legal there." The laptop sank into the orange bedspread and the soft mattress beneath it.

"You could do some real damage with one of these, I bet," she said.

"With a thousand of them, maybe," he said. "If they were a little less conspicuous."

Her chest began to buzz. She slipped a wee phone from her breast pocket and answered it. "Yes?" She handed the phone to Roscoe. "It's for you." She made a curious face at him.

He clamped it to his ear. "Who is this?"

"Eet eez eye, zee masked avenger, doer of naughty deeds and wooer of reporters' hearts."

"Marcel?"

"Yes, boss."

"You shouldn't be calling me on this number." He remembered the yellow pad, sitting on his bedside table. Marcel did all the dusting.

"Sorry, boss," he said. He giggled.

"Have you been drinking?" Marcel and he had bonded over many, many beers since they'd met in a bar in Utica, but Roscoe didn't drink these days. Drinking made you sloppy.

"No, no," he said. "Just in a good mood is all. I'm sorry we fought, darlin', can we kiss and make up?"

"What do you want, Marcel?"

"I want to be in the story, dude. Hook me up! I want to be famous!"

He grinned despite himself. Marcel was good at fonzing dishes into place with one well-placed whack, could crack him up when the winter slush was turning his mood to pitch. He was a good kid, basically. Hothead. Like Roscoe, once.

"C'mon c'mon c'mon," Marcel said, and he could picture the kid pogoing up and down in a phone booth, heard his boots crunching on rock salt.

He covered the receiver and turned to Sylvie, who had a bemused smirk that wasn't half-cute on her. "You wanna hit the road, right?" She nodded. "You wanna write about how unwirers get made? I could bring along the kid I'm 'prenticing-up, you like." Through the cell phone, he heard Marcel shouting, "Yes! Yes! YES!" and imagined the kid punching the air and pounding the booth's walls triumphantly.

"It's a good angle," she said. "You want him along, right?" want him along, right?"

He held the receiver in the air so that they could both hear the hollers coming down the line. "I don't think I could live with him if I didn't take him," he said. "So yeah."

She nodded and bit her upper lip, just where the scar was, an oddly canine gesture that thrust her chin forward and made her look slightly belligerent. "Let's do it."

He clamped the phone back to his head. "Marcel! Calm down, twerp! Breathe. Okay. You gonna be good if I take you along?"

"So good, man, so very very very very good, you won't believe-"

"You gonna be safe safe, I bring you along?"

"Safe as houses. Won't breathe without your permission. Man, you are the best best-"

"Yeah, I am. Four o'clock. Bring the stuff."