SPELL CHECK

By P.A. Lamping

            “Almost there,” repeated Garrison Alpha.

            We had been debugging for hours, gradually unearthing the core of the monolithic database.  My eyes strained from watching lines of code scroll down the antiquated screen.  I wondered if there was a faster way, but I couldn't complain.  I was only a Beta level operator.  My sole experience came from speaking to the computer using the Natural Language Interpreter.

            We passed a layer of syntax algorithms.   “Another dead end,” said Garrison.

            I tired of standing.

            “Is it true that computer operators used to sit in front of these screens all day?”

            Garrison ignored my words.

            I had asked Garrison for help finding some historic documents, to see if the rumors were true—to see if we could exhume the original Constitution from these long forgotten archives.

            “I found something,” said Garrison.

            “What?”

            “The backup.  If we can view that subroutine we'll know where to look for the data repository.”

            “Let's view it.”

            The computer beeped in protest.  “Access denied.”

            Garrison grimaced.  “Computer, override, Alpha level authorization.”

            The computer beeped again.  “Access requires two Alpha level operators.”

            My companion slapped his forehead.  “We can't bring another Alpha into this.  They'll tell the Chancellor for sure.  It's impassable now.”

            “Maybe not.  You can access the personnel files.  Change my status to Alpha.”

            “If that was a good idea, I would have thought of it.  See, the error-correcting algorithm will spot that in seconds.  It compares old personnel records to the current version.  We'd face criminal charges for sure.”

            “We've already broken the rules.  We have to continue.  What if we keep the computer busy, perhaps create an infinite loop.  I have an idea!  Computer, create a new program.”

            “What would you like the program to do?” said the computer.

            “Create a new program, just like this one.  Begin.”

            I smiled victoriously.

            Garrison proceeded.  “Computer, show me the backup subroutine.”

            “Affirmative.”

            “Computer, search for Constitution.”

            He found the reference and looked up the file address.  The computer returned a single line.  “Dead end,” said Garrison.

            The reference address had been nulled out.  Garrison explained, “Operators do this when they want to fill in the actual data later.”

            “What about Declaration of Independence?”

            Garrison searched many items of American folklore: the Articles of the Confederation, the Federalist Papers, and the Emancipation Proclamation.  They all led to the same null address.

            Garrison started to pack his books and notepads.
            “You're giving up?”

            “It's not in there.  The documents probably never existed.”

            “Wait, I want to look at that address.”

            “Why?  It's null.  It means nothing.  Even a Beta knows that.”

            “Maybe the original programmer hid something.”

            Without waiting for consent, I scanned the null file address.  “Look at the actual address of null.  It has a file size.  Something is stored there.”

            I printed the file and a single line displayed.

            207.245.165.87

            “What the hell is that?”

            Garrison's face brightened.  “An IP4 address!  Yes, I remember these from my computer history class.  They still use those addresses in the undernet.”

            “The undernet?  I thought the Supreme Court outlawed that.”

            “They tried.  They hired me to disable all undernet hot spots.  Always a new hot spot emerged.  The clever criminals created many false sources; we never located the main valve.

            “Remember the myth of King Arthur?  His knights sought out the Holy Grail in distant lands.  Everyone thinks they failed, but truthfully they found many alleged grails.  So many, in fact, that no one could say which one was the original.”

            I wanted to keep my partner on the subject.  “Would you still know how to find an IP4 address?”

            “Sure, I have the tools still in my van.  Let's go.”

            In the van, Garrison gave me an antenna and a cylindrical receiver.  It connected to a peculiar device that looked like a cafeteria tray.

            “This is a laptop.  It belonged to my grandfather, back when people were allowed to have personal computers.”

            After he showed me how to operate it, we began our search.  I pointed the receiver at various residences while he drove to an area known for open nodes.  We monitored the laptop's amplitude meter until we finally we picked up a hotspot.  He parked the van.

            “We now have a connection to the undernet.  We can do a reverse look-up on the IP address.  In the beginning of the undernet, someone decided that every home should have an IP address.”

            Garrison typed a few more commands.

            “I found it!  It's not too far from the National Archives.”

            He hit the accelerator and sped to the address.   By the time we arrived, I still hadn't decided what to say.  Garrison seemed more confident.

            I rang the doorbell.  From inside, an old man yelled, “Go away!”

            Garrison would not accept rejection.  “Sir, we're from the Operations Center.  The computer is malfunctioning.  We have to talk to the person who wrote the code.”

            A long silence was followed by a question.

            “Are you the police?”

            “No.  We're operators.”

            Garrison held up his employee badge.

            “Ah,” said the voice from inside.

            A man opened the door and spoke, devoid of emotions. “A long time coming.  Come inside, then, come inside.”

            We entered.  The place smelled old.  Dozens of photos hung on the walls—black and white, portraits of men in white wigs, and American flags with only 50 stars.

            “You didn't alter the code, did you?”

            I was perplexed by the old man's forthright demeanor.  However, curiosity must have overridden my suspicions.

            “No.  We just ran some searches.  We tried to search the archives for Constitution.  The search pointed to a null address.”

            “Ah, you boys did well in being the first to find my Easter egg.  Well, I could tell you more, but you're better off not knowing.”

            “We must know.”

            He smiled, as if hoping we’d say that.  “Very well, then, but don't say I didn't warn you.”

            The man sat back in his chair.  Focusing on an archived memory, he began to tell a most amazing tale.

            “Before the war, I was professor of computational intelligence.  I remember working on a project with one of my best students when the first strike came.  They hit every city in the country with an EMP, an electromagnetic pulse.  It wiped out almost every bit of data that our economy relied on.  The ensuing depression left America open to other attacks, including the one that wiped out the National Archives Building.

            During the reconstruction, the new provisional government asked me to rebuild our computing infrastructure.  It would cost too much to replace every laptop and server in the entire country, so I built OmniDoc, a database server that could translate documents and run applications.  Then my students interfaced OmniDoc with Metaphor, a natural language interpreter.

            The government, ostensibly because of the shortage of the metals germanium, gold, and platinum, confiscated all computers and computerized devices, except for the one device that people would not give up—mobile phones.  Therefore, I built OmniDoc to stream news bulletins and popular content to their phone screens.  People enjoyed the simplicity of one single, mobile source of information.  Unified by consistent information, the people resurrected their economy.

            However, during the rebuilding, the Supreme Court assumed authority.  They disbanded the provisional government, claiming that the government's power was unconstitutional.  No one could raise a valid objection; there were so many false copies of the Constitution that no one could verify the original.  Eventually when the Supreme Court ruled on cases, they made their decisions based on whether the act was decent, undecent, or indecent.  American citizens did not know enough constitutional law to dispute them.

            The Supreme Court still tasked me to digitize every public document on record, so I collaborated with the curator of the National Archives.  He said he had moved our historical documents, including the Constitution, before the terrorist strike.

            Not long after I had entered that data, the nine justices each asked me to build a subroutine that would synchronize our legal documents with their judicial rulings.  Every time they struck down an unjust law, every legal text on record should be updated to reflect the 'evolving standards of decency.'  Because we built OmniDoc with self-healing technology, I had no problem enabling the 'spell check' program that they wanted.

            The curator and I both agreed that the Constitution was useless to the existing government, because it could change according to the whim of the presiding Supreme Court.  We hid the Constitution, the Bill of Rights, and every other important document.  Consequently, the Secret Service arrested the curator.  I changed my name in OmniDoc, resigned my position and went underground.  Before they could disable my access, I inserted those null references.  The Supreme Court did not mind that the documents were gone.  They claimed that they alone could interpret the Constitution, so they kept it secret for 'the public good.'”

The old man leaned back in his chair, as if he had fallen asleep.

“So let's go find this curator and get them back.” I said.

            Garrison shook his head.  “And then what?  The Secret Service will hunt us down and no one will believe we have the real documents anyway.  Even if they did, the only way to reinstate the Constitution would be to fight a revolution.  I didn't sign on for that.”

            “We can't stop here!  Whatever is wrong with the computer can be fixed.”

            The old man woke and frowned.  “There is nothing wrong with my computer.”

            Garrison became incensed.  “You don't get it!  There is no where to go from here!  This is the dead end of all dead ends.”

            I looked at Garrison Alpha and saw the face of defeat, but I could not quit.

            Something bothered me about this place.  While Garrison made for the door, I stared intently at the picture frames on the wall.  There was an original newspaper dated May 7, 1937.  It had a photo of an airship.  The headline read, “The Hindenburg Explodes.”

            I lifted the frame and examined the back.  The old man jumped out of the chair and rushed toward me with unexpected swiftness.

            “Don't break the seal on that.  The paper will crumble in your hands!”

            “So, which one is this, old man?  The Bill of Rights?”

            “That, you careless fool, is the Declaration of Independence.  If you want me to show it to you, I'll have to take it to my work room.”

            Garrison and I followed.  Inside the climate-controlled workroom, he carefully took apart several picture frames and showed us the documents we had long sought.

            “Luckily the EMP attack happened during the day, otherwise the documents would have all been stuck in the vault,” he said.

            My head felt dizzy.  I repressed the excitement as we quietly read aloud from the crinkled pages.

            Garrison put his hand on my shoulder.  “We have to show this to everyone.”

            He lifted his chin in thought.  “All the country's news services connect to OmniDoc.  We can change the lead story of every news bulletin in America.”

            “Garrison, I thought you didn't want to fight a revolution.”
            “No,” he said, “but I might start one.”

            Back in the computer center, Garrison disabled the spell checker and accessed the newspaper's data repositories.  “So, what shall tomorrow's news bulletin read?”

            We knew already.

            “When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.”

            Garrison initiated the bulletin insertion subroutine.  The anticipation created a euphoric sensation.  We could comprehend the magnitude of the moment no more than a flea could fathom a dragon.

            Our mobile phones delivered the new revolution.  Garrison looked with dismay.  “This isn't what I typed.”

            Across the screen flashed, “The Declaration of Interdependence of the Commonwealth of America.”

            Below that scrolled a grossly edited version, “We hold these views to be evident, that all are equally endowed with the duty to sacrifice life, liberty and pursuits of frivolity, in the interests of general decency.”

            Obviously the old man had failed to disable the spell check subroutine.

            “You knew, old man!”

            He looked unconcerned.  “There is no way to disable spell check.”

            “Why did you lead us on?”

            “It was a condition of my release.  They'll retrain you now, as they did me.  Long ago I gave up on democracy—a system ruled by the whims of petty people who would rather spread misery equally than witness the success of others.”

            He walked out the door, and a group of police officers stormed in.

            “You’re under arrest.  Stay where you are and put your hands in the air!”

            Immediately the police sprayed into our faces a sedative designed to prevent resistance.  We fully obeyed their orders and stepped into the van.  The old man whistled as he walked away.

            The police ushered us to the courthouse and set up a hearing.  The bailiff sprayed us again, this time with a truth serum.  The judge asked us what happened.  “The court expects you to tell the truth,” he said, “confess to your crimes and receive your punishment.”

Because of the serum, rarely was witness testimony necessary.  That allowed me this one opportunity.  The drug had dulled my senses but not my resolve.

            “Do you have any closing remarks?”

            I held up a document, stolen from a picture frame on the old man's wall, and plead my case.

            “Yes, Your Honor.  My associate and I are not guilty on the grounds that this court has violated Amendment V of the original Constitution, which states that no person 'shall be compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against himself.'”

            The court became paralyzed with confusion.  Everything went silent, except for the crinkling and crumbling of that historic paper as I read.  It was the sound of the revolution!