because it wasn’t meant to be.
Fate stepped in and showed me the way.
15
As the anniversary of the drone strike drew near I felt like a black cloud was weighing me down. On the day itself, I stayed in bed, reliving that terrible, terrible day –
Going to school in my M&S suit for the first time – a sixth-former at last. Being eager to see Hugo. The kiss after school. My cheerful walk home. Dad crying on the sofa …
I got scared of the emotion that was building, so I got up, unplugged my laptop and took it back to bed. One of the anti-drone bloggers I followed had posted a link to a YouTube video. I clicked. It was a boy from a remote village in Pakistan. He told the story of what had happened to him and his sister when they were picking okra in their fields with their grandmother the day before the festival of Eid.
He said a drone appeared out of the bright-blue sky, making the dum-dum noise, but he wasn’t worried because only the three of them were there. Then the drone fired, making the ground shake and black poisonous smoke and dust fill the air. He ran, but the drone fired again.
‘They always do,’ he said, ‘to kill the relatives who come to help.’
The second missile broke both his legs.
His sixty-seven-year-old grandmother, a midwife, was killed. He was taken to hospital, together with seven other members of his family, all injured by the shrapnel.
He held up an X-ray of his legs, showing the rods that had been put in to mend his shattered limbs.
His final, trembling words were: ‘She was the heart of our village. My friends, they say we all lost a grandmother that day.’
The video swapped to show his sister. She gave her version, which was similar but more distressing, because I knew what was coming. Her big brown eyes, not dissimilar from my own, stared at me from the screen of my laptop. They were asking me to do something.
16
I made a pseudonym – a deliberately common one. And Angel (ANG3L for fun) was born. There was something nice about my alias having wings, given what I was up against.
It’s crazy the way having a different identity frees you. I was everywhere, making friends with unsuspecting users on all sorts of forums, gathering information and building a network of contacts that might be useful. I got a second phone, because a guy from a protest group said he wanted to check I wasn’t an informer but in fact wanted to say rude things to me. I took it all in my stride. My goal was clear. The drone wars needed to stop.
No matter what I came up with, nothing was as perfect as the plan Sayge and I had put together. And the more I thought about going ahead with it, the more certain I was that it was meant to be.
Fate had thrown Hugo and I together.
Fate had made me overhear the conversation in the café.
Fate had given me Sayge to help me devise the plan.
Fate had shown me when I no longer needed him.
Fate had sent me the faces of the little brother and sister.
(For fate, read Allah, luck, God, the zodiac, tarot, The Force – whatever suits.)
Obviously Hugo would realise it was me – what were the chances of another activist stumbling on the same idea? But if he told anyone, he’d be implicated big time. Knowing Hugo as I did, he was the last person to martyr himself for the greater good. And anyway, he wanted me to do it – like those weirdos on the web who goad people into committing suicide.
Deciding to go for it brought relief. It brought fear too, but fear meant adrenalin. And adrenalin was way better than procrastination.
Although my hacking was strictly script-kiddie level, I’d learnt enough jargon along the way to blend in with the elites. I’d always been good at adapting – immersing myself in the dark web was no different. I knew it would be a slow burn, but I’d waited a year. Time didn’t matter. Success was what mattered.
Hackers turned out to be unexpectedly generous people. My first gift was a few simple mods of code to use when playing
Fate stepped in and showed me the way.
15
As the anniversary of the drone strike drew near I felt like a black cloud was weighing me down. On the day itself, I stayed in bed, reliving that terrible, terrible day –
Going to school in my M&S suit for the first time – a sixth-former at last. Being eager to see Hugo. The kiss after school. My cheerful walk home. Dad crying on the sofa …
I got scared of the emotion that was building, so I got up, unplugged my laptop and took it back to bed. One of the anti-drone bloggers I followed had posted a link to a YouTube video. I clicked. It was a boy from a remote village in Pakistan. He told the story of what had happened to him and his sister when they were picking okra in their fields with their grandmother the day before the festival of Eid.
He said a drone appeared out of the bright-blue sky, making the dum-dum noise, but he wasn’t worried because only the three of them were there. Then the drone fired, making the ground shake and black poisonous smoke and dust fill the air. He ran, but the drone fired again.
‘They always do,’ he said, ‘to kill the relatives who come to help.’
The second missile broke both his legs.
His sixty-seven-year-old grandmother, a midwife, was killed. He was taken to hospital, together with seven other members of his family, all injured by the shrapnel.
He held up an X-ray of his legs, showing the rods that had been put in to mend his shattered limbs.
His final, trembling words were: ‘She was the heart of our village. My friends, they say we all lost a grandmother that day.’
The video swapped to show his sister. She gave her version, which was similar but more distressing, because I knew what was coming. Her big brown eyes, not dissimilar from my own, stared at me from the screen of my laptop. They were asking me to do something.
16
I made a pseudonym – a deliberately common one. And Angel (ANG3L for fun) was born. There was something nice about my alias having wings, given what I was up against.
It’s crazy the way having a different identity frees you. I was everywhere, making friends with unsuspecting users on all sorts of forums, gathering information and building a network of contacts that might be useful. I got a second phone, because a guy from a protest group said he wanted to check I wasn’t an informer but in fact wanted to say rude things to me. I took it all in my stride. My goal was clear. The drone wars needed to stop.
No matter what I came up with, nothing was as perfect as the plan Sayge and I had put together. And the more I thought about going ahead with it, the more certain I was that it was meant to be.
Fate had thrown Hugo and I together.
Fate had made me overhear the conversation in the café.
Fate had given me Sayge to help me devise the plan.
Fate had shown me when I no longer needed him.
Fate had sent me the faces of the little brother and sister.
(For fate, read Allah, luck, God, the zodiac, tarot, The Force – whatever suits.)
Obviously Hugo would realise it was me – what were the chances of another activist stumbling on the same idea? But if he told anyone, he’d be implicated big time. Knowing Hugo as I did, he was the last person to martyr himself for the greater good. And anyway, he wanted me to do it – like those weirdos on the web who goad people into committing suicide.
Deciding to go for it brought relief. It brought fear too, but fear meant adrenalin. And adrenalin was way better than procrastination.
Although my hacking was strictly script-kiddie level, I’d learnt enough jargon along the way to blend in with the elites. I’d always been good at adapting – immersing myself in the dark web was no different. I knew it would be a slow burn, but I’d waited a year. Time didn’t matter. Success was what mattered.
Hackers turned out to be unexpectedly generous people. My first gift was a few simple mods of code to use when playing
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