Michael Warren Lucas - git commit murder

I need to thank the hordes of BSD developers who have made me feel welcome over the last two-plus decades. This, right here, is the thanks they get. Maybe itll teach them a lesson.

I also need to thank Bob Beck, Rob Cornell, Bonnie Koenig, Matthew Kroll, Kate MacLeod, George Neville-Neil, Sharon Reamer, Lucy Snyder, Christina York, and Melissa Yuan-Innes for helping me make this book the best it could be.

This is for Liz.

T his book takes place in a universe parallel to ours.

I know people like the people in this book. But those people arent these people. Any characters that share names with real people are used fictionally. The Berkeley Software Distribution community evolved in different a way than whats portrayed in this book. The Byward University of Science and Technology in Ottawa does not exist. There is no BSD North conference, nor, sadly, a BSD Belfast. The security exploits I describe are impossibleuh, that is, highly improbable. I made up the most technically implausible exploits I could imagine. This is not a challenge, so dont feel compelled to go create them.

Git, unfortunately, is very real.

D ale thought the lobby of Byward Universitys main residence hall looked like it was designed to house over-adrenalized post-pubescent howler monkeys.

Who had just discovered that extra-strong Canadian booze.

Which, in all fairness, pretty much was the design specification.

The mottled pale amber tile, with just enough rippling texture to keep water and mud from making the floor totally impassible six months of the year, was clearly chosen for industrial durability first and charm second. A broad glass wall exposed a couple of weirdly young-looking students meandering towards the brick lecture hall across the parking lot. The poured concrete walls had faint swirling trowel marks, a dab of character beneath layers of industrial semi-gloss white. Posters beneath plastic-framed Plexiglas advertised an Ottawa summer concert series, the sexual assault hotline, the Student Learning Resource Centerno, Centre. Each proclaimed its message in French and English, both carefully sized for precise balance.

Even in June, during the campus summer semester (semestre?), the rhythmically humming air conditioning couldnt quite suck away undertones of fresh bleach and cleanser, the Sunday afternoon cover-up of a college dorms Saturday night. Supposedly the BSD North tech conference was held this time of year specifically because the dormitories and lecture halls were mostly abandoned, but maybe the summer students self-selected for most likely to not get away with this kind of crap at home.

At least the lobby had a dozen exits, leading out to the pedestrian walkway and the parking lot.

Once, a thirty-foot arch had welcomed everyone straight into the residence hall. In some prior decade, a wooden frame had been fitted into the arch, supporting a sturdy glass wall pierced by two turnstile-guarded doorways. You couldnt walk into the residences without passing straight by fifteen feet of Reception.

Dale Whitehead had seen less solid reception counters at low-rent hotels back home in Detroit. The counter base was some heavy white glossy material, scuffed by years of idly kicking feet, topped with a sea-blue slab that looked like Formica but had to be far tougher.

The tall skinny black guy with the impressive crop of acne working the counter seemed perfectly cheerful as he discussed housing options with a bony kid wearing blacknot really a kid, Dale reminded himself. He had to be at least twenty, maybe twenty-two. Ten years younger than Dale didnt mean a kid, not anymore.

But if you showed up at a university dorm expecting to get a private room, a private bath, and a big-screen TV you sure werent a grown-up.

And yet, the guy working the counter seemed perfectly cheerful as he patiently explained that the building didnt have anything like what the kid wanted. Dale guessed it was true, how they said Canadians were too polite. And Canadas capital was probably the most stereotypically Canadian city of all.

Dale released the handle of his brand-new rolling carryon and flexed his stiff fingers. Detroit was one of the few cities in the States that offered direct flights to Ottawa, but hed had to jam his two hundred and ninety pounds into a cramped seat for two hours, his kneecaps bruisingly crushed against the seat in front of him. The tiny commuter jet was three seats wide, one on the left and two on the right, so he hadnt needed to sit next to anyone, which helped, but every twitch of the stratosphere had knocked the jet like a toy in the bath. Even his favorite Agatha Christie novel hadnt been able to yank his attention away from the constant heaving of the plane and his stomach. Ninety-one minutes on a blind roller coaster hadnt eased Dales instinctive aversion to flying. His stomach still ached, and clammy sweat still soaked the back of his T-shirt beneath the hefty backpack holding his laptop and other gear.

The crowded, weaving number 97 bus from the airport to Byward hadnt given him an opportunity to still himself.

The lesson there: when you already have motion sickness, dont stand in the back of a tandem cantilevered bus.

At least hed taken his meds before getting on the plane. A flare of attention deficit disorder would wreck his plans before the con even started.

Youve got to talk to Pete, the man standing behind Dale said. Get this whole buffer cache thing sorted once and for all.

Pete does not want to talk, the woman said, her thin voice lumbering with a thick Eastern European accent.

Its the only way youll work this out, the man said. Sit at a table with him tonight, with a bunch of us. Have a beer. Talk about something else, anything else. Break the ice.

Oh, Ill have a beer, the woman said. Probably on the other side of the bar. His whole page locking models screwed. Ill need a beer just to get my head around it.

They had to be here for the operating system conference.

Dale should turn around. Say hello. Meet his first conference attendees.

Youre here to talk to people. Make contacts. Learn. The convention committee flew you out here to present. Thats why the boss told you to come here.

But after the tumultuous flight on a jet that should have been labeled the leaky rowboat of the skies, the interminable wait at Customs, and the nausea-inducing tandem bus, Dale just wanted to get to a room so he could peel out of his sweat-soaked T-shirt and sit in quiet stillness for ten minutes. Give his heart a chance to slow. The roar of the airplane and the bus had faded from his ears, but still echoed inside his skull.

The longer you wait to introduce yourself, the harder itll be.

Dale made himself swallow. Even his teeth felt greasy. Airport bagels, miraculous things. Bread from anywhere else in the world wouldnt leave your mouth feeling quite that repulsive.

My breath probably smells like puke. My clothes have to stink, after that flight. Not a good first impression.

We do still have one double room left, the counter guy said. Two bedrooms with a shared bath. You could rent both sides.

The kid at the counter said, This is a joke, right? No, never mindIll call the hotel down the street. The Royal York, isnt it?