I show up before first period, slide into a workstation in the back corner, and ssh into my UC Santa Monica shell while everyone else fumbles with BASIC assignments. The T1 line is ridiculous—commands execute instantly, file transfers that take twenty minutes at home finish in seconds. It's like going from a bicycle to a Ferrari.
Mr. Caldwell notices, of course. But he doesn't say anything. Just gives me a nod the first morning he walks in and sees me already at a command prompt. As long as I finish his assignments—which take maybe ten minutes—he leaves me alone.
The crew loves it. I can stay online during lunch, after school until five. No more two-hour limit. No more fighting with Mom about tying up the phone line.
More time online means more channels. More conversations. More learning.
That's when I find #2600.
The channel name comes from *2600: The Hacker Quarterly*, the magazine every hacker knows. I've never read it—can't find it at Barnes & Noble—but I've heard SpaceGoat mention it enough times to know it matters.
#2600 isn't like #hackers or #hacking. Those channels are full of kids asking "how do i hack on aol" every five minutes. #2600 is different. Quieter. It's a community for people who actually read the magazine, who care about phone phreaking history and hacker culture. When someone asks a question, the answers are detailed. Technical. Real.
The regulars—d3fkon and nul1 especially—are always around, always have answers.
I lurk for a week before I say anything. Read the conversations. Pick up the rhythm.
After that first week of pure lurking, I start participating occasionally. Small comments. Testing the waters. Another couple weeks of that before I feel ready to really contribute.
One afternoon, d3fkon starts talking about running his own IRC server.
My first instinct is to stay quiet. Every question is a risk. Ask something too basic, I'm exposed. Ask something too advanced, same problem.
But I can't let the idea go.
The technical details fly by—codebases, ports, compile flags. My fingers tap out notes, but the words run together in my head. What matters isn't the syntax. It's what it means.
If you know what you're doing, you can build your own IRC server. Your own channels, your own rules, your own kingdom.
No IRCOps to answer to. No admins who can ban you.
I write that down. There's something important there, but I can't quite see it yet.
---
Weeks pass. I absorb the culture. Kevin Mitnick debates—free speech versus law breaking. L337 speak that marks you as elite if you use it right, poser if you overdo it. 0-days that I don't have but desperately want.
And I notice something: the really skilled people all have cool idents. The part of your IRC connection that shows your username and host.
A new guy joins: .
Three seconds of silence.
And HaXoR247 leaves. No argument, no excuse. Just the sound of a door slamming.
My stomach tightens. I look at my own connection info.
Not AOL. But still just a student shell. Borrowed access. One step above the kid who just got laughed out of the room.
I scroll back through the channel. Study the regulars.
Not just clever. They signal ownership. Your box, your domain, your rules.
I'm wearing a visitor badge in a room full of people with master keys.
---
I find someone in #mp3 running a Linux box with a vanity domain. He wants file server access. I can give him that.
But giving him access means he could screenshot our file lists. Track our patterns. Burn us if he wanted to.
I stare at the private message for five minutes.
[LinuxGod] so we got a deal or what
My fingers hover over the keyboard. This is how you get caught—trusting the wrong person because you wanted something too badly.
If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
But without a better host, I'm invisible. Or worse—visible as exactly what I am.
[SKa] deal
Twenty minutes later I'm connecting through his box instead of my UC Santa Monica shell. The IRC server doesn't see my real connection. It sees what his server tells it to see.
I rejoin #2600.
There.
My hands freeze over the keyboard. Does he know it's bounced? Is this a test?
I watch the cursor blink. Five seconds. Ten.
Here it is. The question. I can lie—say it's my box—and hope he doesn't dig deeper. Or tell the truth and risk looking like a poser trying too hard.
The words sit there. Exposed.
Not sarcasm. Not a trap.
Approval.
I exhale. In the operator game, knowing how to get access matters more than having it handed to you.
---
I keep showing up. Answer questions when I can. Ask smart questions that show I'm thinking, not just fishing for answers. Test nul1's programs and send back bug reports. Small things. But they add up.
He sends it in a DCC. I run it on my UC Santa Monica shell. Find a bug. Send it back with notes.
Then one day:
* d3fkon sets mode: +o SKa
Holy Toledo in a Speedo.
It isn't just power. It's recognition. External validation from skilled people who have no reason to help me.
But there's a voice in the back of my head: *Do I actually deserve this? Or am I just good at looking the part?*
I push it down.
I am @ on #2600.
Credibility earned.
---
Then one afternoon in #2600.
I roll my eyes. Here we go.
He's polite. Persistent. Kind of annoying.
My face gets hot. That was different. I was *learning*. This kid's just fishing.
I put FLiPZ on ignore.
---
That night, I log in from home on my slow dialup, I think about FLiPZ. About d3fkon and nul1. About every channel where I'm either proving myself or defending my right to be there.
There's always someone above you. Always someone who can take your @ away, kick you out, decide you don't belong.
Unless you run the server.
d3fkon's words come back: *Hardest part? Getting people to actually join.*
Now I understand. It's not about the technology. Anyone can compile an ircd. The real question is why anyone would choose your kingdom over someone else's.
But my crew is good, not just three random kids anymore. We have the file server. We have connections across multiple networks. We have something to offer.
And if I build the infrastructure, I'm not asking permission anymore. No IRCOps judging whether I belong. No admins who can ban me for the wrong hostname or the wrong attitude. My channels, my rules, my network.
I open a private message to SpaceGoat.
[SKa] yo you got a minute?
[SpaceGoat] yeah whats up
[SKa] what if we ran our own ircd
[SpaceGoat] wait like our own server?
[SKa] yeah. our network. our rules. no more answering to anyone
[SpaceGoat] we can do that?
[SKa] hybrid ircd, shell with root access, couple hours of config work
[SpaceGoat] and people would actually join?
[SKa] if we build it, they will come
Just one minor problem: I don't know how to compile and run an IRC server.
But I'll figure it out. I always do.