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Traducción de “Scroogled” (“Engoogleados”), de Cory Doctorow

Hace un par de semanas hablábamos del relato de Cory Doctorow "Scroogled" en torno al punto de partida que le planteaba la revista Radar. El propio Doctorow, en Boing Boing, acaba de publicar que Felixe y Marisol han colaborado en la traducción al español del relato.

Esta traducción al español mexicano es una colaboración entre Marisol y Felixe. Nos basamos en la historia original publicada en la revista Radar Online y en una primera traducción al francés.

Para los que deseen leer la obra en algún otro formato también ponemos la versión en español del PDF: engoogleados.pdf y, por si deseas cocinar tu propia versión (para PDA, para xhtml o lo que gustes) de la versión en texto: engoogleados.txt

Descargar "Engoogleados" en PDF.

Vía Boing Boing y Trikinhuelas.

P2P: Is Big Brother Watching You?

"Los propietarios de derechos de autor vigilan las redes de intercambio para detectar posibles infracciones del copyright, según un estudio que recoge el sitio especializado en noticias científicas Phsyorg.

El informe, titulado "P2P, ¿está el gran hermano observándote?", se basa en la observación del tráfico de datos de un usuario de la red de intercambio de archivos de Gnutella durante 90 días. El resultado es bastante desalentador para los usuarios preocupados por su privacidad".

Leo en el blog de David Bravo que los usuarios de redes P2P son vigilados constantemente para combatir la piratería.

Why shouldn’t I work for the NSA?

La Agencia de Seguridad Nacional (en inglés: National Security Agency), también conocida como NSA por sus siglas en inglés, es una agencia del gobierno de los Estados Unidos responsable de obtener y analizar información transmitida por cualquier medio de comunicación, y de garantizar la seguridad de las comunicaciones del gobierno contra otras agencias similares de otros países.

Seguir leyendo sobre la NSA en la wikipedia.

El texto del guión en versión original lo tengo en un archivo en mi portátil desde 2005 (¡es un .sxw!) :

I’m working at N.S.A. Somebody puts a code on my desk, something nobody else can break. So I take a shot at it and maybe I break it. And I’m real happy with myself, ’cause I did my job well. But maybe that code was the location of some rebel army in North Africa or the Middle East. Once they have that location, they bomb the village where the rebels were hiding and fifteen hundred people I never had a problem with get killed.

Now the politicians are sayin’ "send in the Marines to secure the area" ’cause they don’t give a shit. It won’t be their kid over there, gettin’ shot. Just like it wasn’t them when their number got called, ’cause they were pullin’ a tour in the National Guard. It’ll be some guy from Southie takin’ shrapnel in the ass. And he comes home to find that the plant he used to work at got exported to the country he just got back from. And the guy who put the shrapnel in his ass got his old job, ’cause he’ll work for fifteen cents a day and no bathroom breaks. Meanwhile my buddy from Southie realizes the only reason he was over there was so we could install a government that would sell us oil at a good price. And of course the oil companies used the skirmish to scare up oil prices so they could turn a quick buck. A cute, little ancillary benefit for them but it ain’t helping my buddy at two-fifty a gallon. And naturally they’re takin’ their sweet time bringin’ the oil back and maybe even took the liberty of hiring an alcoholicskipper who likes to drink seven and sevens and play slalom with the icebergs and it ain’t too long ’til he hits one, spills the oil, and kills all the sea-life in the North Atlantic. So my buddy’s out of work and he can’t afford to drive so he’s got to walk to the job interviews which sucks ’cause the shrapnel in his ass is givin’ him chronic hemorrhoids. And meanwhile he’s starvin’ ’cause every time he tries to get a bite to eat the only blue-plate special they’re servin’ is North Atlantic scrod with Quaker State.

So what’d I think? I’m holdin’ out for somethin’ better. I figure I’ll eliminate the middle man. Why not just shoot my buddy, take his job and give it to his sworn enemy, hike up gas prices, bomb a village, club a baby seal, hit the hash pipe and join the National Guard? Christ, I could be elected President.

Good Will Hunting (1997)

Scroogled, de Cory Doctorow

Desde Boing Boing leo la entrevista con Cory Doctorow que The Wall Street Journal acaba de publicar al hilo del relato Scroogled que le encargaron a Doctorow con el siguiente punto de partida: "Escribe un relato sobre el día en que Google se convirtió en malvado".

In science-fiction author Cory Doctorow’s short story "Scroogled", a woman shrugs when she sees "Immigration–Powered by Google" on an airport sign, but that’s just the beginning of the search giant’s presence in a not-too-distant future.

The story, published in Radar Magazine’s latest issue, envisions a world in which Google turns into Big Brother. Customs agents grill travelers about their search queries, public places are swept by webcams and officials look for terrorist connections in social-networking sites. All of this is made possible by Google’s powerful search tools and the company’s willingness to share its trove of personal data with the government.

El relato ha sido publicado bajo licencia Creative Commons en Radar Magazine. En la entrevista, Doctorow contesta a una pregunta en la que el periodista le dice si hay señales de que Google realmente pueda hacer eso, si hay algo que le preocupe realmente por parte de Google: Are there signs of that at Google? Are they doing something that concerns you?
Mr. Doctorow: Sure, absolutely, there have been lots of signs of that. I mean, one of the things that I think is in Google’s DNA is a real tension about, on the one hand, being good to people, but on the other hand, acquiring as much information about them as they can, under the rubric that it allows them to be better to people.
And it does, a lot of the time. There are lots of ways in which Google knowing more about you makes Google better for you. But without much regard to what’s happening in the world around us, in an era in which the national security apparatus has turned into a kind of lumbering, savage, giant toddler, it behooves us to not leave things within arm’s reach that it might stick in its mouth. And that includes things like my search history. And I’d prefer that Google not be storing a lot of that stuff, especially today, especially after Patriot [Act] and so on. They’re inviting abuse, I think, by doing that. The steps you don’t save can’t be subpoenaed. And by saving them, Google is inviting a subpoena.
So Google’s always had this kind of "We will collect all your information, and it will belong to us, and you won’t be able to take it away, but it’s OK because we’ll only do good things for you" attitude, and that’s a bit of a problem.

Así comienza el relato:

Greg landed at San Francisco International Airport at 8 p.m., but by the time he’d made it to the front of the customs line, it was after midnight. He’d emerged from first class, brown as a nut, unshaven, and loose-limbed after a month on the beach in Cabo (scuba diving three days a week, seducing French college girls the rest of the time). When he’d left the city a month before, he’d been a stoop-shouldered, potbellied wreck. Now he was a bronze god, drawing admiring glances from the stews at the front of the cabin.

Four hours later in the customs line, he’d slid from god back to man. His slight buzz had worn off, sweat ran down the crack of his ass, and his shoulders and neck were so tense his upper back felt like a tennis racket. The batteries on his iPod had long since died, leaving him with nothing to do except eavesdrop on the middle-age couple ahead of him.

"The marvels of modern technology," said the woman, shrugging at a nearby sign: Immigration—Powered by Google.

Leer el relato Scroogled completo

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