Tellingly, Brain was written in Pakistan, beginning a noble tradition of blaming third-world countries for global computer problems.
There’s a few viruses about these days—more than 100,000 by most estimates—even though the vast majority have never infected anyone other than their developer and a few battle-hardened anti-virus researchers.
Viruses might be a loathsome pain in the backside, but there’s no denying that they’ve become more technically sophisticated over the years. Brain was only capable of infecting floppy disks (and 5.25in floppy disks at that), but it was quickly followed by memory resident viruses that could survive rebooting; polymorphic viruses that could change their code on the fly; viruses specifically written to disable antivirus software and self-encrypting viruses seeking to disguise their not-very-noble intentions.
Viruses also provide a map of the changing social face of computing. Early viruses were often written by curious European hackers whose social lives were, frankly, limited.
The distribution of viruses was equally limited until a bored hacker discovered in 1995 that they could spread via macros found in common office documents. (A decade later, Microsoft has finally decided to change its file formats to cut off that particular problem. Thanks for caring, Bill.)
The rise of e-mail and widespread Internet use has provided scorchingly effective new distribution vectors for viruses, and at the same time virus writers have become frequently motivated by evil intent or anti-corporate fanaticism rather than the ability to boast to other hackers about their latest exploits in C++. In 2006, virus writing is predominantly a commercial affair, with aspiring code cutters creating botnets for spam distribution using EasyMalwareConstructionKits and then renting them out at bargain basement rates to the highest Viagra-peddling bidder.
Of course, whatever the motivation, most IT managers still see them as an appalling nuisance and a blight on their already-strained budgets. It’s easier than ever to acquire antivirus tools and keep them updated but end users remain as stupid as they were 20 years ago when it comes to following guidelines designed to minimise their likelihood of infection. Yes, that rule about not installing new software applies to you too, Mr CEO.
Selling antivirus software to keep Mr CEO from foaming at the mouth has also proved a steady route to profit for several companies (hands up CA, F-Secure, Grisoft, McAfee, Sophos, Symantec, Trend, and watch out for Bill Gates again, he’s planning one of his own). Fortunately for their stock market valuations, the prevalent early ’90s rumours that most viruses were actually created by antivirus companies seem to have died off.
Viruses have clearly influenced pop culture in other ways. In February this year the ARIA award for single of the year went to Ben Lee’s Catch My Disease. Lee was thrilled with his award but he won’t really have arrived until a virus gets named after him.
Since the heady days of Brain the names, like the users, have got a lot stupider. The most widely distributed viruses have non-memorable monikers such as W32/Sober-Z, but the ones we all remember are named after allegedly attractive women (Anna Kornikova, Melissa), allude to all the action we’re not getting (Kama Sutra, I Love You) or have a spurious air of sophistication (Michelangelo, Frodo).
Many viruses are still distributed by using a catchy tag line on an e-mail message. After all, who could resist an attachment reading “Osama Bin Laden Captured”, “Michael Jackson Suicide Attempt” or “How To Give A Cat A Colonic’? Actually, the last is an example of the socially engineered “hoax” virus, which simply encourages people to forward a message about a non-existent virus and clogs up all our inboxes in the process. No matter what the next 20 years brings, you can guarantee those will still be around.
—Angus Kidman
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