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Sara Vibeke Stensrud (best known to her friends as Vibe) marvels at the little town from the train station, as she fumbles a heavy backpack into place on her skinny frame.

She takes pause, only for a second, to appreciate the change in surroundings. For weeks, she has been stuck in an office, playing with sterile computer programs; here, with the wind on her face and the sun in her eyes, she can finally sense that she is part of the world.

This is a real place. It is alive and I am not even part of it...

Very cool indeed. It’s like finding a world, in the VR, where things are going on even though you are not there to see them. People actually live here and stuff changes by itself; and now, she gets to sample the delights, interact with the characters.

The little station is idyllic; newly painted railings show an attention to detail and a caring warmth, despite the icy mountain wind. She texts a quick message to Bea, even as she fumbles with her sack, to say “Duh!” and snaps a picture of the scene with her glasses, sending it along with the message.

Like agony aunts, doom-saying the outcome of inevitable plastic surgery, they have been betting on what the little town would look like after its shoe shine. Bea’s roots were once torn from this countryside and replanted in deepest Urbania; given a podium, she can talk for, well minutes, about it, describing the scene as a mausoleum of badly painted wooden houses, surrounding prefabricated concrete boxes, which were thrown up in the sixties and seventies, and have long since passed their use-by date.

Norway might be known for its natural beauty, but not for its architectural prowess. Well, even after its recent shoe-shine, the town looks like a theme park for the urbanly challenged.

Anyway. In a moment, the train behind her will pull away and Vibe will be on her own, maybe even for the next few days. So friendly is good. It looks even a little homey, but it doesn’t quite feel like home. She smiles playfully and texts Bea: “In love, will stay here and raise kids,” and she adds a wink.

Are we ready?

All right then.

The sun’s halting disc beams serenely down from autumn cobalt; but, high above her, flags are fluttering like mainsails, catching the icicle rush traffic that is streaming off the mountain. The shuttle-train has been shielding her from it thus far, but in an instant the deceptive clemency will grow fangs to suck the warmth from the unwary. Time to get moving before she catches her death.

Vibe removes her glasses as she goes–a little vanity that she enjoys: flirting with eye-wear in public places. No use for them on the mountain perhaps, but still good to have. Men find them sexy– precisely because they are an anachronism. They emphasize her intellectual side, and it gives her the edge in first impressions, should she want it.

Oh yes, “Vibe” might be a playful downtown girl, but “Sara” can still be a brain-box when it suits her, studying for her Doctorate. Personas are useful, especially when they come off this easily.

Her mobile beeps a message back at her. It’s from Bea. It says “Duh!” and has a smile! Vibe grins and rolls her eyes at her own silliness.

Bury my mobile! she smiles to herself. Anyway, here we are, ready to make the trek into the mountains. Off we go.

Ambivalence simmers in her hind-brain. She did not exactly become flavour of the month for deciding to come out here. “Go!” “Don’t go!” they said. What was that all about? Mamma was okay–she was supportive (staunch proponent of self-help is mamma), Dr Lindgren said it might be worth a try, but did not have time to help; he just seemed preoccupied as usual. So she cut through the proverbial excrement.

For her, this trip is partly a nostalgia, partly survival, and partly a sense of adventure, rekindled. And, of course, there is that one big reason for coming, which clinched it.

But we won’t talk about that one for now...

She pulls up a local map on her wristband and checks directions. She’ll probably have to get a taxi from here to the start of the path up the mountain. Too far to walk all the way.

Besides there’ll be enough walking in the next few days to give Ghandi blisters...

She flicks through some menus with her thumb and dials the number of the team leader. The charmingly way-too-slow voice at the other end is clearly a machine, or else Mrs. Laurent has been doing drugs. “Hello, Mrs. Laurent? This is Sara Stensrud. Just letting you know that I have arrived at the train station and should be with you tomorrow. I’ll call again from the cabin this evening.”

Vibe pulls her backpack straps tighter and extricates her long, mousy ponytail from the rigging. She heads to the station exit.

The M-thing signals again and her hand has palmed the wrist strap before she realizes that she has no self-control. The message is a form, from the research council, for her travel expenses. Useful, but late. Famous government bureaucracy is about as timely as a tortoise on stilts. It should pretty much fill itself out, so she just flicks through, accepting its terms. Approval from her advisor is already there; there will have to be confirmation from Brussels before she can start the spending... blablabla. Fine. It’s better than nothing.

She squeezes ‘send’ and does not wait for confirmation before flipping over to send a quick one-liner to her advisor.

Then something odd. The display freezes with a quickly flashed message “alpha send” or some such crap, and then the display returns with a ‘battery low’ signal. It was charged on the train.

What Is The Matter With You, Fone?

That’s Swedish technology for you.

Impatient, Vibe drops the M thing into her pocket as she descends the short flight of steps at the station exit, and begins to cross the road. She has other appendages she can use, but not all of them have all of its functions. Besides, it is starting to rule her life.

She looks up, glad to see something other than her wrist.

Two cars are parked over by the old car pumps. One of them has a darkened police light on top. A woman in uniform stands by as a man unloads some plastic cartons from it. He glances at her and holds the glance for just a moment too long, as if guilt obliges him.

There is a shop at the pumps, with food and supplies and stuff. She needs to pick up a few things: a little junk, some snacks. She trots towards it, ignoring them. The brooding urgency of city concerns seems to have lifted from her in this unfamiliar territory. The burden of worry is replaced by the pragmatism of adapting to the moment. Travel is useful that way: it rubs out pointless intricacies and replaces them with broad strokes of necessity.

Inside the shop, life is predictably pedestrian. A lone teenager is sitting by the checkout of the mini-mart, dividing his attention between a TV and a security monitor. It could be a scene preserved from twenty years earlier, she thinks. A museum piece, unaware of its own failure to accede to the passage of time.

His eyes fix elsewhere as she enters, but he sees every aspect of his world go by on a monitor screen in front of him. Those four corners are his world, she imagines. And what a predictable and thankless world is framed within it. Only after she has her back to him does she see him turn to give her the once over, in the reflection of a glass door. Well: hot girl–who wouldn’t?

Her brother always used to say that, in small incestuous places like this, the whole village must be vampires, because everyone would be bitten by now. He’s certainly pale enough, and he hasn’t moved much yet, but ... this is no time for a stake-out.

Bite me! she smiles.

Vibe grabs stuff from the shelves without out stopping to browse. She has most of what she needs–just a little snack for the trip up the mountain. Maybe a new battery for the M thing, in case something is actually wrong with it. A bottle of water for later.

At the checkout, the kid seems kind of cute–or would be if he were five years older. She pulls a few hair strands loose from her pony tail to make herself look “more”, enjoying the effect it has on him. She is used to having boys look at her. Most of them shouldn’t be looking, but this one deserves to think about her later on, when he’s alone. He’ll ripen.

The kid debits her mobile and puts her things in a bag. He doesn’t dare to say anything, or even chance a smile at her, but she can see what he’s thinking. He can think of her later too, if he wants. She rewards him with a smile that he will not forget any time soon, and strides purposefully out.

Outside again, she sees the town from the opposing viewpoint. The towering mountains in the background make it a depressing oasis of concrete stonewall, colourless against the powerful rock-faces and forested ascents. It has been only a year since she was last here, but the power of it is still haunting. Even its recent shoe-shine has not made the town sit better along side the mountain.

The rock face is a dragon, she thinks, a monster that could crush her with the slightest effort. She feels tiny. Better to get up there before she changes her mind.

Her mobile flinches again and the car with the police light pulls up as she approaches the crossing. The second car has gone, or is out of sight.

A woman, dressed up in a badly fitting uniform gets out and approaches her. The attire does little to hide her masculinity,

“ID?” she queries flatly, and with gracious Nordic charity. Her stoney face is pointy and thin; she is too darkly tanned and her hair is pulled back so tightly in a pony tail that it looks like a Do-It-Yourself face-lift.

Vibe touches her ID-send, and the woman reads of the details on her mobile. “Got her” she says monotonically to the wire in her ear. She does not even look at Vibe. “Unlikely.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re going up the mountain?”

“Uh huh.”

“Hmmm.” She is entering something on her mobile.

“Is there something wrong with that? Is there something I should know?”

“You can’t go up there yet. There’s a disturbance. Police operation.”

“What kind of disturbance?”

She pauses for too long. “Gangs on the loose.”

“Gangs?”

“That’s what I said.”

“But I came here to go up there. What kind of gangs?”

The police woman looks at her with eyes that are too wide. Must be a zombie, or a vampire. “Sign in at mountain rescue, while you’re waiting, and don’t make any trouble here.”

“What? I just arrived.”

“How long do you plan being up there?”

“A few days. maybe a week. What did you mean ‘got her’?”

“You see the car parked over there just now?” She points to the place where Vibe saw the cars parked.

She shakes her head and shrugs, lying. No sense in asking for trouble.

“We’re doing stop-searches in the area.”

Vibe shrugs and smiles on the inside.

She’s doing a little alcohol trade on the side! Hah. She knows I saw her.

The woman looks her up and down. “Just doing our job. Don’t go up there until you get the okay signal from mountain rescue.” She looks her up and down once more and runs some kind of scanner over her backpack, checking twice. Then she just says “okay” and gets back into her police car.

It is not even a real police car. It’s just her single-mother bang-wagon with a stupid light on top.

As she drives off, Vibe notices a child seat in the back of the car.

So they are arresting kids now. Bitch.

She reels in a local map on her M thing and starts heading towards a taxi that is parked across at the station. So they made the town shine again with a lick of paint and some nice weather, but she doesn’t think she’ll stay and have kids here after all.

A single drop of October rain lands on her face, from out nowhere, as if protesting against the unusually long summer mildness, and the failure of autumn to supplant it with any convincing charade of its own. It is a signal for her to hasten her resolve. Besides, the backpack is feeling heavier than she imagined. It will either kill her or do wonders for her stomach contours.

She texts another ridiculous message and sighs, bored with her own habit. Okay – now we’re sick of the mobile, she thinks and puts it away.

Stupid invention. So stupid, so necessary.

Vibe checks in at the information centre. It is a pokey wooden bungalow with large windows, decorated in predictable Norwegian wood and linoleum flooring, which tapers towards a plastic drain in the middle of the floor–almost as though they are expecting someone to take a shower right there in the middle of the room.

The centre is run by a skinny stick-boy, probably a college student, maybe her own age, and a bulbous fat woman, who is squeezed way too tightly into her blouse.

No grace in denial.

Vibe approaches the desk. They see her, but no-one comes to her aid.

It is deadly quiet in the room. It is deadly quiet outside. Probably, they see only two people in a whole day at this time of year, but they keep her waiting.

Hey, freaky college student person!

Stick Boy is showing Fat Lady something about the combo workstation on her desk. Something tells her that the ugly one is in charge. Sara decides to put on her glasses, something that makes her look more ordinary, in case her startling good looks should weigh to her disadvantage here.

Hello? Echoes repeating... I’m here.

She is not used to being ignored, but she knows enough to recognize when it is deliberate. She turns and browses the information room, looking at maps and leaflets to distract herself from the wait. Best not to lose one’s temper and get off on the wrong foot.

Wave of stress building from within. Can’t control... may have to kill...

“Do you need any help?” asks the woman, eventually.

“Yes please!” Suppress urgent need for sarcasm. “I am going up into the hills. I’m supposed to check in with mountain rescue.”

The woman greets her with an edge of disapproval. “Well. You can’t go up there now. There’s a police operation operation going on.”

Headline, lady: button fatigue causes fat explosion. Danger of deep-frying village. “I heard,” she says. “What’s it about?”

“Some idiots with toy guns are playing up there.”

“Toy guns?” She articulates the words incredulously.

“Paint balls or something,” says the student, joining them at the counter. “They are having some kind of war games up there. The cabins are on alert.”

“Police don’t do anything,” says the woman. “They should throw them all in jail.” She smiles sullenly.

Seems pleasant enough. Could have misjudged.

A thought occurs to Vibe. Could there be a connection between this information and the reason for her visit here? Her babies are not answering like they are supposed to. How come no one told her about this before?

“So what’s the prognosis?” Vibe asks. “How long is it going to take?”

The woman pouts. “Hard to say.”

“Hours? Days?”

“You shouldn’t get too excited. These things can take time. There is a big area to cover. They are trying to get a helicopter, but the budget has been cut so they don’t like using it.”

How dangerous could it be?

The mountains are a pretty big place, but that also works in her favour. The chances of her meeting these idiots is pretty small. Besides, it couldn’t be any worse than Oslo on a Saturday night...

Vibe uncovers her wrist-mobile and says: “Is there somewhere I can wait?”

The woman hits a place on the touch screen to scan Vibe’s ID and expected route. Vibe’s mobile signals approval of her route. “There’s a café just down the road here, on the second floor of the supermarket. They have services, so if you follow our information,” (she taps another touch-pad to offer the URI to Vibe’s mobile), “you should get the same information we have.”

“Thanks,” she says. “Maybe I’ll do that.” The words trickle out innocently enough, but every fibre of her being screams: Lady, you must be out of your mind if you think I am going to that concrete bunker to consume your lousy coffee and perfumed cakes.

“Bye then.”

Succumbing to an urge to flee this little time warp, Vibe heads out into the sunshine to make the most of the day. If she cannot do as she pleases then she can at least enjoy the moment. She toys with the idea of visiting the café, but rejects it swiftly. She does not have the funds to extend her stay here. It is out of the question to spend the night here. She needs to get up the mountain. Today.

Vibe walks towards a little square in the town. A pair of tête à tête park benches are getting some sunshine so she drops her backpack onto one of them and sits down to absorb some questionably healthy solar radiation.

As a city girl, she despises the small-town isolation of this place: the unadventurous paranoia about the outside world, the unreasonable contentment with what they have, the blinkered fantasy that their way of life is better. But she can also be bigger than that. She has seen enough to know that there is something charming and idyllic about a small-town life. The mountains almost embrace this little town as if forming a crucible to hold it, that gazes up at the sky. This is their prison, but also their paradise.

But she is a city girl, with no question or doubt. That is her instinct and it is her image; and a good image is the best way to keep one’s personality from overflowing.

From the bench she stares forward at the mountain face in the direction that she must travel. It looms over her with impossible size, so close and yet so reduced to be squeezed into her field of vision. Each gigantic tree on the rocky slope is clearly visible, yet surreal in its insignificance; and the cold rock slowly reveals its intransigence. The longer she gazes at it, the more the picture-postcard idyll transforms into merciless and defiant threat.

A momentary twinge of foreboding grips her. Turn back! She suppresses it as swiftly as it surfaces. She will not think of irrelevant unlikelihoods now. She is above such things. She is Sara Stensrud and she can do whatever she puts her mind to. It is time to go up the mountain, flouting peril, dodging the dark forces of fate.

She texts to Bea: Zombies have taken over. Making my escape.

Vibe kicks through dry, powdering leaves–a tossed salad of multi-coloured hand-prints, fracturing and disintegrating into the earth: vampires that saw sunlight. The road from the little town is narrow and straight; trees stand on parade at either side, flaunting their autumnal pomp and finery as if saluting her journey.

Well, I’m here, she thinks, and I am not waiting around here any longer. Weather could change.

She tries to call her contact, Mrs. Laurent, once again, but there is still no reply. She gives up and simply marches onward. Better to be up ‘there’ with something to do, than down ‘here’ in the dark, she thinks.

It takes her half an hour to reach the end of the trail, as it curves and winds, up an down, ending in what looks like a farm. A farmhouse is situated just off the road. Her mobile tells her that the path up the mountain starts here. In the distance she can see the densely forested valley rise, meandering upward to some snowy peaks beyond.

Vibe comes to a tractor trail, close to the farmhouse; she can see the metal bridge over the stream that’s marked on the map and the actual trail that winds around almost full-circle to avoid an old stone wall, blocked off by a fence. The fence is buckled slightly where hikers have jumped over it, rather than following the path around as they should. She could follow her conscience and take the muddy path along the stone slabs, but the ford she would have to cross looks like a recipe for getting pretty wet and a poor way to start her trip.

Stupid place to put a fence anyway, she thinks.

The fence then.

A man, off in the distance, next to a barn, shouts to her. She turns and squints to look at him. The sound of his voice echoes around the farmyard a little, and is otherwise lost in the void. it does not make much sense to her, but she can see that he is gesticulating, pointing with a finger. She is not sure what he is saying, but she can guess and she sure as hell doesn’t care much for his tone.

He is reminding her that she should follow the path.

Guess again, mate, she thinks. Had you asked me nicely...

Besides, Sara Vibeke Stensrud is used to getting her way.

I am a spoiled child, she thinks. That gives me certain rights.

She pushes down the thin wire that is already ruined and begins to climb over it. It is not too high, but there is an elasticity to it that makes it non-trivial to keep it down as she swings her backpack-laden form over it. Her stomach muscles give a satisfying scream of stress, indicating that her stomach will be hard and muscular after this trip.

As she tumbles onto the grass on the other side, she checks on him and sees that he is getting into a tractor. He is shouting again. No matter, she will have crossed the little metal bridge by the time he is even close. It is just ten metres from her now, thanks to this short-cut. Perhaps he will follow her up the mountain and hunt her down, like a wild animal. Heh-heh. He can try.

She starts up the stoney path, carved through the dense forest, rising sharply upward in zig-zag up the steep wall of the valley. It reminds her of her childhood trips, the misery of physical exertion, but the ultimate satisfaction of achievement. Somehow it seemed worse in her memory.

Sweat begins to moisten her T-shirt and her breath grows short. This is when one could wish to be on the Moon. The walking will be good for her though: flat tummy, firm backside. It will make some cute boy’s day, or night.

She passes a red “T” symbol painted onto a tree, indicating the tourist route and feels comforted that she is on the path. It shouldn’t be long before she starts to see some of her babies.

Message from Bea, says: Princes or toads?

Only toads so far, she replies absently, bored with the play. She pulls up a map of the local area and overlays the last reported positions of the VeiVeks onto it. She is some distance from the first of them yet. No sense in thinking about work until she has to, but she has a sense of purpose now, and a will to escape from herself, from her present rut. The power of the mountains: it will wipe your mind clean and soothe your aching worries.

Down below she can hear the farmer shouting. Is he still shouting at her? Christ, she thinks, get over it!

She texts: Weird Vibe here – not me:) Going up now. L8r.

The forest pathway is still mostly dirt, but the slope steepens quickly. She can’t text while walking for much longer. She packs away the little keypad and concentrates on placing her feet in the right place. Walking up rocky paths is an art of balance. If you proceed with grace, poise and slow determination, it is a simple matter. If you scramble around in uncertain movements, you are likely to slip and use up twice the amount of energy. It is meditative; it requires her attention and prevents her from doing anything other than completing this singular navigation of the trail.

The steady plodding up the hill erases time from her consciousness. She has been climbing for as long as she can remember and it will last a lifetime yet. It is like being a graduate student, she thinks. She is enacting a representation of her life. You start on the path and you have no idea where you are going. Then you end up on a trail that you are unsure of. It starts slowly then rises sharply and you chug away at it, utterly mesmerized by the singularity of the task, and completely unaware of how you are proceeding. Better watch your step or you might be falling before you know it.

Her dreaming has tricked her back to an unpleasantness of the past. And here she is, trying to purge it from her consciousness; trying to render a poison of uncertainty and doubt neutral with fresh mountain air and affirmative action.

She is here to take command of the obstacles that plague her. And what does she do? Only fall right back into the quicksand!

A recollection settles over her like a burden of unnecessary and surplus gravity, as if the mountain itself were not enough to try her. Arms and legs getting slower, body getting heavier. Her mind lets out a cry. Aren’t we happy to have the power of recall?

After an indiscernable time, the path seems to dissolve ahead of her, and the trees scatter as if startled by her arrival. Through the remaining cover, shafts of sunlight fire aimlessly at the trail. As she emerges into the bright sunlight, she raises her hands as if to stave off the sky. The vastness of the void is above her, and down below are rocks and mud.

Light rain and morning chill have summoned forth the tantalizingly invigorating smell of eucalyptus. The University of California in San Diego, UCSD has a beautiful campus, and the walk up the road from the guesthouse is pleasantly shady and cool, but Den has decided to take a swim in the pool before walking up to his meeting. It is quiet at the motel guesthouse. Most of the guests are busy guzzling their breakfast or watching TV in the lounge, so he has the pool to himself.

The water is still and clear, until he thrusts himself forward and out into it, shattering its glassy surface and replacing it with frothing waves that spill outwards to the edges. The water seems both chilly and warm at the same time. He can feel bubbles of air loosening from his body as he cuts through it.

The trajectory ploughs an expanding dovetail of ripples through the water and once resurfaced he begins to swim slow breast-strokes to work off the feeling of lethargy from his flight.

As he swims, Den runs through the walk up to the campus in his mind, which he dress-rehearsed yesterday, and tests himself on his mental agility. It will be important for them to feel that he is sharp and confident now. Den can be confident on the surface. He makes a good impression. He still has youthful good looks and can be charming, in an English sort of way, when he needs to be. He hasn’t come this far without being in command of his faculties. But that kind of discipline requires constant testing. He likes to use the training time for running through his list.

Remember to take charge of the meeting at once. Make sure that you have all the facts in your head. Marketing is a subtle business and the culture here is quite different from European culture. He should be sure to demonstrate his command of both worlds. Then there is his other agenda, but not something that can come out. He has to be convincing.

Coming to America is always a mixed blessing. The increasing militarization of the borders makes it harder to move around. So far the anti-terrorism laws have not made a significant impact on tourism and business, but soon it will be necessary to wear electronic visa inside the country. It seems absurd to Den. Even prisoners can opt out of wearing their dog tags if they stay in one place. Tourists will be more accountable. The freedom of movement will be at a premium, easy in prearranged tours by bus or by plane, but difficult by car or in solo. He must make the most of the freedoms while they still survive.

He will hire – no rent a car.

Still, the annoyance of a barrage of questions about his intentions and how much money he expects to make on this trip, make the whole effort somewhat tiresome. Soon he hopes that his connections with the top players in the game venture will afford him certain privileges in that regard.

He ducks his head down and swims in long broad breast strokes just under the surface, enjoying the extra thrust and speed it affords him. It charges him with a sense of power. He feels musculous, larger somehow and in command, isolated in the watery cocoon from the reality of the surroundings.

As he surfaces again, the gasp of his own breath is the only human sound he can hear. Far off in the distance he hears music from a television set tormenting the morning peace. Reaching the end of the pool, Den grabs on to the side and puts his feet to rest on the bottom. He takes a moment to enjoy his surroundings, to stress down and then runs quickly through his drill once again. He admires the heated stillness of the air. It teases with a sense of premonition, as though the air itself is waiting for something to emerge from the day.

“Morning, sir. How are you today?”, says a hotel employee who comes around the corner of the building to his right.

“Morning,” his primitive brain responds. He nods back with a smile, enjoying the pleasantly formal courtesy here in the United States.

This is a good way to start the day, he thinks. He should find a place to swim near his home, where he can make it a regular ritual, but he knows that he is unlikely to value the time when he is at home. This is a travel phenomenon.

A couple of young kids is hiding behind some erupting fronds, peering at him and his audacious morning display. They giggle and tease him, fully aware that he can see them. Hide and seek?

He suppresses an instinct to join in. Now is not the time to let down his concentration. Success requires a measure of control, of personal sacrifice. No pain, no gain, darling, nez pah? Whose pain? His or theirs?

Ghosts of supposed obligation. Focus, Den. They are young, middle class, thin, white. Their eyes are probably blue. She likes horses and he likes the tanks. His mind skips through a dozen stereotypes that characterize the moment. Always stay on your toes. Friendship can wait. This moment is about branching out of the box and becoming something.

Den reaches up and lifts himself from the envelope of the pool; he feels the transitory chill of the warming air seep into his limbs. His hand grabs a towel and rubs his body lightly down then throws on a robe. The fabric is deceitfully soft but stimulates him with a slight prickling sensation. The fibres will dry his skin and gently exorcise the dead skin cells of his outer shell, cleansing his skin as well as his mood. He dons his pool slippers and flip-flops back to his room, avoiding a small cleaning device that cringes respectfully into a ball as be approaches it.

Den climbs the short wooden steps, up the outside of the hotel wing to the second floor, where his fingerprints grant him access to the suite. The room seems dark and murky after the brightly lit morning, but the carpet is soft and television lights up as he enters.

There are chairs and tables as well as a bed, even a refrigerator and a kitchen here, with a breakfast bar, but he will probably not use it. He is not really sure why anyone would need such a thing. It makes the room seem cold and inappropriate but he affords it less than a passing thought as he moves directly to the shower. The air is naturally conditioned for temperature, humidity and scent which is unfamiliar and rather than relaxing him seems to trigger a disconcerting sense of suspicion. There must surely be a limit to how invasive environmental controls can be. Certainly the boundaries are far from what he is used to. He wonders why, in such a beautiful area with semi-natural fragrances like eucalyptus, they could not simply open the window and be done with it. Perhaps it would require additional insect control. Whatever.

He slips into the shower and lets the perfect water temperature massage his scalp and shoulders as the shampoo and conditioner revitalize his jet-lagged hair and the soap creams his skin. The hotel bathroom products are pleasant, he has to admit and they perform their duty in removing the effects of the chlorine from the pool. The hotel chain has probably paid handsomely for their own characteristic scent.

Emerging from the steamy cubicle, he catches sight of the television in the bedroom. An ad is chiming away. As always, he is both fascinated and revolted by the advertising culture here. It is his job, but this is so alien to him.

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The ad goes on relentlessly bashing away at the product name, but Den kills the sound as quickly as he can find the remote. Good grief, he thinks. It is a far cry from the ad his company made for the UK market. There they had created a scene in a caravan home with a middle aged man and woman. The man had bad breath and filthy teeth and was reaching for a bag of sweets (candy!). His wife slaps his hand with a fly swatter and gives him a tube of the new toothpaste, sending him off to the bathroom to brush. A week later, he is transformed into a smiling prince with a perfect smile and his wife admires him with ‘that’s better’ kind of look. As she turns around, satisfied with a job well done, he sees the bag of sweets still there and the camera zooms in, in slow motion, as his heart pounds and streaming saliva runs down his teeth like a pastiche of the classic Alien movies. Suddenly a second set of teeth snaps forward and grabs the sweet bag, swallowing it whole, as his wife simply rolls her eyes. A voice over concludes: “Icy Fresh – gives you twice the smile of any other toothpaste.”

He cannot help but smile at the memory. It is a far cry from the bombardment technique used here. But that, after all, is why they need him here. It is his job to understand these cultural chasms. They separate the continents into cells so discontinuous that they might have been forged on the very anvil of the ocean ridges themselves. Without his help their efforts would simply perish in a burial of subduction. He has been given an opportunity here, like everyone else and he has come to use it.

Den dresses quickly and heads down to breakfast, down the stairs, around around the short path to the main entrance; past the check-in desk to a dining room full of what seems to be families and groups of people. He dispatches breakfast quickly as he sizes up the people sitting here, watching the television in the corner of the room intently as they shovel down everything from melon to pancakes.

This is all part of the psych up. He has come here for a purpose. He has come to learn and to impress, to mingle and to climb. The cat is out of the bag for them now.

Someone has tuned the television to CSPAN, a refreshingly naked news discussion, he thinks, but with so many opportunities missed to convey a message. It is not long before the hotel management come and change it back to a different news channel, with its rolling text strip and staged presenters. Well, he has had his moment of peace at the pool, now it is time to rejoin the rat race.

He runs through his list again. He knows it. He can do it. I am here, he thinks. He eats lightly, still feeling a little sick from the long flight, checks the time and leaves the breakfast hall, dropping by his room to collect his stuff. Then, released into the Californian air, he stands at the edge of the flagstone path, looking out to the awakening freeway. A sign is planted at the side of the path. In the UK it would have said: PLEASE DO NOT WALK ON THE GRASS. Here it says. ATTENTION: FLOOR MAY BE SLIPPERY WHEN WET. He stares at it for a few seconds, realizing where he is.

Beating down on the calm forest of palms and bushes, the sun and its cloudless consort of blue, warm him to the bone. No sign of the chilly morning now. It has evaporated, like the mist from the pool, winding up in miniature vortices, fledgling tornadoes. A light breeze is blowing on is legs. Den checks that he has the necessary items in his portfolio and starts up the embankment from the parking lot of the motel towards UCSD.

The sound of distant water. At first, just a dull whisper, like a broken radio, or wind in the leaves. It grows slowly, gaining definition with each step. Then around the corner, the stream is there, erupting on her senses with a clarity, sharp and angular. Splashing water, tumbling over rocks. She fills her flask and drinks.

Sara Vibe Stensrud slips off her backpack for a moment to rest. She is making slower progress than she anticipated. Her goal is to reach the first of the cabins before evening meal, but she has not been to the gym for some time; aeorobic training has festered into anaerobic misery. But she will make it. She always has her way.

The water rushes past in this little valley outcrop. She is not far from a waterfall. She stoops to splash some water onto her face. Her cheeks are rosy now; she can feel the heat in her face. Best not to meet anyone like this. She will coast for a while once she gets close to the cabin, to cool off and recover a more becoming complexion.

Her breath billows in the damp air near the stream. This is a fantastic place, wild and rugged and free from empty restriction. She feels alive here, but it is getting cold. She needs to keep moving.

She checks her distance from the cabin on her wristband, as she loosens the strap. It seemed like a good idea to wear this handy accessory to keep her hands free and warm, but she forgets how the sweat builds up underneath the strap making the whole thing pretty icky. It itches. She takes it off and examines the soft screen, flattening it out to get a better image.

The map seems to be stuck on a position from some time ago. According to it, she is not even on the screen. She zooms out, with cold fingers. to see the stream where she is standing and sees the ‘X’ that marks her current position. She still has satellite contact, but mobile cell connectivity is not so good in the dips and troughs of the landscape. She won’t get more detail until she moves into the open again. So, for now, she will just have to make do with the painted T’s for-tourist, painted on the rocks along the trails. Just like the good old days.

Vibe gets a direction and stuffs the wristband into a pocket, hoisting up her backpack, tightening the belt a little and summoning resolve. Better not rest for too long; if she sits down and relaxes, she might never get moving again. Besides, the sun will be going down in about an hour, so she needs to get to the cabin.

She clambers up the boulder scree, away from the stream and towards the greenish, grassy hills that roll across this plateau top. An edge, an eyeful of the valley off to the right: the sinking sun and the thickening cloud. She stops for a moment, remembering this view from a previous trip. When was it? It seems a long time ago, in a different life. A little splash of nostalgia tears into her present detachment. It is worth remembering things like that, memories of the past, but only when she is alone.

She spent many summers here, in the mountains, with Bea and her family, walking through the mountains, like a troop of Girl Guides. They were the ‘mountain troupe’; not exactly hard core outdoors freaks, but strutting their own stuff, according to their own script. It was only when she turned sixteen that they came here together, by themselves, and experienced the freedom that comes from having one’s parents at bay. That was a summer that changed everything for her.

She borrowed a backpack from Bea’s brother; he, in turn, dutifully refused to join the ranks of their essentially female regiment. The pack made her special. It used to belong to Bea’s father. It was covered in sew-on patches and sported dozens of small tears from its weathered history. She liked the pack. It was solid and real, and had more character (and certainly more credibility) than the pink vanity cases the other girls were towing through nature’s noble corridor. Bea’s younger sister, Nina, looked up at her tall form with awe and admiration, through freckles and eyelashes. Her hair was spiky, mostly on top, like an exploding fountain of red. “You’re so beautiful, Sara,” she said. Somehow, the thought had never occurred to her before. With the lead backpack, she felt a new importance, like a leader of the pack.

Bea was cooler than all the others she knew. Sara always thought so. There was, after all, a reason they became best friends. When other girls were conspicuously going to parties, openly pretending to enjoy alcohol and boys (while hiding their pony magazines under their single beds), Sara and Bea were climbing trees and hanging out with boys because they were cool and because they weren’t so goddamn self-absorbed and bitchy. They both had brace retainers on their teeth back then. They felt like two fanged wolves, scurrying around in the wild. Other than their friendship, they had little in common. Perhaps that was part of it.

Sara was never much impressed by the boys of her age, but she knew she was attractive to them. They would whistle at her with that vulgar barbarism that boys feigned, or perhaps it was even real, but it did nothing for her. She had a mild crush on her math teacher, until he seriously dummed out by telling them that the reason hair waves were called ‘perms’ came from the mathematical term ‘permutation’. Duh, please.

The boys of her own age were mostly clueless and clumsy, but there was one who was quiet and smart and good looking. He was a loner, though: shy and deep looking. She liked that, but he was way too introverted for her then. Not to be.

She went to a special school in those days. A school that was supposed to teach old-fashioned academic values, Dad’s idea. He wanted her to grow up smart, not like the regular idiot savants that schools pump out, he said. Not many boys to choose from.

Sara did not really find her natural connection with boys until that summer. After her trip to the mountains, her father invited some French and American scientists home. Peter Green. The handsome one. He was young and dark. He had an intensity that she found magnetic and when he looked at her, she felt like jelly. She flirted with him openly. She was riding on the crest of a boosted self-image, having been troop queen for the younger sisters and Bea.

There was a party one night, just before they were about to leave, and she made sure that she was close to him. She wore a short white skirt to show off her long legs and a white sleeveless T-shirt that showed her belly button and small breasts. White sports shoes. She was purity. She left her hair long, not tied back, just pushed behind her ears. She practised a smoldering look.

The scientists were seated in a group of chairs and sofas in the crowded living room. There were all kinds of people from the University and people she had never seen before. She made certain that she was next to him, on the arm of the sofa and told him that she wanted to practice her English. When they were finished talking, she stood there, in the tightly packed room, next to him, so that her leg was next to his arm. She listened to him speak. He was calm, a bit forceful. He did not ignore her, even though he was talking to others. She felt important, sexy.

At first he put his hand on the back of her leg playfully, taking it away again, causally, not too forward, as he waved his hands in explanation. But she knew what he was thinking. Then, as she responded by bumping causally towards him and brushing him with her body, she started. His hand touched the inside of her thighs from behind, just gently with fingers brushing her at first. In the cover of the crowd, no one else could see; it gradually crept higher, testing her resolve, until his index finger just touched her panties in the rift between her legs and his thumb stroked the crease of her buttocks. He kept his hand there for several seconds. Her breathing became heavy but she forced herself to maintain her outward appearance as though nothing unusual was afoot. Even years later, the excitement she felt still paralyses her with its intensity. Such audacity, such a thrill of excitement from someone so safe. Finally, he removed his hand and she put her hand on his shoulder to steady herself, and then fled to a place where she could sit alone for a while and touch the spot where his hand had been. The next time she saw him, they both smiled coyly, but nothing more was said of it, and then he was gone. Peter Green.

It has always been hard to describe the sense of freedom she felt after that, to justify it and understand it, yet it altered her somehow. Sara has always been a loose canon, impulsive and unapologetic. That summer, she became freer, she became Vibe.

Both Sara and Vibe always had their way. Her father always gave in to her, in spite of her mother’s protests. Unlike many of her girlfriends, she felt an almost boyish passion for life. He let her be herself. She was never contented to simply coast along in the passenger seat, or wait for fortune to come to her. She always wanted to take the rudder and sail into stormy waters, to find the nexus, the place where something is happening. To hell with passive girl friends, waiting for life to show them what to do.

Something about her encounter that summer fostered the realization that she could be independent and that it was not only her father who would accede to her wishes. But then her father died suddenly of a heart condition, not long after the visit. He was still young, in his fifties, but there was some congenital weakness. She contained her emotions well in public, but she was devastated. She resolved to honour his trust in her by making the most of her life, to be someone – to not just hang out and get laid, like the other girls. Her only regret was that Bea could not join her on her quest. She was not the school kind. But she was still the only one who would keep her company during her struggle.

By the time that summer was over, she knew that there was no turning back. She was committed to a different path. The forces of destiny would steer her away from her remaining family, to a future that no one had considered for her.

Vibe focused on her studies, enjoying boys like a commodity, only when it suited her. She studied for three years at Oslo University College, learning programming and system design. She pursued her own interests, seeking a path of her own rather than following on her father’s footsteps, or her mother’s. Her mother set her straight on that, when she occasionally doubted her own judgement. She enjoyed mathematics and chemistry, but felt she needed to understand the all-pervasive tools of computing and communications. They are all around.

By the end of her degree, she felt as though she had transformed her view of the world, but she was weary of machines and their virtual worlds and felt that there must be more that she could apply her skills to. Computer science seemed like an empty shell: a skill to build things, but without a vision of what to build. She enrolled in courses of linguistics, mathematics and in environmental engineering to bide her time while she considered her options. She joined Bellona and learned how to enjoy the environment in a responsible way. She joined Bea and her family more often after that, walking in the mountains from cabin to cabin. It was a good way to keep in touch with her friend and to get out into the environment. Bea became a hairdresser.

Ultimately, it was a professor at the College working in the management of computer systems who convinced her that she could combine all her talents by applying technology to better the environment. She enrolled in a Ph.D. programme with the project of a lifetime, a project to make everyone envious: the testing and development of commercial applications of planetary robotic technology in mountain tourism and maintenance.

It seemed like an odd thing to do, developing little robots to wander around the Norwegian mountains, but where better to test such technologies than in a place where there is both highly variable terrain and sufficient human infrastructure to keep tabs on them. They could be put to work for the tourist board, maintaining and monitoring, helping mountain rescue.

At first the challenge had seemed almost too enormous to grasp, but she dismissed her fears and overrode them with a leap of faith. I can do it if I want to, she thought. Besides, who else could appreciate this unique mixture of skills as well as I can? It was not a case of talking her into it. It was just perfect.

Her college professor shrugged it off, joking: if you want to reach for the stars, you should build a rocket rather than waiting for the sky to fall on your head. So, standing on this very spot, two years ago, she decided to reach for the stars.

Ad astra, baby.

Streaky white freckles have opened up in the moonlit sky. This new pattern could mean a change of fortune; changing winds often mean precipitation is on the way. It could be snowing within the hour.

Vibe reaches the barely perceptible summit of an asymptotic climb, flouting Zeno and his stupid paradox to reach the top. It seems to have taken her hours to conquer this minor bump, winding upward through mud and stones, but she is careful not to pay attention to time. A watched kettle never makes the top.

Down below, in shadow, she sees a thin strip of a flag flapping in the chilly breeze, and the warm lights of the cabin she has been aiming for, with its grassy roof and dormitories. Her mobile signal has been strong for some time now and she has already checked in. They should be expecting her. She flashes her new ETA to reserve dinner. She should make it to the first sitting, in spite of being late. Oddly, she has not received any reply from the French team. Where are you?

No cinder of daylight remains now. She is following the trail by fortuitous moonlight. She sets off down the hill at a faster pace.

It doesn’t take long. The stone steps leading to the cabin are a little too steep to run up, but Vibe feels an exuberant lightness of step as she reaches her goal. This is it. She’s arrived. Soon it will be down to work, and ... well, one thing at a time.

She approves of the cabin, with the exception of a rank smell of overflowed sewage. The entrance is less kitschy than many of the other cabins she has been to. There are no overbearing wood-carvings or fake runes to greet her, no models of trolls for the tourists, just a simple sign saying “Reception this way”. In the Norwegian way it says “Eksepedisjon” or place of expedition. A fitting double entendre for the traveller.

It is close to dinner time. The benches where people are supposed to take off or put on their boots are empty and there is a buzz of conversation coming from inside. It is a strangely comforting sound after a day of isolation. She arrives at the cabin lodge to meet the team.

“Hello,” she says, with a smile. “I have a room for the night. I booked ahead.”

The man at the reception taps away at a touch screen and scans Vibe’s mobile.

“You know that you shouldn’t be walking around up here alone now? We are on alert up here.”

She nods. “I know. They told me down below. I have business up here.”

“Well, you’re here now.”

“Yeah.”

“You should check in your position so they don’t have kittens. Here’s your towel. Single room or dorm?”

“Better make it a single tonight,” she says. It occurs to her that her mobile has already reported her position to the police and rescue service.

He uploads a key into her mobile and she stores it.

“I am supposed to be meeting a group of French scientists here tonight. Do you know where they are? At dinner, perhaps?”

He looks back at her with wide eyes that she is unable to fathom. There is no show of emotion in them, nor is there any sign that he has comprehended her question. He seems to have expedited her and there is nothing more to say.

“French? A group of them? I guess I’ll find them here somewhere.”

She searches his face for some sign–some trace of understanding, or, indeed, of anything. She finds it dead, devoid of content, as if all of his facial muscles have died in some fatal brain crash. He is disinterested; he is merely dis.

She goes out into the darkening evening and looks around at the shadowy mountain scenery. Her room is across in the next cabin outhouse. In the dark, the ground between the cabin and the VeiVek at the base of the valley seems like an explosion of rubble, as though the aftermath of some great catastrophe. Defiant tree-sentinels line the forest edge, as if forming a quasi-human shield against the explosion. The boulders bear their granite teeth, smashed by some gigantic blow to the mouth of the rock.

This is the night from which she emerged only moments ago, yet already it seems hostile and alien. She is glad to finally be here in the shelter of the cabin.

An old fashioned key turns a lock. A door creaks open. A wooden bed with a simple douvé and pillow and a sink. Vibe sets down her backpack and sits down to take off her walking boots to swap for something more suitable for indoor use.

I can’t stay here in a single room for long, she thinks. Not unless I can get some funding for this trip.

She checks for voice messages on her mobile. Nothing, Jonas Lindgren, her secondary advisor, now at the Research Council. Where are you Jonas? Where is my money? She tried contacting him before leaving and again on the train, but he is not answering.

She opens her pack, pulls out shoes and fresh clothes and washes up for dinner. She texts a quick message to the leader of the French group, Mrs. Laurent, but receives no reply. The French team has been out here testing the research and environmental monitoring capabilities of the VeiVeks. They promised to meet her to show her the ropes and go through some of the procedures in the field. So why no answer?

They are not even here.

Vibe feels like an idiot and reels off a string of cuss words to pollute the environment a little more. Sorry, plants. Does anyone give a crap how much effort to took her to get here?

No answer. But she’d better go and check.

Vibe feels as if she has somehow been catapulted light years from home. What is the point of a mobile if you can’t get what you want when you want it? The rugged wilderness has seldom seemed so inhospitable as now. She resolves to lift her spirits with a little company.

STOP PRESS! The cat is out of the bag.

So the international newspapers say. The story has been leaked. The penny has dropped, the cat has scatted. Talk show hosts are mentioning it, conspiracy theorists are discussing it in private channels and even within the game itself. But here, in the US, no one is even wrinkling their whiskers. Virtual Reality – VR.

Virreality, Virreality, there is nothing like Virreality, in all the world, that vain and temperamental cat!

The game. Is it a fad? Is it good or bad? It is the VR scenic programmable chat-room, cat-room. And none should be the wiser about what has transpired beneath the surface. Users can meet, interact and play games with each other. They can win points by being good to each, or by killing the enemies of society. But what is it in reality?

Virreality, Virreality, a fiend of illusion and a master of depravity!

They go there to meet, to talk, to fight, to race, to dance, to love and to make art. They go there to be different or to be the same; they face their fears or they hide their shame.

But not every game is a game. Words and phrases are not always chosen to describe the truth of the matter. A veil of imagery can be designed to camouflage rather than to reveal; intention clouded in diversion; plain surfaces adorned with graffiti and slogans that delude the onlooker. Some see what they want to see. If playfulness is the art of mischief, then mischief is a game of deception.

Virreality, a master of disguise who invents the law. You seek her here or seek her there, but Virreality is not really there!

Delegates and conference attendees have gathered in the air conditioned melting pot of the public conference centre, centred on the larger auditoria in the UCSD campus. They are queueing up to register for this public event, the unveiling of the mystery cat. Carefully cooled, scrubbed and ionized air is tense with expectation following the alleged revelations about the unscrupulous intentions of the game. Almost everyone here has been involved in making it, but still there fosters a doubt in the backs of their minds. No one is stupid, but how far might they have been duped? Consider the embarrassment, the breach of trust.

Decades have been invested in the technology of computer games, to reach the sophistication that can be called a virtual reality. Distributed code and processing, on a public Internet, has made a new generation of interactive meeting places possible. Now they are here. Rejoice the advertisers, rejoice the governments.

At first, they imagined a complex web of scenarios, built into ever more programmed entertainments, but as always, it is the simplest ideas that are the best. From instant messaging to chat rooms and virtual realms to immersive games, the progression has captured the widest possible audience, using any and every language, interfaced by a nexus of universal communication and trust. The technology to reach into minds, young and old, wanting or lonely; it is embraced by anyone and everyone needing a lifeline to a wider community, or seeking a release from the stress of proximity...

Not only do personal mobiles allow players to enter the game from wherever they might be, they equip every person with their own social body armour. No one needs to meet anyone, no one needs to risk anything in an encounter. They are safe and deluded. They filter out anything they do not want to see. The quiet, the reserved and the shy are the winners and the losers in this game. The game allows them to be whomever they want to be. But in the end, the illusion of contact is the only contact they have with others. No more having to confront their fears.

And when the world thinks she is asleep, she’s always wide awake!

Games are Big Business. E3 LA OK. Action games, muddied together with the popular chat rooms: interactive environments mixing traditional problem solving with action and interaction in every imaginable fantasy: Hollywood companies and traditional action gaming companies funding the creation of a fully blown experiment to link home computers into a common generated environment. Open, free software. Al the world can join in. An amalgamation of popular and enticing meeting places. Virtual environments and businesses reaching out to the wider world of possibility.

There is a new economy to be won from trivial pursuits. Sponsorship alone for advertising, in this new space, is generating new markets and new opportunities. Given such as soap box, there are few voices who would not like to be heard.

From a gentle miaowing to a the lion’s roar, this cat creeps in and out of everybody’s door. Oil and gas tycoons with power galore.

Few have not been seduced by the idea of a controlling share in this adventure. Den and his company have been given the rights to develop message broadcasting technologies. It is a huge privilege, a considerable status, but there will be no resting on laurels here. The world of advertising and marketing is cut-throat and humans do not have nine lives.

Even from the start, Den realized that the possibilities were breathtaking and his head-start has been a fortuitous advantage in the arena. They have known for years that games would be a new dimension for marketing: every object, every movement, every colour or attribute of a virtual world is a potential icon for something. The skillful orchestrator of those attributes can make subliminal connections that will plant names, products, perhaps even attitudes in receptive minds.

Of course it is a tricky business. Too much, and they will simply shut down. Sometimes even Den feels the need to close his mind even to the simplest, most primitive advertising imagery, posted on the trains and tunnels of the London Underground. The barrage of messages and imagery can be overwhelming. Little catch phrases from posters go around and around in his head, driving him crazy. Now imagine the possibilities in a virtual worl. Total immersion and total control over the environment. Imagine how total immersion could be used to direct thought.

China has complained to the U.S: government about the excessive freedom of access to the game. They have imposed strict filtering policies on the content, but not even they can be sure that they have filtered every subtle message.

Norway, a gaming nation proud of its cultural heritage, was early in wanting to inject national cultural values into the scenery, so that generations of Norwegians would not grow up learning only Hollywood fabricated culture.

Other nations have followed suit. So far, activist lobbies have not argued seriously for regulation of access to virtual realms. The game, after all, is very carefully designed to allow people to see almost exactly what they want to see. How could it possibly offend? But it has set everyone thinking.

When all this came together and exploded into the world in a cosmogony of network reinvention, it was a force that could not be stopped. Corporate wishes and multimedia fantasies attracted each other like the explosive matter of a stellar nursery, falling gradually in on itself and igniting with the mesmerizing blaze of future profits.

Virreality, the unstoppable cat.

To the attendees of this meeting, the undertaking seems truly massive, and representatives from all parts of the world have flocked here for the public meeting. Some of the participants are saying: this is a drop in the ocean compared to SIGGRAPH, but one must remember that here is only the chosen elite, the controlling interest. The true numbers are more far staggering.

As Den arrives, he collects his registration package, his badge and begins to mingle. He knows a few faces from his personal involvement over the last few years, but there are many newcomers. It will not be easy to find anyone here during this public event. It will be the private meetings that count the most.

After he has given a speech on the benign involvement of the international marketing companies in designing game scenarios, he will probably be inundated with people wanting to ask him questions. He still needs to focus.

Never mind causal interest and pats on the back.

Friendship can wait. This is about achieving success.

Looking at the faces here, it is hard to know what to think. Will they buy it? Does he really buy it himself? Who is he kidding?

Listening to the eager effervescence of American accents around him, he feels like an outsider. The involvement of foreign contractors was always controversial to the game executive, but advisors and sub-contractors have been engaged to work on it from the start. Naturally, each company or individual was made to sign a contract of absolute secrecy. Some kind of deal was done with patents that Den could not understand, To him it barely seemed legal, but he is no expert.

They needed help. Even a U.S. led collaboration could not solve all of the problems internally. Cheap labour from the Far East, to create the code base quickly; advisors from Europe, the Middle East, Africa and Asia were engaged to design scenery and advertising styles, as well as to decide on the boundaries for allowed behaviour–what users logged on from different regions would be allowed to see and do.

There is no cat in the metropolis that holds so many patent monopolies, for performing surprising illusions and eccentric confusions...

One government senator is reputed to have complained: “Can we allow these outsiders into the project?”

“Senator,” his counterpart rebuked, “without these outsiders we would not have the technology at all. We need to speak their language at the very least.”

Later he was to be shrouded in scandal for the allegation that the next major threat against America was to come from the European Community rather than Russia or China. We have given too much away! Time to take it back. Forget about Mao’s little red book, focus on the NSA’s Red Book. Unfortunately that would be a significant loss of revenue for the U.S, and money talks in Washington. The senator was eventually silenced but not before it had been reported in the Herald Tribune and the story broadcast.

Then the dam broke. A month ago, a story was leaked to the press from an unknown source, claiming that the game was really a ploy by the U.S. government to extend its public diplomacy engine, so as to reach out to children all over the world and show falsely romantic ideals of the American Dream with the help of the game.

From good press to bad press, a panacea suddenly turned into a pathogen. A web of communication, enabling the world to talk a common language, or advanced spy-ware, for eavesdroping on the activities of the entire world of users. Voices have claimed that it is to be used as a form of espionage, for information collection, but the proof? So far no one has managed to prove it. Surely, with so many experts watching, it would not be possible to pull such a fast one.

Peace activists argue that, by providing agency-sponsored war games for kids at home, the game designers could keep Americans and their allies attuned to the idea of violent intervention, paving the acceptance for future military interventions when necessary. By making the use of weapons a natural part of everyday life, the game designers could render the anti-gun lobby irrelevant and fanatical in the eyes of common people.

Well, I never; was there ever a cat so clever?

And so, the conference convenes and it is Den’s turn to speak.

Focus. Success. Impress.

Trickling words, captured and assimilated. From aimless wandering through the avenues of possibility, hoisted onto a stage to act out his part. He has come to explain how marketing opportunities will be managed within the game. Is he doing their bidding, or serving his own agenda?

After all, the game is the very paw print of Western capitalism. His company alone won the right to develop the technologies for advertising in VR. The challenge is to avoid the mistakes of the past: information overload. In VR there are more opportunities to tie directed appeals into individuals’ preferences, in an intelligent and context sensitive way.

“But aren’t you really saying that you now have the ability to control people’s emotions, tap into their real desires and fantasies and impress them with a specific tailored temptation?”

“Some have called it the nano-technology of information. Micro-managing the very bits of a person’s profile.”

“It is all about information.”

“Well,” Den replies coolly, “the game allows users to filter out things they don’t want to see, so in that sense this is a space in which their interests are better protected than ever before.”

“Doesn’t that assume that they know how to do it?”

“Well, we can’t mollycoddle them all the time. Everyone has a basic responsibility to look after themselves.”

“In other words, you’re betting on the fact that they won’t!”

No answer is forthcoming.

“Also, we have extensive user testing. We listen to the responses of users, their desires and needs in groups of subjects from every part of the world.”

Someone breaks in. “I think it is important to remember that this is a commercial venture, not a charity program. Someone has to pay for this, and we want the technology to pay for itself.”

“Yes, yes, but in the process we are giving the world a whole new technology to communicate with – with built-in universal translation! Never before has an African tribesman been able to communicate with a broker on the Hong Kong stock exchange, without an interloper, and in an environment of their mutual choosing. The possibilities for diplomacy alone are enormous.”

“But aren’t we also giving a new opportunity for organized crime and terrorism to flourish?”

A fiend of illusion, a master of depravity.

“Why would there be warfare or terrorism when ordinary people of the world can talk to one another without the intervention of their political leaders.”

“I think that view is somewhat naive.”

“Yes, Mr. Morris, you make it sound like a panacea, but this game has already been reviled as a political conspiracy–a private channel for western corporate and U.S. government propaganda.”

“What do you say to claims that it is fly-paper for organized crime?”

“Positive arguments for the game include the ability to covertly monitor illegal transactions by simply using anonymous software to signal anomalous transactions. Working with the FBI, Europol investigators have foreseen both the dangers of a virtual environment for organized crime and also the potential for setting traps for mafia organizations and child pornography rings from around the world. We are well aware of the possibilities.”

“Mr. Morris, research into virtual realities and business spaces has been the official line on the game, and users have been quick to play the demonstration scenarios, like fighting in the U.S. Marines in Afghanistan and Iraq, joining the International Space Station and a range of favourite movie scenarios. It is not natural that America should be a scapegoat for every paranoid conspiracy now? After all, only the Americans have had the industrial might to initiate the game, and the environment of freedom to develop it. We are the maker of dreams.“

“If there is a conspiracy, it is that now everyone would like to hijack this great invention for their own purpose. The game executive issued a press release saying that, if there is any control or influence over behaviour in the game, it was made to instill moral values into a potentially unethical technology. These values should be sound American values of freedom, opportunity and morality. By offering a voice of hope and freedom the world over there must be positive repercussions. Fewer kids will turn to terrorism against the Western allies if they can see another way.”

“Of course, they fail to mention that multinational corporations have no ethics. They will deal with the devil himself if they can make a profit.”

“Well, we don’t call it corruption when it’s business.”

“Powerful evangelists from the Bible belt made their bid but the matter was never spoken about again.”

“In America, we have a constitutional separation of church and state, but we cannot keep religion out of peoples’ lives!”

“Halley, an opposition member in the house, had promised a public debate on the ethics of the game. He was due to give his speech last year, but was shot and killed in his car by a gang in Washington D.C. - murder capital of the U.S. Do you have any comment on that?”

The cat seems to have escaped its bag.

But who did it? Who is responsible?

As the meeting scatters into fragments of puzzlement and only partially abated concern, he feels calmly confident that he played his part well. His position in this assembly is now reinforced and cleansed of its tainting graffiti, as if he has been purged of witchery, or an unsightly stain on his suit has been skillfully erased by his silver tongue. One down and one to go. Den has arranged to talk to one of the researchers from the Supercomputing Center’s Crime Analysis Team. She has asked to see him, specially.

The walk through the UCSD campus is like visiting a tropical garden or zoo. It’s a far cry from the drizzle of London. The thought of focusing on his job does not hold much appeal here.

We should have held this meeting in London, he thinks. How do people work here anyway?

He reaches the sculpted oasis of shops and cafes. Lunch tables are lined up outdoors. Reddish green leaves hang from the spindly trees. He does not know what kind they are. The bustling of students and students hunched over fast food in this little crafted amphitheatre They call to each other, chasing and flirting. He glances over at the UCSD book-shop. There is someone coming out. College kids, tossing around like imbeciles.

“Lord Jesus Christ fill your heart,” someone says, distracting him.

Right.

His mobile beeps. There is a message waiting for him from his virtual sister. She is his eyes and ears in the VR, but there’s no time for that now. He defers the message until later. Need to concentrate now. A meeting has been arranged. He is intrigued.

A slim Asian-looking woman steps out of the bookstore. There is something about her that attracts his attention. His trained eye can see something undefinable about her that is not attuned to the surroundings. She is as foreign to this place as he is. She returns his glance, raising an eyebrow. As she approaches, he sees that her face is youthful but has a distinctive gravitas. It gives her an oddly attractive quality that is both old and young at the same time, concealing perhaps some deep secret behind a veneer of youthful charm. He has no idea how old she might be.

He finds himself intrigued and immediately speculates about her. Rise as she approaches, to take a better look. They shake hands, a little too warmly for a first meeting. Her blouse is open slightly, revealing the beginning of the curve of her skin. Her smart, tightly fitting skirt makes light work for the rest of his imagination.

Her eyes are friends: they exude a feeling of recognition, as though he has just taken a look into her soul and emerged unscathed. She is a friend, but he is not sure how or why he knows. He is dazed slightly at this momentary immersion and has to pull himself back to the present. This is his weakness. He has always been a bit of a player, but never really in command.

“I am Den Morris,” he says.

“Cathy Kim,” she replies. She flashes him a flirtatious smile.

He looks around, expecting a larger group. “Is it just you?”

She nods. “You want a sub?” She fumbles in a shoulder bag for something paper-wrapped.

“A sub?”

“A submarine?”

She takes out a baguette wrapped in paper and he recalls that sub is a nickname for these long sandwiches. He laughs at the thought of someone carrying a submarine in their shoulder bag. Is it nuclear? “Well a whole sub is probably too much. Maybe just a small bathysphere... ”

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind.”

“You’re good?”

“No. I’ll take one.”

She looks confused but smiles and hands him one of the oversized packages anyway. “Why don’t we walk and talk, it’s going to get pretty crowded here any minute.”

He nods. “Lunch break for the students?”

“Exactly. Follow me.”

She walks up the steps of the amphitheatre in front of him, giving him a prime view of her tight rear end as she shuffles up the steps. She is pretty hot, Den thinks. And she knows it.

Cathy Kim is not what he expected a computer researcher to look like. Somehow he expected to see black jeans and a tent of a T-shirt, sneakers and greasy hair. Either she is not really a researcher, she is administration or she is married. All of these things might be true, but the thing that keeps his attention, apart from her ‘butt’ is that she has an air of successful wealth about her. That means that this is a serious enquiry and there might be something in it for him.

They emerge from the amphitheatre onto a garden path that seems to run through the campus. “Let’s go right”, she says.

Den nods. “Ok. So you know, I’m intrigued.”

She looks at him as they stroll. “Why I asked you to meet me?”

“Yes.”

“I heard your talk today. It was good. You gave a good presentation.”

“Thanks.”

“You’d think that a marketing viewpoint would not be all that interesting to the research division of the game, wouldn’t you? But actually, what you said was very interesting to me.”

“What do you do?” he fishes, looking down on her. She is petite. Under her blouse he imagines a soft but ribby torso with tiny breasts. She is attractive.

“Well,” she says. “Good question. I work on the flow security, of the social networks.”

Den looks at her gormlessly. “Flow security of social networks. Social flow. What is that?”

For a moment she looks back calmly. “Well it’s about channels of influence really. The game is this huge social network. In any network there are hundreds of channels of communication. All of the players can – at least in principle – send messages to anyone else. That allows them to generate implicit content that could be used to spread hidden messages, or simply to alter behaviour. To herd to people about... you know.”

“What kinds of messages?”

“Well–your kind.”

“My kind?”

“Like marketing. You deal in directed messaging.”

“Right,” he trails. “I must be tired. Jet lag.”

“Would you rather put this off?”

“No, no. Go ahead. Sorry.”

She smiles. “Well anyone could start their own advertising, mass messaging or soap box preaching, so there has to be some kind of security system that is looking for these intrusions. We call it intrusion detection.”

“Intrusion detection?”

She cocks her head. “Yeah–it’s a long story. Historical reasons.”

“And you work on this detection?”

“Sort of. It’s a fully automatic system that is supposed to detect and stop obvious attempts at illegal message transmission. I just do research on the mechanisms. There are access lists, permission and all the usual kinds of security authorizations that decide who is allowed to do what. My interest is in the actual pattern identification.”

“So, now that the press has caught wind of this conspiracy story, some would say that your system is more important than ever.”

“Exactly. There is certainly a lot of interest in it from high up. At the same time, there is pressure from our sponsors to not completely eliminate the possibility for mass suggestion!” She sends a knowing look.

He nods, interested, but not sure where this is going. “Who are we talking about?”

“Where do we begin? All of the usual peddlers of filth: companies, governments... you know” She laughs. “The Christian and Jewish lobbies are never far away, and the soft drink companies have been looking at it. And, of course, the largest marketing companies for major corporations. Then there are government bodies... should I go on?”

“So the stories of government involvement are not so far from the truth.”

“Certainly, the U.S. government is involved. They have subsidised the American interest in this game to ensure our lead. That is just par for the course. He who controls the flow of messages in the game is powerful indeed. You can only imagine how many people want in.”

“I can certainly imagine, but ... ”

“But why am I bothering you with all this?”

He chuckles. “I was going to put it more subtly, but that’s about it, yes.”

She examines him through the corner of her eye with a serious intensity, but smiles as if the transmit a dampening signal to disarm him.

“I am interested in your methods.”

“How we identify interest groups for marketing?”

She grins. “Exactly. I am guessing that our jobs are not all that different. I was hoping we could discuss methods and perhaps come up with some kind of collaboration.”

“Heheh–I would love to just say yes, but I know we have some technologies based on search engine methodology that is proprietary. I can’t just say yes, not without running it past our board.”

“I understand that. But we could talk informally, and perhaps talk about what we could do with such a collaboration. My work is sponsored by several groups, but that doesn’t grant me any particular access to the actual data of the game.”

“All right.”

“Some of our research is for the F.B.I. and Interpol. They have an interest in the game from several perspectives. The point is that we need access to information about what is going on in the game from other parts of the world too, from several different angles. Here in the U.S. law enforcement has access to anything it wants, but abroad there is only limited data to go on. ”

“You’re after intelligence? I don’t think our data would be useful for that.”

“Well, we’re after data. We are trying, amongst other things, to verify some claims that a group in Spain has put forward. It could be an important discovery that has security implications. I don’t know, of course, but I am guessing that your company’s unique mixture of marketing and analysis will allow me to see movements in the game by special interest groups.

“We need to be able to compare the patterns of usage in the game in other parts of the world with what is going on here, to see how it correlates with the information feeds. The more different data feeds we have access to, the easier it is to verify.”

“You’re hunting for terrorists,” Den translates.

She smiles. “Aren’t you the suspicious one?”

He shrugs and she laughs.

“That’s part of it. There are plenty of reasons for wanting to understand all these various channels of cause and effect. People are paying us to look into this, and law enforcement wants it to be able to follow behaviour in the game, because of all the private channels for communication. Possibilities for evasion.”

Den pauses on the path to think. The conversation is interesting enough, but, “Why me? I am not really one of the technical experts in the company.”

Kim turns to him. “I’m afraid that was my idea. I thought of you because I know that you have access to the roaming agents that your company has developed to pick up on trends in the game, and that you have the right kind of overview. Also, having listened to your talk - and having seen you in the flesh, so to speak... ” She winks at him, sending a shot of adrenalin through his torso. “... you struck me as someone I could work with. An ally. We might even be able to help each other.”

Den nods at her, evenly. “Thank you. I’m flattered.”

“And there is something else I thought you could maybe help me with too.”

His sideways glance is a question mark.

“Apart from the fact that this story leaked out, there has been other stuff going on.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have been getting strange data,” she tells him. “I was wondering if you have heard of anything similar from the others involved.”

“What kind of data?”

“Glitches in the billboards. Sudden movements of players from centres of attraction.”

“What kind of glitches?”

She nods, chewing a bite of her sub. Swallowing, “Some of the directed imaging has not been working. Some of the content has been suppressed so we have had to work around it. The high profile regions that game sponsors want players to visit have been less visited lately. I thought that, since you are in the business of attracting people to those locations, you would have seen the trends. I mean, it seems as though there is actually a trend to it, a pattern. But I do not have all the tools to find out what it is.”

“I haven’t heard anything, but I can check it out. Maybe an error in the specification?”

She shakes her head. “The spec has been automatically verified. We have verified the rule set using the best methods. There is money for that kind of thing from the military. Always useful for something.”

“Well... ” Den’s training has taught him that what technical people claim is definite and provable is often naive and only half the story. But he does not want to insult this fascinating woman. If he plays his cards right, he could be spending the rest of his visit in her company.

“At first we thought it might be a hacker. There are definitely hackers in there messing with stuff. But that cannot really explain it.”

“So what can I do? I am just a package designer.”

“The packages are the key modules. If they are not doing their jobs then our game is not paying for itself. These disruptions are a threat to your interest in the game too. We want you to be aware of this problem and find a safety net so that we can work around the disruptions.”

“Isn’t that a technological problem?”

”Well, that would be a partial solution. But security is mainly a human matter. You know, our sponsors are worried about this. There was a meeting last week at which one of our group made a big song and dance about how important this was. if we could solve this problem, they would like us a lot!”

“Enough to increase our fees?”

“Enough to make us the bee’s knees, if you please!”

“I think I can do that,” he nods, seeing possibilities.

“Good,” she says, examining him more closely now. She pauses, as if considering whether or not to proceed. “Can I ask you a question?”

He nods. “Go ahead.”

“I have a proposition for you.”

He waits.

“Would you like to do me a personal favour?” She turns towards him, channelling her charm. If Den didn’t know better, he would think she was trying to direct him. What the hell. “I might like that very much.”.

“You could be rewarded handsomely for your services.” Her flirtation is scarcely concealed now.

“Well,” he says, turning to walk once again, putting his hand on her shoulder blade and letting it slide down to the small of her back. “What do you have in mind exactly?”

Poverty, suspicion and then violence.

These wretched bed-fellows stalk us, at each fragile moment, waiting to split open society like an axe to the skull. Insolence? It violates reason. It is a direct affront to civilization.

Damn the police! And damn the politicians for their incompetence!

Looking out across the darkness of Oslo’s Birkelunden Park, old Arne’s shadow trembles in the doorway like an earthquake with the palsy. The evening is not cold, not even here at the breezy entrance to the vestibule; it’s mostly his nerves that fail him–that and the spectre of a pestilence, invading his neighbourhood.

Behind him, the church steeple thrusts up into a darkened sky, groping for a realm of higher grace, one that is immune to such stains on civic decency. It makes for a chilling contrast to see this freak of nature so close to hallowed ground, so close to the safety of home.

Shouldn’t someone take responsibility for them–get them away from here?

He follows the two down-and-outs, pushing their plastic newspaper cart, leaden with shopping bags. Where did they steal that? And what’s in those bags? Probably shouldn’t ask.

Look at them! They disgust him. Bickering like ten year olds, probably over whatever money they have managed to extort from decent folk, they mumble with that distant and petulant slur of persistent substance abuse.

The contrast disturbs all possible sensibility. The quiet beauty of the park with its empty bandstand and simple drinking fountain, the austerity of the old trees, the tidiness of the bushes and grass: they are all symbols of Man’s great achievement: the refrain from opportunistic violence, participation in the order of self-discipline towards the common good: Civil Society. It is demeaned by this vulgar show of abstention. These people are drop-outs by choice. In Norway, anyone can have a job, if they want one.

Arne views all this from across the tram lines, sensing that something is about to happen here. It feels to him as though the world is falling apart on these nights, but they tell him he is just a foolish old man, fearful of shadows and of change. The sceptics should be here now to see this. Tonight, for once, his fears are confirmed.

An immigrant refugee with greying hair, probably of Pakistani origin, approaches the couple, from the nearby tram station. He’s quite well dressed. At least one can say that about these immigrants.

“Hey there, chief,” says the dark-skinned man to the couple.

At first they ignore him, but the man persists in his salutation. They look at him sullenly, more concerned with whining to each other than bothering with him. The woman is trying to get the man to give her something–looks like a key from a big key ring, but he is like a sulky child. They are his keys. They are important to him. He is not going to give them up easily. He must be thirty but he looks forty-five. They are down-and-out. They are like children.

“So, chief. Are you some sort of a security chief? What you got all those keys for?”

The man’s scruffy belt bulges under his fleece with a huge key ring; it has dozens of keys on it. It shines in comparison to his filthy, old clothes, and pasty-grey, unshaven face, or what little of it shows from behind his shoulder-length shaggy hair. At the mention of the keys, he looks up.

“What’s it to you?”

The keys are probably just flea-market memorabilia; collecting them is likely what passes for a hobby for the hobo, but that possibility seems to escape their provocateur. He is haunted by the daemons of an experience that is not available to the onlookers. The Paki comes closer. He is smartly dressed in suit trousers with a white shirt. He looks nervous or agitated, although it is difficult to tell from this distance–and you can never tell what the hell these foreigners are thinking

“What do you need all those keys for?” he asks.

The man shrugs. If his face were not so deadened with years of abuse, one might have seen a quizzical expression on it. “They’re just keys.”

“Keys, eh? What does someone like you need so many keys for?”

The down-and-out glares at him and pushes the woman aside, as if to leave. He does not care to reply to the man. His consciousness of the situation has already dissolved into the numbness of his intoxication. There is neither understanding of the question nor emotional engagement in the encounter.

The dark man’s querying expression changes abruptly to one of accusation. “If you come anywhere near my home, I’ll fucking kill you!”

The threat of this outburst merits a glance, at least. “What???” Down-and-out steps back a step in surprise.

The well-dressed refugee comes closer, posed more threateningly. “I’m not afraid of you!” he shouts, suddenly angry for no reason and clearly lying. He pulls his shirt up, revealing a hammer stuffed into his trousers. “See this? You’re a fucking drug addict! My apartment has been broken into four times! If you come back again, I’ll get you! I’m not afraid.”

“Fuck off! Just ignore him,” says the woman, repacking her plastic bags for no apparent reason.

He takes the hammer out of his trousers. “You’re simple! You’re fucking simple!” the man shouts. “I’ll get you if you come near my family!”

“They’re keys,” the man replies. “I’ll kill you with ... a single... punch.”

He is a ghostly pale man in filthy clothes, probably he is a drug addict. He can hardly stand up, let alone muster a punch.

“Can’t you just leave us alone?” the woman sneers.

“He’s a fucking drug addict!” cries the dark-skinned man, as if in confirmation. He looks around him as if to involve onlookers and seek their confirmation. He has pulled out the hammer now and is gesticulating with it dangerously.

“What’s it to you?”

Arne’s heart is beating quickly now. He has not seen a violent incident in this city – not even in his home country – since his days doing his national service. He has never seen anyone brandish a weapon.

The two down-and-outs shuffle slightly backwards into the darkness of the park, trying not to cause a scene, but the man has already attracted the attention of the people on the street. This is a busy residential area where people go to bars and cafes. Even in this laissez-faire country people would notice something like this.

A figure in his field of vision is talking into his mobile.

So lashes the tail of diabolical intervention. Two figures emerge from the cover of night; they are large and their heads are shaven. Their clothing is disrespectfully contrary to fashion or style, jackets tied around their waists and nothing but T-shirts and faded jeans to cover them. One of them has a beer towel sewn on to his jeans as if for corporate sponsership. They wear the German swastika tattooed onto their bare arms. They are moving rapidly, purposefully, almost running, as though responding to a fire. They are carrying bottles of beer on the streets. That is illegal at best, Arne thinks.

Without introduction, challenge or warning, the leader shouts: “You fucking wop!”, and strikes the Pakistani over the head with his bottle. The man has not seen them coming. He falls to the ground bleeding and the skinhead kicks him for good measure, though it hardly seems relevant. He is barely moving. “Fuck off home!” the leader shouts, bending over him, as if the man is in a fit state to understand his words. “Fucking wop!” His sidekick imitates his brutish pose, both of the standing over what increasingly resembles a corpse.

People waiting for the tram are beginning to look nervous, woken by the act. They are wondering whether they should intervene or call the police or just get out of there. This lightning bolt of obscenity has paralyzed them. They cannot quite believe this is here in their world. Where did these figures come from? How did this situation escalate so quickly from ignorable poverty to threatening violence?

Arne reels. My god, he thinks, all that he holds dear! Everything he has, everything that matters–it could all be broken, twisted and smashed in a single instant of primitive reflex. This is terror of the worst kind! Against ourselves!

He falls back into the entrance of the church, wondering whether the youngsters talking into the mobiles called the police or whether they called the attackers. Tremors dominate his thoughts, as his own fragility is so brutally and graphically explained to him.

They are out there: the homeless, the drug addicts, the simple, the fearful, the ones who do know how to fit in, the ones who are expelled without tolerance. They are lurking in the sidelines, waiting to explode; a ticking time bomb, threatening the very fabric of society. An enemy within.

Arne is white and breathless now. They infiltrate our hallowed places, the very symbols of our civilization! They are where we least expect them to be, he gibbers in his mind. They brew the fear that makes us hate, the fear that leads to addiction, to that same poverty of thought, and to violence itself. How far has Man come in our world, only to be stopped by this?

What is the point of it all, if such a wound can bleed our very security?

Crystallizing in his panic, he watches the scene coldly, with a bitter fear, without interfering, without helping, without speaking up, without acting on his distress, without breathing or caring enough to act, without changing society or resolving to make it a better place. Instead, his emotion turns to hate and he turns inward. The righteous will prevail without his intervention.

Marketing for the post 2000 information age is a complex business, Den thinks. Barraged with the incessant and the unprovoked, information becomes noise. Communicating a message is no longer a simple problem. It becomes a battle of wits, a matter of hacking the consumer. But consumers are receptive to the right things. If you package things correctly, they will not merely read messages, they will go out and buy the produce.

And it is all in the packaging. Lacking the time or inclination to contemplate, modern Man and Woman allows the media to serve its ready-digested morsels, regurgitated chunks of what passes for society’s official collective thinking. Why think for yourself, if someone else is paid to do it for you?

Media. Where any idiot can write a book on the correct way to go to the bathroom... Interactive television, or web. Even books. And mixed up in there, is the power to manipulate the passive mind: you are a monkey, I am the scientist, you choose what we decide. Just push the buttons in the right order and we’ll give you some sugar and tap your bank account. No, don’t speak, I am afraid that we do not permit language. Stick to the pre-programmed menus, you’ll be safer.

Den never questions the correctness of all of this. After all, he has been fed the same opinion menu as everyone else from birth. Besides, the challenge of manipulating people’s thoughts is almost irresistible. The sheer audacity of it: the sheer power which an awareness of the strategy entailed. Thinking is now only a commodity for the masses, and creativity only for the elite.

He specializes in marketing the virtual reality. Not the electronic vision of imagined worlds, but the common variety which has arisen in the post war United States: the Disney land, car driving, hamburger eating buffer to Reality. The developed world hasn’t experienced Reality for years: a Chinese meal is not a real Chinese meal, but a Safe Hong Kong Happy Meal which would not be too different from the Allowed Menu. Outdoors isn’t safe. People drive everywhere, never experiencing real air on their faces, instead charging around the streets in a glorified video game, moving from air conditioned hallway to air conditioned hallway. And in the midst of this virtual reality is the need for New Things to satisfy a thirst for adventure. Of course it is precisely this marketing, choice-control strategy which has eliminated the possibility of adventure in the first place for most of the Flock, but Den is not worried by this. After all, it is the unattainable which we burn for: and that means that people will pay to achieve it.

“You’ll burn in Hell for your job description,” his virtual Chinese sister has told him with a wink. Mary Cheung is an artificial self-styled girl of the new millennium, with few hang ups. She occupies a different world to Den, an underground world of club reality which hardly does TV or Web. Den doesn’t disapprove of his sister. In spite of her lack of conformity to conservative ideals, he finds her straightforward manner refreshing, after all of the trickery and subterfuge of the real office. That is why he made her.

She has left a message for him and has agreed to meet him, on a park bench in VLondon, where they can talk privately. Most of her reports are routine stuff, but every now and then there is a specific alert. In the privacy of his hotel room, he dons his glasses and hooks into the system with his mobile. After selecting his destination, his doorway opens into a side-street in downtown VLondon.

The side-street breathes with living surfaces, dominated by nano-slogans and URLs changing slowly so as not to disturb the balance of those trying to navigate. He takes a moment to acclimatize himself and then emerges into the main street. He has selected a privacy mode so that they will not be disturbed by others moving through the region. They will have this region to themselves, for the extra expense.

Up ahead is a small square park, with two benches overlooking a circle of grass. Low hedges provide a feeling of closure. As he arrives, she is already waiting, legs together, but outstretched to the pavement, leaning forward, dressed in the usual black gear which contrasts with the many coloured stripes in her bleach-blonde hair. A mini skirt over black tights, leather platform-boots up to her knees. It is not difficult to see her amongst the advertising; she is practically monochrome. She is wearing a fashion mask; it is a fragile spaghetti of fine dark wiring, affixed by some mysterious means which defies physics. Behind the wires, her Oriental features add a calm pool of beauty to the decorative distractions.

For the first time, Den finds it marginally disturbing that she has some of the traits of Cathy Kim. Perhaps it was prescience on his part. He is a man, after all, and not always in control of his fantasies.

“Hi.”

“Denny. Howz things?” She is always cool.

“Great. You?”

“Startlingly aware of the world around me. Otherwise fine.” She winks coyly and knowingly, suddenly reaching forward to brush something from her sculpted boots.

“Good. You called me. You have information.”

“I’ve been scouting, meeting people. ”

A Christian angel is hanging around, croaking its worn-out hymns and crawling on its belly in the street. It flaps its wings spasmodically, begging for Belief amongst the pigeons. It is almost impossible to exorcize these from private rooms. They have rights that few other characters in the game have. Den kicks an empty coke can at its blackened form, to shoo it away and sits down. Can’t escape the fucking Christian missionaries, but his filters make them all look like shit.

“Tell me about the alarm.”

“I found an involvement of class one software corporation in online services. Alarm fourteen,”

She is true craftsmanship. Her diction is almost flawless.

“Okay, tell me more.”

She tosses her head slightly and looks up as she speaks, giving her a slightly bitchy edge, just right. “Street sellers in Bangkok are now offering portals for sex services using a new proprietary protocol. It has the signature of a class one. It seems to be tied to some special hardware. I’ve captured the signature for you.” She hands him a small ball, which is a representation of a data file. He stuffs it in his pocket for later, effectively transferring the file to his private storage.

“How many cases have you seen?”

She shrugs. “No established trend yet. It might just be a prototype in testing, but it was public. It was more of an anomaly event than a repeated signal.”

Interesting, Den thinks. A class one software company is a major player with a virtual monopoly interest. Why would they be involved in the sex trade? “Were there any unusual signs?”

“Well this is interesting,” Mary says. “I managed to observe the stream from the second session I found. It was encrypted, but an analysis of the stream indicates an alphabet of about thirty characters, plus or minus ten percent. It could be Cyrillic or it could be Scandinavian.”

“Not American? Even more interesting.” He pauses to think and she waits with the defiant look of someone with an attitude. It is a feature that he requested long ago to make her more sexy.

“How many people using it?”

“Not many. it seems quite new. My guess is that it is just a prototype under development. Maybe some underground sex shop has been recruited to test it. It might be mainly local, and someone jut happened to interface it into the game by accident.”

He nods to himself. “Yes, that could be it. But if someone is making a new protocol then it means they have come up with some new hardware or software that they hope is going to win against the competition. See if you can find out more about it. How large is your contact graph?”

Mary pretends to be consulting her mobile. It is a visual trick that is useful for allowing time for informational searches in a plausible behavioural way. “I have just about ten probable nodes on it.”

Den does not feel hopeful. If her web of contacts, related to this incident, is only ten nodes then it could take some time to follow sensible leads. Just as well this is not a high priority matter; but it is important enough to warrant an alarm from Mary Cheung. He makes a note on his own pad to remember this. “Okay,” he says. “Remind me about this in one week, would you?”

“Roger dodger.”

“Oh, and would you do me a favour? Find out whatever you can about a Cathy Kim, working at the Supercomputer Center here in San Diego.”

“Someone you know?”

He nods. “Someone I just met.”

She nudges him. “Interesting. Anyone I should know about?”

He laughs. “Not yet. Just find out who she is, what she does, something about her background. You know, the usual stuff.” He pauses. “Mary, any other stuff you should tell me about?”

“Sure. I have a trend report. Increasing numbers of American players going to the Middle-East sims. They are probably kids, or at least juveniles. Behavioural patterns suggest an average mental age of sixteen on the U.K. scale. They are headed to the interfaced battles; you know, the ones that are tied into real military activity. A lot of prostitutes are moving into the area too, targeting them. They seem to originate from the Mid-East itself, especially Jordan.”

“Figures.” He runs through some notes on his mobile, imagining that he has already thought about this, but does not find a note. “What are these kids doing?”

“Some of them are just playing amongst the real action, for the thrill of having a game room in which the action is based on what they can see on the TV or web-cam. Others are actually helping the combatants in the U.S. and British Armies, either by hooking into the control systems and monitoring or by voting on targets.”

“Sheesh,” Den mutters. “These days there are more people voting in these reality things than vote in the fucking democracy.”

“Hey, sweetie, you know that the days of democracy are long gone out there.”

“What else?”

“A herd of Christian missionary succubi is now spreading through much of the game.”

He grunts.

“PhoxHollywood has started deploying robot fighters in the war regions that can be activated on the sim. Kids can basically fight for the Army within certain parameters.”

That’s right, he thinks. One of the Ivy League colleges built a system for them to work like a virtual machine with certain policy based constraints, so willing fighters can use their cognitive abilities to remote control certain slow robots. The army commanders can limit their capabilities. It was based on an old student project.

“The next level of gaming,”. Is someone sponsoring the advertising?

“I don’t know, but they are selling advertising on the control panels. I think the National Rifle Foundation might be involved.”

“That makes sense,” he notes. “And I can probably can find out on Sunday. They have an interest in the game already. Someone will be at the reception.”

Den glances at the time on his display. “Okay, honey. Anything else? I have to leave soon.”

“Not much. There is a new trend in group art that seems to be growing in importance in Germany and Eastern Europe.”

“What is group art?”

“Usually it is animated dance sequences with choreographed colour and music. It is usually a group activity, but the groups can be of any size. I have seen forty-seven projects of this kind in VBerlin alone in the last two weeks.”

“Potential?”

“Marketing category has not yet been established. I need more data to go on. The groups seem to be quite diverse. Think of Einstürzende Neubauten playing with a theatre group.”

“Go on.”

“No more significant trends above noise levels. Encounters. One possible recognition as a sim while listening on a private room, standard surveillance. Two sexual encounters: one male business executive and one teenage boy. Nothing to report from the standard protocol.”

Den makes a note to review the protocol for handling sexual encounters. Possibly the questions and subtle trickery of the protocol is no longer effective in divulging the identities. “Was the boy genuine?”

“The responses indicated a behaviour consistent with a fifteen year old. He was just looking for a good time.”

Mary is programmed to engage with people whom she suspects might provide information about her mission objectives. Perhaps he should also program some more inhibitions into her.

“Okay, Mary, my sweet. What about background trends? How are the billboards working out?”

She pauses momentarily, as if the response time of the software is sluggish. “Not too bad, since you mention it. We are within our proposed margins of tolerance, although the anti-aging drug stuff is on the limits. It could be better.”

“Damn,” he mutters, and thinks: I hate that stuff. Imagine what it would be like if we all lived to be five hundred years old. People are already insufferably self-righteous when they are fifty!

“Society demands beauty, conformism, Denny.”

Youth is not just appearance, it’s innocence.

He smiles now at his sister. He actually likes talking to her, even though he knows that her brain is scattered across the floor-space of a large underground cavern, somewhere in the Welsh mountainside... “But you go against the grain all the time, girl... ”

She sniggers with a big smile, sensing the change in conversation dynamic. “I go with whoever I want,” she laughs. “You know: ’n’the creed ’n’ the colour and the name don’t matter...

“Some of our competitors’ campaigns are doing well,” she adds. “S&S are making a fortune in returns on their political advertising. It’s all funded by big companies or sponsors. Of course it’s all a tax dodge. They seem to be able to support the funding of these campaigns to invest in future relief. I understand that the Chinese government has made advances to them to commission some work.”

“The Americans will never allow that,” he thinks aloud. “These old states have to break eventually.”

“My strategy analysis gives a sixty percent probability that flooding these areas with multiple messages is the optimal vector for breaking down the old propaganda in the populations.”

“Maybe they are not strong enough to defy the will of dogma. They are still the victims of the advertising of a bygone era.”

“Emphasis on bygone. The propaganda messages are no longer really effective. you know. It now seems to be a generational effect. Word of mouth, old prejudices, you know. Passed on from father to son, mother to daughter. Kids will believe anything.”

Den purses his lips, dislodging his glasses slightly and providing a disorienting tremor in the landscape from the orientation sensors. “Maybe we are crazy to be chasing these new techniques when the old ones are still winning out there.”

Mary looks him squarely in the eye now. “If I were you, I would embrace your little madnesses. That’s what makes you an individual. Everything else is just the collective myth of ‘what is Natural, what is Right, what is Normal’. Do you really want to be that much of a good doggie ... do what we tell you because you are no different than we are? Says who!”

Well, she is doing her job, he thinks. If he ever needed reminding of how to do his company duty, Mary would be the one to remind him.

“One more report,” she adds. “A low-grade resource anomaly on the Dubai billboards, but it is spreading slowly. Is could be a systematic problem in its early stages.”

He nods and makes a note. “Right. Thanks, M.”, he says. “Now get back out there, girl. Do your thing.”

He pulls the plug on the simulation, suffering a momentary disorientation as the image vanishes. She is pretty good, he thinks, but not quite flawless yet. When he gets back to the U.K. he should arrange a meeting with the designers to make some adjustments .They should always be on the cutting edge.

He removes the glasses and rubs his eyes. It is dark outside now. He has been working for several hours and feels like going for a swim. He checks his list for the day and makes some notes. The swim will have to wait. He’d better check out this anomaly in VDubai first. If it is a sign of a problem, it could cost them.

He adjusts his navigation settings and reenters the simulation in downtown VDubai. This is a place of respite and luxury shopping where people meet to party and live a little Arabian fantasy. A thousand and one bites, someone called it. Better than a thousand and one fights. That would have to be Iraq.

Den homes in on the location of the billboard that Mary discovered. It is in a downtown market, in a small passageway amongst street sellers. There is a significant amount of detailing here in the backdrops. There are many characters wandering about in the market. Many of them are sims, but the rendering is pretty high quality. It costs to visit this part of the VR, so a lot of effort is placed on the perception of luxury. Den finds the billboard. It is a Persian carpet with a changing image, like a ‘nano-shirt’.

The billboard text is overlaid with something else. It looks like an error in the coding. The layers have gone wrong. Den reads the billboard. It says:

BUY THIS $(enticement)EXAS WESTERN CAMPS. 
FREE: DOUBLE SLOT ALLOCATION. 
BARGAIN PRICES FOR TOTAL DEAL.

Obviously a coding error. When people see this, a small percentage will be drawn away to the Western fight camps in VTexas, just to see what they are. No one has authorized or paid for this. It needs to be fixed.

He checks his monitor channel. The scenery turns blue and fills slowly up with information about cause-effect relationships, current scheduling tasks and priorities.

The game is trying to reallocate some resources now. The intensity of the activity around the market and the nearby warring region has apparently become too much. Now, instead of denying access to the game, it is asking the players to move to a separate simulator where they can receive a different package. This peculiar error message is probably a by-product of that.

Den is no expert on the technicalities of the sims but he knows the kinds of failures that are common. Each of the processors is designed to implement a different package. The packages are different public relations programs, that work on different aspects of public awareness. This does not look like a normal error.

What is strange here is that all of the characters near by are running in minimal detail mode. They all looks like ghostly apparitions, with no distinguishing marks. It is hardly the opulence that one would expect in Dubai.

As far as he understands it, the architecture is such that if one of the packages becomes so successful as to attract too many occupants, these processors become overloaded and one of two contingenices ensues. Either there is positive feedback and the package self-destructs and dies off, like a woolly mammoth. Or there is negative feedback regulation and it levels off to some stable equilibrium.

Now it seems that some of the regions are trying to regulate the flows. Den cannot exactly understand why though. It does not seem as though there is a significant load on this package processor. The Middle East has always been a favourite battle ground and is given a high processing capacity by Pentagon sponsorship, but lately there have been other attractors like the volcano rescue. It is almost as though one of the sensors is reporting incorrectly. He makes a note to submit a bug report to the programmer bug-tracking system. Within minutes it will be available to programmers all over the planet, probably in the Far East...

He begins to fear something that he has been expecting for some time. How long would it take hackers to get into the system? The game is supposed to be the most secure programming construct ever, built entirely using modern resistant methods, with fault tolerance and every kind of robustness feature. It hardly seems likely, but who knows?

Den keys in a request for communication on his virtual mobile and makes his report, noting the hidden ID of the billboard surface. He receives an immediate confirmation back, but something unnerves him about the error. His intuition bells are flapping restlessly. Perhaps he should call someone.

He keys in a message to the operations centre that watches over the system worldwide. He has spoken to people there before. They can at least investigate the problem.

“I have entered a bug report on the game. Here’s the ref.” He flashes the code. “There does not seem to be a good reason for the behaviour. My guess is that something is going wrong in the resource allocation.”

“Yes, yes. That sounds strange. Well I don’t know what it could be”

“So how do you want to deal with this?”

“Well, it looks as though someone has entered a report for it.”

“Yes, I just told you I did.”

“You did?”

“Yes, I just said that.”

“Well, we’d better give them some time to look into it then.”

“Perhaps you would let me know when you find out?”

“Well, we have a lot of temperamental artists working on the game. We try to keep them to a discipline, but you know how it is.”

Den is not sure how to respond. “This might be urgent. If there is an attack in progress... Don’t you have a procedure for handling this kind of thing?”

“I suppose we’ll have to wait for a little artistic inspiration.”

Artistic inspiration is bullshit, he thinks. You just have to fix this. There is no Aleph moment of Self-Realization when you have a flashing vision of a complete work of art. Only the flakes claim that. Ideas are vague. It’s up to the professional to make them work. With hard graft.

It is cold. Rain is pouring from the gutter lining the small canopy which protects him from an autumn deluge. He has been waiting for almost half an hour; the chill wind, combined with the dampness, has penetrated to his bones. He shivers and looks grumpily at his wrist strap. A tram rumbles past the cloister mall, grinding a metallic chime on the tracks as it takes the corner.

Dermot watches a group of women coming out of the store across the road. Autumn fashions are on display. It interleaves a frantic effort to solve the problem in his head, the problem that he was wrenched from to come here. Why does he have to come here anyway? What is wrong with his office? The problem has been consuming him for some time–a bug in the game that seems quite inexplicable. He knows of the expressions “emergent phenomena” but this phenomenon is surely amongst the strangest to emerge in any system that he has known.

A van drives past, making a noisy flapping sound as the tyres cross the wet cobbles. It was not long ago that the government pedestrianised Oslo, but deliveries still get through as long as they are combustionless carriages. Strictly speaking, the van should not be allowed to display moving advertisements on its chassis, but people are always bending the rules.

Ten years ago, he would not have reacted to the noise of a van. For years they have covered up the meticulously laid cobble stones, which paved the streets of Oslo, pouring tarmac over them for the benefit of the motor car. Each year, the snow and frost crack and disintegrate the soft asphalt on the hard stone sitting atop Oslo’s marshy foundation and the result is a lethal mess of pot-holes–an even worse surface to drive on than the stones themselves. Sometimes technology does not help us with our ailment, he thinks. Now they have begun to rediscover the interleaving dove-tail mosaics, weaving stonework in and out of surviving and resurrected tram-lines. Normal traffic is banned from the centre and replaced with trams, and electric busses equipped with all-weather tyres. Now even the smallest intrusion is conspicuous.

He shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot, annoyed that he was distracted from his work by so idle a thought. He does not feel that he has time to waste. Too many commitments to allow such petty observations to intrude on his time.

A man appears suddenly from nowhere, standing next to him.

“Mr. Crusoe, I presume? Or may I just call you Rob?” he smiles.

Dermot turns.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Olsen.”

“Macguire-Olsen, Dermot,” Dermot corrects.

“Ah I’m sorry, Macguire-Olsen. You have mixed parents?”

Dermot nods, “A man and a woman.”

The man chuckles amicably. “Perhaps I can just call you Dermot.”

“Most people do.”

“And my name is Bishop, Ed Bishop.”

Dermot smiles skeptically. Bishop. This man was supposed to be an American, but he is clearly of Norwegian descent. Scandinavian eyes too big, too wide, fearful with the panic of meeting someone. A face that does not look straight on, but snatches a glance here and there out of the corner of the eye. The wrinkles of apprehension around the forehead. These are distinctly Norwegian traits, Dermot thinks. He asks: “You are the man I spoke to, on voice-only?”

The man nods. “You look cold. Should we get a cup of coffee? I hear they have good cake here.” His accent sounds American at least.

Dermot shivers and nods, clenching his sodden, numb fingers. He puts doubts on hold, to attend to the more urgent matter of getting dry and warm.

Something about the size of this man that lends him authority. He has the feel of a policeman or of the military, though nothing else about his appearance would suggest it. “All right.”

They walk up the few steps into the cloister ring and push through the old wooden doorway into a cafe that has recently been crowded with after a rush. “Tea-room” hangs a sign, “Please look after your belongings. Thieves operate in this area.”. The café is now almost empty, but is still littered with the remains of yet-to-be-collected cups and crockery.

“What about this table in the corner?”

He edges past the round dark-wood tables to a table with a window view of the cloisters, through rose-patterned iron-mongery. It is somewhat concealed behind a steep spiral staircase, also of wrought-iron, just about wide enough for a slender person to climb. The steps corkscrew up to a second level amongst the rafters of this old building; a sign hangs there: “Stairway to Heaven”.

Up there, in the roofing, is a mezzanine level; small cherubs hang on strings from the ceiling, complementing ornate wood-carvings that are set into the stone wall. This stairwell is known as the most dangerous café staircase in the city. Sitting underneath it is asking for trouble, but there does not seem to be much choice. Dermot has seen glasses and drinks come crashing down as people get dizzy or simply try to carry too much.

He shivers in the warm room. Anticipation has taken hold of his physiology, but warmth has not yet nourished him. Nerves tingle, though he would not say that he felt nervous. When this man, Bishop his name, called him on an encrypted line and started cautiously picking his brains, he was not quite sure what to make of him. He is not even a hundred percent sure what he is doing here now. Something about what he said intrigued him.

“I don’t usually do these kinds of meetings,” Bishop says, as he squeezes his large frame into the wooden chair. “I am just a researcher. In charge of a project, yes, but still. But it turns out that my nephew was sick and I was going to have to come to Oslo anyway. It made a rationalization of my schedule possible, so here I am.”

“You have family here then,” Dermot digs.

“Yes. I grew up in the States but most of my family is here. What about you?”

“My mother is Irish. My dad was from the west of Norway.”

“Ah, and you grew up here?”

“Pretty much.”

Padlocked, ornate iron grills cover the windows; a floral design, in keeping with the style of the cloisters. There is a lot of iron here. It is a cage, but a cosy cage.

“So–what do they have to eat here?”

“I dunno. We can get a menu.”

“Let’s do that.” He turn around in his seat, looking for someone to ask. “No one seems to have seen us.”

“They’ll come.”

“Yes, I expect so. Are you hungry? I would like something... ” He looks conspicuously around some more.

Dermot feels awkward, wishing they could just get on with the matter at hand.

“Actually, I am wondering why we are here.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Bishop meets his gaze. “I’m sorry. I spend so much time working on these projects that it’s easy to forget that no one else knows what I actually do!” He laughs in a careful way and pauses as if to reign himself in again. “Ok.” Bishop reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small slate mobile. He thumbs in a short sequence and transmits his ID to Dermot’s mobile by direct link. It beeps in confirmation. Dermot glances at his wrist strap and touches it to see the confirmation of identity. It is marked with the official Norwegian and European police logos and signatures.

He nods. “Thanks.”

“So now you know who I am, let’s get down to business.” He sends a glance towards one of the serving staff. “Let me ask you, Dermot. How much do you actually know about the game you are working on?”

Dermot shrugs. “Depends on what you mean. I know the code pretty well in chunks. I am not into all the details, but I have to know enough. I could put together another program like it if I had the resources. If that is what you mean?”

“No, that’s not what I had in mind.”

He stops as a waitress arrives to take their order. They look at each other expectantly. “Eh perhaps you would bring us a menu,” he says to the girl.

“I’ll just have a coke,” Dermot says promptly, snatching a frustrated glance at her bodily form. She is wearing a the tightly fitting black uniform. He feels momentarily annoyed with himself again for being distracted.

The man, Bishop, or whatever his name is, falters and says, “Ok, just bring me a coffee and a piece of cake.”

“What kind of cake would you like? We have cheesecake, carrot cake, choc... ”

“Chocolate sounds perfect,” he says, smiling at her.

Dermot admires the way he captures her attention, looking at her full-on. He wishes that he could get someone’s attention like that. He feels anonymous, as usual.

“Okay. And that’s a regular coffee?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Fine,” she chirps, flashes him a smile, and swings around to hurry back to the kitchen bar.

Bishop, or whatever he’s called, turns back to face Dermot and continues. “Where were we? Yes. Do you understand the true nature of the game?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that the game, as you know it, is not just a game. That is one of the reasons why we are investigating it, and following its development. Of course it is much more than just a game. It is a whole environment. It mixes play with chat and with advertising and politics. It is a game with a hidden agenda. It is a meeting place, a shopping mall, you name it.”

“What kind of agenda?”

“You don’t know? You haven’t thought about it?”

“Well, no.” he says, feeling a little put out. “I might be a little behind, I suppose. I’ve only been here for a couple of months. I am still looking at the security and privacy coding. My job is... ”

“I know what your job is. And what it is going to be.” He adds: “I was the one who got you on the team. We need your expertise.”

“I heard that.”

“And you probably wonder why.”

Dermot nods.

“Well, it is a long story, if we go into details. Let’s just say the cat is out of the bag as far as the game is concerned.”

“You mean ... its agenda?”

“Exactly.”

“So what is it?”

“Well, that is a bit like asking: what is the agenda of politics. It is a new meeting place. A place where people come together and interact, free of these social groupings that bind social groups in reality.”

“It’s a game though.”

Bishop nods patiently. “Have you heard of the Wilkinson report?”

Dermot searches his memory for something, staring into the dark wood-grain of their little table. “Wasn’t it something to do with the role of the police in the coming decade? I think I saw a documentary about it.”

“Yes it was,” he says, clearly impressed. “It was a report that was written in summary of a conference between the United States and the European Union police forces, some years ago. Basically it says that what we see going on today is a fundamental fragmentation of society caused by communications privacy.”

“Yeah... Yeah. I think I remember.”

“Do you remember the content?”

He shrugs.

“Well, some of what the report says is just sour grapes for not getting their way with surveillance laws, all those years ago–you know, when mobile technologies were new. The rest of it is a rather insightful analysis of our social condition and the breakdown of law and order.”

Dermot waits for explanation. His eyes roam and he is impressed by the detailing of the room. Wooden carvings, floral iron-mongery. It belongs to a different age. The recursion and repetition of pattern makes it look like a piece of computer code. Perhaps we are all living inside someone else’s simulation, he thinks. Kudos to the programmer.

“All right. So the bottom line is that police forces around the world are worried that they might be losing their grip. The idea is that the society is fragmenting because people are giving priority to conversations with close associates, rather than to those around them. You see, before we had all of these devices for modern electronic telepathy, the limitations of physical contact were, in a sense, actually beneficial in mixing people up. Society is basically like a colloid – a mixture of liquids that do not want to mix. You have to keep mixing it, or else little globules groups will form that do not mix in and one has a multi-dimensional apartheid; not just blacks and whites, but every imaginable social distinction forming their own sub-cultures.”

“I suppose so. So what?”

“Oh! We can see it happening. If you study anthropology, you find that humans are wired for social groups that are about thirty strong.”

Dermot believes he has read something like that.

“We can maintain an acquaintance list of about a hundred friends and relatives, but our tolerance level for close contact is around thirty. The trouble is that our mobiles have put us in touch with a much larger number than that, and so people are starting to be more selective in who they talk to. Not only that, but they can have private conversations that are not really bound to a physical reality where you get all those important physical signals that tell you when you are doing something wrong.”

“No body language.”

“No body language–and no moderation. If you can dial up just those people who agree with you, and keep out those who don’t, then there is no moderating influence on your opinions.” He pauses to see if Dermot is comprehending him. “People become extremists.”

Again, he pauses, looking at Dermot to see if he is following.

“You see, society is dependent on mixing. Humans only form a broad concensus of opinion if they meet and mix, and knock off each other’s rough edges, criticize each other, exchange disparate viewpoints, spar – and that is the basis of civil society. We summarize all of our agreed codes of conduct as The Law, and we serve it to the Police to enforce. If you don’t keep stirring the colloid, it splits up into globules again and the police forces of the world are just floating around in the carrier liquid, unable to penetrate the globules... Society has been splitting up into a tribal globules for several years now, because we do not meet each other in the same way as before.”

“Because of mobiles? You think that is really true?”

“I know it. Even when we meet in public, we are really somewhere else, talking to someone on the end of a little armoured communications pipe that no one can listen to. No one can interrupt us, edit us, and say–hey, you’re full of shit. People do not police one another any more, because of the sheer volume of communication. Police forces are on the defensive, whereas society demands a kind of offensive moderation.”

He shrugs. “I don’t get it.”

Bishop becomes suddenly stern. “Society is breaking up, Dermot. The world over. It is worst in the U.S., but we see it happening here too. The police forces of the world are there to enforce a social concensus, a set of laws that summarize our basic tenets of society. But that law has to reflect the opinions of the majority, otherwise it cannot be enforced. People are creating their own splinter groups, with their own laws. That’s great news for organized crime. It is great news for corruption. It is bad news for social stability and democracy.”

“Isn’t it more democracy? I mean if people do more like they want to?”

“No, that is libertarianism, or anarchy even. In a democracy, you agree to disagree, and then you abide by the majority’s wishes.”

Dermot shifts uncomfortably now. “So I joined the crime team because I was interested in the security of commercial services in the game. I am not sure what you are telling me now. It sounds kind of like disaster scenario science fiction.”

Bishop stares at him for a moment as if marshalling his thoughts. Dermot cannot quite look him in the eyes. Wide penetrating eyes, full of worry. Norwegian eyes.

He looks at the stairwell beside them, to avoid them; rose patterns swirl in the iron-work of the spiral steps. Details. They say that God – or was it the devil? – is in those details.

“Yes, you did,” Bishop says finally, as if picking a new strategy. “But what I am asking you to do is to step back from that for a moment and see something bigger that is going on, under the obvious surface. Forget about the superficial mechanics of your job, and get philosophical for a moment. That is my job.” He laughs ironically. “I suppose police forces are not famous for being philosophical. But we have had to adapt these last ten years.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you know that we started university training and research, to try to get to grips with the changes? That was years ago. That’s my job - or how it started. I don’t think too many people know how the police works. You can’t make a TV show about our work, so no one has been fed a romanticized version. Don’t be confused. We are just regular police–nothing covert or underhanded. But the world’s police forces have come to the understanding that we have to change our modus operandi somewhat. The distinction between crime and normal behaviour is being eroded. We need to think again.”

“It sounds kind of scary.”

“And it is. Trust me. It is.”

They look at each other for a moment in silence, as if examining one another for signs that this is all some kind of joke. Has someone at the department put Bishop up to this? Will the hidden cameras suddenly appear, amidst a lot of forced laughter? Well, Mr. Macguire-Olsen, we have murdered your family on national television, but it was all in the best possible fun–and the ratings were excellent. So now we should all laugh about it, in the name of television entertainment.

Or is this a rite of passage for him working with the crime team? A ritual humiliation? A test? Entry to the Freemasons? Dermot feels as though his head is spinning.

The waitress returns with a tray and begins to unload their goods. The timing is good; Dermot uses the opportunity to get a reality check. Bishop arranges his coffee and cake on the table in front of him, but does not touch them.

“So,” Bishop says. “All right. Let me put it this way. You must have seen the rioting and unrest in the United States in the news?”

He nods. “Yes.”

“Good. Well, the media is telling us that this is all very unexpected and radical. What do you think?”

Dermot shrugs.

“I am suggesting to you that this is not all that unexpected. The Wilkinson report predicted this kind of social breakdown some time ago. There is a loss of governmental authority, and therefore a loss of the authority that goes with the institutions of state; the law courts, the police, and so on. It is worst in the U.S., because American corporate culture has long been the driving force for its politics there. America’s ruling class is basically a conglomeration of multi-national, rich people who have their own agendas. They were further along the path than anyone else. But we are not far behind them. This is an outgrowth of that.

“What makes it unsavoury to them is that mobile communications have moved power back to the little guy. You no longer have to be rich to be powerful to be in control, you just need to be well connected to your target audience.”

“Everyone has a mobile,” Dermot adds absently.

“And everyone has their own private chat rooms, with encrypted channels that even the N.S.A. or G.C.H.Q. cannot crack in real-time.”

“And there is no mixing in these private rooms.”

“Yes! Exactly!” Bishop seems elated that Dermot has passed his little intelligence test. “Not only that, but the currency of the little guy is not money. He or she speaks a different language. Other things are important. This is all very disturbing to the political big-cats, who have their own traditions. The governments and so on. Even when there has been corporate corruption in the past, there has been enough concensus in society to hold the governmental power base of these rich people and keep the country together, because the basic illusion was focused around a single centre of power. But as time goes on there is a fragmentation from the grass roots level. In the U.S. you have the Bible Belt and the East coast and the West coast and the Rifle Association and ... you name it. Every little group with its own agenda is asserting its independence. Every group, that does not see its personal hobby-horse being represented by traditional society at large, is looking for a piece of the action.”

Dermot begins to see his point. “I think this is just a classic management problem. I mean, it’s just like computers, isn’t it? When you decentralize your system, you have to accept a different kind of uncertainty in the model. Society has to agree on a common operating system in order to integrate into one big computer program. You are saying that people are choosing their own operating systems that are not compatible, so it is becoming hard to manage the diversity.”

Bishop smiles. “Yes, I suppose that is a fair analogy. You are the computer expert. That’s why I need you.”

“So it seems to me that you have two choices.”

“Go on.”

“Either you split up society into distributed pieces, with local autonomy and weak cooperation with a few ties, or you fight to win back integration with centralized management.”

“Yes.” Bishop seems pleased. “We can make every little group into a virtual country, with its own laws and customs. That is fine in the virtual world, but we cannot forget about the good old-fashioned physical world. There is still the matter of the law. What is its role now? Surely even computers have to agree on some common rules of play when they share public spaces?”

Dermot nods, slowly, tuning into the idea now that he can put it into a framework that he understands. “That’s true. There are protocols that handle that kind of thing.”

“Good. Protocol sounds like something that I can understand. But are these protocols cooperative or aggressive in nature? Do people end up in civil society, or in mortal combat?”

Dermot nods to show his understanding of the question.

“And what are the police forces to do? Are they part of this protocol? Whose rules should they follow? In a sense, they are following an outdated set of ideals. They stand for the old centralized power model, where rich people decide what is right and wrong–in other words, what others are rebelling against.”

“Same answer. Either you adapt, or fight back.”

“Yes. But you know, it is actually becoming dangerous for law enforcement officers to intervene. There is an increase in the amount of crime that is operating in these closed globules. It is a kind of multi-mafia culture gone mad. Law enforcement only works if people really want it to.”

Dermot takes hold of a paper napkin and chews his cheek. He looks back at Bishop and takes a breath. “Ok. So everything is going to hell. What are our chances of surviving before global warming kills us? Why are we here?”

Bishop nods and finally looks down at his prize. Dermot watches the man dig into his piece of cake. The cake stands proudly as a dark brown wedge, like a ship’s bow breaking into a criss-cross wave pattern, made of some kind of coloured fruit puré. It has a perfect sector form, almost too perfect to disturb. As he attacks it, it begins to fall apart, leaving smears of chocolate on the plate, destroying the beauty of its virgin birth.

“Why are we here?” Bishop repeats, with a mouth full of cake. “Hmmm! This is good.” He chews more and swallows. Obviously, he is going to make him wait. “You and I are here,” he says, “because of the Game.”

Dermot feels a twinge of relief at the mention of the Game. He was beginning to think that he had lost contact with the real world. Perhaps he was dreaming. At least the Game is something that he knows something about.

Bishop takes a sip of his coffee and summons himself. “All right. So society is breaking into small pieces. Big government’s days could be over. Why? Because no one thinks they needs anyone else. The only thing they have to exchange with people they don’t like is money. How do you convince people to get back together again? To regroup and fall into line, around common ideals?”

Dermot shrugs, summoning no expression on his face.

“The Game is such an opportunity. It is actually a great idea. A shrewd move, you might say. By people in former positions of power to consolidate that disintegrating power.”

Dermot was half expecting something like this. He snorts. “I knew it couldn’t be just a game.”

“Well, yes it is a game, in one sense of the word. Just as it is a chat room and virtual reality meeting place for multilingual cultures. But that is just what it is–not what it is for.”

“And you are saying it has a purpose that goes beyond philanthropy.”

Bishop almost spits his coffee out. “Philanthropy!” He laughs. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to mock. I suppose it is good that you can still believe in such things. I wish I could. Yes. I am saying it is not about philanthropy.”

“It’s free for use, if you have the gear? It brings people together. Isn’t that philanthropy?”

Bishop nods, his eyebrows high, his eyes wide. “Oh sure, if free parking at the shopping mall is philanthropy. To make the horse drink, you first have to bring it to water.”

“No, not a horse. You’re saying it’s a big spider’s web for governments.”

“I like that!” Bishop laughs, and stuffs more cake into his mouth.

Dermot is with him now and is feeling more confident. “But what is it that governments want the players to do in the game? There is not that much to do there except engage in these fantasies, or in conversations, or in tourist trips around the globe.”

“Propaganda.”

Dermot stops to think. “Propaganda?”

Bishop puts down his fork and washes down with a sip of coffee. “Society’s traditional law-givers are rebelling back. They are fighting for their survival. If society wants to regroup in a virtual world of private communication, they need to supply an attractive reason to bring them together again. The game is not only such a place. It is an environment over which the major investors have complete control.

“Now you might say: why do we need governments? If we can get along fine without them... Well, there is the global economy which actually supports our society far more than people realize. Countries are not independent anymore. Society has specialized to the point at which small groups cannot be self-sufficient. People actually need each other to survive. Could you grow enough food in your garden to survive? I am guessing you wouldn’t have a clue how to do it. You rely on getting your food from a shop. The shop gets its produce from some market garden in the Netherlands, or a dairy in Denmark. Our whole society is based on the integration of specialization. It is too complex for any one person or group to master each of the skills that is needed to survive. We are not like the Amish. So, in fact, whether people know it or not–whether they like it or not, they need each other. We cannot just abandon this infra-structure that we have set up over thousands of years. Our lifestyle would collapse eventually.”

“But, you make it sound like the world could end tomorrow. Surely this is a long way off? We must be talking years, decades?”

“I doubt it. It is much easier to destroy something than it is to build it. All you need to bring chaos to the world is to switch off the power for a week. You will bring about wide scale disorder. If people don’t have someone to tell them what to do, many of them will perish or become violent. But we digress.”

“Okay.”

“So the game is an opportunity. Rich people have been rich fortuitously, by virtue of who they are, or by being in the right place at the right time. But society is changing so that they are no longer seen as the icons of our society. So we are scaling back to who-you-know relationships. The amount of complexity in society is governed to a large extent by how much people are in communication. How much they tell each other things, who they’re talking to. But information has reached a critical mass. Everything just looks like noise, so no one can see the leaders and hence they look to smaller groups they can understand. Hence the fragmentation.”

“Okay, so let’s say I believe you. What about the game?”

“The game is meant to attract people into a place where they, once again, of their own free will, can be bombarded by propaganda. The idea was originally proposed by the U.S. government, but they realized quite soon that they could not do it without the cooperation of others.”

“Typical... ”

“You see, you cannot just have one country with a stable government. There is civil society amongst humans, but there is also the society of nations and governments. Cooperation is a very intertwined thing. If you want to be cynical about it, you could say that the reason society works is that we all manage to brainwash each other into the same mind-set.”

“That sounds pretty conspiratorial.”

“Not really. Only the way I have put it now. Societies have always been this way. It doesn’t really matter what the concensus us, as long as there is one. Our whole world is based on the idea that we share the same illusions – or delusions, if you like. But global communications mean that we meet each other, like it or not, so we have better agree on the rules of engagement. On morality. All of these mind-sets have to meet at the edges. The room for multiplicity is shrinking, because we are increasingly dependent on one another’s specializations.”

“All right. So what can I do? What is it you want from me?”

“I want your help to understand how we can use the game’s propaganda methods ourselves. I want to know if it is possible to put something into the code of the game that can help the police. The kind of little something that can change the very fabric of society to fight crime by changing people’s attitudes again. You see, the game consortium has one agenda which is to bring the world back under the wing of the U.S. government and its corporate sponsors. But, while the strategy is smart, the idea is morally corrupt. It is not law and order they want, but obedience, passive obedience.”

“So you think the game is already corrupt.”

“Of course it is. All systems are corrupt.”

“Isn’t that a pretty serious accusation?”

“It’s too common to be serious. Dermot. But it is worth keeping an eye on. It’s like noticing there is mold on your cheese. As long as it is only a little, you don’t care–you expect it and it just tastes interesting. It is not until it starts to eat into the bulk of the cheese that it becomes a problem.”

“I am not sure I like your view of the world,” Dermot mumbles, rubbing his eyes. “I mean, I knew there was bad stuff going on out there when I joined the crime team, but this whole conspiracy, corruption thing... ”

“The child pornography rings that your team investigates are just one tiny part of what is going on. We work openly on that, because most people still agree that is a pathology of our society. But it is only one flavour of corruption.” He gestures up to the rafters as if waving to the cherubs. “Corruption begins with little things: oh, you know this is only a teeny little bending of the rules, it can’t possibly matter to anyone. Then gradually tolerance grows and the transgressions become bigger and bigger, like your body learning to tolerate certain viruses and bacteria. All systems have corruption, just as all organisms have disease, because it is a natural function of the environment to test out every little rule of order that we try to enforce. It is a natural body-function of society, if you like. That’s why we have police forces and immune systems.”

“But if everything is corrupt, what can we do?”

Bishop is relentless and goes back on the offensive. “Suppose you want to root out corruption in a system. How do you do it?”

Dermot does not bother to answer.

“You cannot report it to the authorities, because they are probably corrupt too. You cannot tell your friend–he cannot do any more than you can. You have to be more subtle. You have to change people’s perceptions of their situation over time, so that they do not know it is happening. It has to be subliminal, inescapable. Slowly people have to start to believe that they always thought differently and that it is only their stupid parents who were stuck in the past. It happens on the time scale of generations, by persistent plugging. Take the environment as an example. Take genetic modifications as an example. How do you steer those changes? Hire activist groups?”

“Forgive me, I am somewhat tired.”

“Bear with me, Dermot. I want you to understand what we believe is going on in the software you are investigating. We are talking about activism at the level of governments, and we now are talking about counter-activism at the level of the police. For the good of society.”

“Look, are you sure that you haven’t confused me with someone else?”

“I am sure. This is my job. This is what I do.”

“But my task was just to look for hidden communication channels for child pornography. It’s part of the law here in Norway that software has to satisfy certain ethical guidelines... ”

“I understand all that,” he says, patiently. “What you need to understand is that there are already powerful forces deployed to control people’s ideas. The game’s war-zone tourism in Iraq is targeted at the American rural male audience. The sex tourism of the Far East is aimed at central European males. The beauty pageants and adventure scenarios are aimed at bored housewives... And then there is the religious stuff. You get the idea? ”

“I get it. I need to go home. Tell me what you want.”

He pauses, nods and pushes his chair back. “I’ll tell you in a moment. First I have to visit the washroom.”

Dermot expires a fatigued breath. “Go down to the other end, and it’s down another spiral staircase. You need to collect a key at the bar.”

Bishop purses his lips. “They run a tight ship here.”

“It’s to keep the down-and-outs out of the washrooms.”

He looks out of the window as Bishop strides off. There are beggars all around here. He knows that it is illegal to beg in Norway, but that has never stopped them down here in the centre of town. Sad to see people like this, on the edge of society. Is this what Bishop is talking about? Will society fragment so that everyone is on the edge?

The café is starting to fill up again, but in dribs and drabs; not like the evening rush, still to come. Dermot is feeling warm now, and un-zips his anorak.

What an enigma Bishop is. He has that Scandinavian look of reservation about him, but an almost American self-confidence. When he speaks, he talks as if he has know all this for years. If that is the case, why hasn’t anyone else heard about it? Or am I just so out of touch, stuck in my work? And then there is the American accent. Why would he be laying in to the U.S. if he comes from there? It takes several minutes before Bishop comes back. His hands are wet and he has dirt under his thumbnail.

“How are we doing?” Bishop asks. “Do we need more to drink?”

Dermot shakes his head, then remembers his manners. “No thank-you.” I have been in Norway too long, he thinks. His mother would have shouted at him for such Scandinavian contempt for manners.

“Ok.” He signals to the waitress for more coffee and seats himself again, almost knocking his head on the spiral staircase. “So, Dermot, what do you think? Are you interested in helping me? I really need your help.”

He looks Bishop in the eyes now. “I still don’t know what it is I am supposed to do. What you want me to do.”

Bishop grins. “Oh nothing much. Just change society – you know, as you do.” He chuckles and Dermot smiles in spite of himself. “We need to look for patterns first. I have some unusual leads that I’ll pass on to you tomorrow, but we can leave the details for another time. I think we are both tired and it is good to chat.”

No, Dermot thinks. You’re not getting away with it that easily. “How do we change society? How can I do anything? I don’t even work for the game company anymore.”

“Yes you do. You are on loan to us. You still have connections.”

“But I don’t write the code anymore.”

Bishop stares at him, as if considering his strategy.

“All right. So we need to start a propaganda war of our own, on behalf of civil society. And we need a strategy. I have some ideas on that which come from an unusual source.”

Dermot lifts his eyebrows. “Okay.”

“But think, Dermot. What do you do with a society? You see those down and outs?” He points out of the window, across the street to where a single man is sitting with a paper cup. “What do you do to avoid people like this in society? What are we doing wrong? Could we educate them better, to stop them from dropping out? Is it genetic or memetic? Nature or nurture? What part of the inclusive society has failed? Or, are we flogging a dead horse? Perhaps it is too naive to think that one single model of society can cover everyone’s needs. So should we perhaps segregate them entirely? How do you control undesirable elements?”

“I’ve never really thought about it.” Dermot finds the idea fascinating but is somewhat uncomfortable not being able to contribute to the conversation.

“Suppose we try to fix it by having two models. Is that then the same a class based society? Is it immoral? Or a caste system that socialism has been fighting all these years? Or is this something entirely new in our society that has never before existed–a product of our new technological, knowledge-based lifestyle?”

“You mean like that Time Machine H.G. Wells movie or Metropolis?”

“The Morlocks and the Eloi, yes, you’re right. That is a kind of segregation. South Africa has a its own kind. The U.S. has had its kinds. The caste systems of India... we have always had this kind of fragmentation. But I don’t think that explains why these down and outs have fallen mainly into the welcoming hands of an exploitive chemical industry that’s hell bent on milking them of their dignity. Opting out of society is not the same as segregating it into classes. No, we need something that makes people want to mix. Even castes mix, even if only to shovel contempt at one another. They create a system that works, but it is not usually democratic.”

“And you think we can change people’s minds by serving them some kind of go-help-your-country propaganda?”

Bishop laughs. “Did you know that the USIA and its children has been broadcasting American propaganda for years? Actually, since the second world war. There is no difference now, but it’s just that a certain population of users is getting smart at finding out stuff independently using our modern information resources. When America invaded Vietnam or Iraq, for instance, it was proactive defence. You can make anything into anything else, just by messing with people’s heads. It’s all about the information.”.

Bishop receives hot coffee and takes a sip.

“In your code, I think you will find features that will allow the game consortium to direct advertising content, but that is not what it is for. Advertising here is propaganda. They might sell some of the space to commerce, but the main aim of the space is to reintegrate the factions”

“I suppose it depends who pays for it and what they are saying.”

“Maybe. What interests me is how well propaganda works. And don’t think that you will always notice the obvious message. Suppose, for instance, I want to start a conspiracy theory that implicates ... say ... the North Koreans or the Middle East in something diabolical. Suppose I suggest that there is evidence that my father died of toxins related to the genetically mutated species following the Chernobyl disaster. How do I do it?”

Dermot shifts uncomfortably. “Why do I get the feeling that you already know the answer?”

He smiles. “Well, I don’t go to the newspapers and start making Weekly World News headline allegations. I need to be more subtle.”

“You start a rumour. Get people talking about it.”

“Yes! That would be one way. Another way is to advertise.”

“Advertise?”

“Yes. Regular marketing. It sounds trite, but if you bombard a sufficient number of people with suggestions often enough and in sufficient volume it will change their basic belief system. That is what advertisers are trying to do all the time. Vitamins in your shampoo, whiter-than-white antacid stuff in chewing gum, you know.

“This is all standard stuff. Western propaganda does not work like the old communist propaganda or the dictatorships in the Middle East. It’s more subtle than that. Until recently, at least, there has already been a culture of so much passivity and concensus that you barely need to try to convince people any more. Keep them fed, give them tele-entertainment and fill them with unimportant sports and lifestyle issues and they stop caring about anything else. So when it comes to larger issues, everyone already has the same basic mind-set and you don’t have to try to get a concensus. You just tell people what they should think and they are more or less happy to go alone with it. One or two folks are going to develop and independent mind of their own - but they are minor anomalies that can be ridiculed or taken out. This is how Western society works.”

“That’s what you meant about concensus.”

“That’s what I meant. To create a society, we have to manufacture some kind of concensus. In other words, that is what society was all about in the first place: coming together on a common agreement so that people can specialize and develop skills that go beyond what anyone could afford to do if he or she was not sheltered by a group.”

“I though societies formed around religious worship.”

“Good point. But that is the purpose of religion, isn’t it? It is a form of mind-control for civil uniformity. It is a primitive form of politics that uses peoples’ basic fears to manipulate them. Religion and spirituality are two different things.”

“Yeah, I always thought that too.”

“Then there is the counter belief that, if you leave peoples to themselves they will gradually gravitate into masses of uniform opinion. Thing is, then they have all fallen into the trap and you can start to manipulate them less subtlety, to gain power, by changing the collective attitude to whatever you please. People buy into the concensus because people do not want to stand out.”

“Wait – there is no concensus in religion.”

“Of course there is. All religions play on the same basic fears. The fear of dying, the fear of loneliness, of sickness. By joining the club, grief has been transformed to fulfillment, loneliness to relief and even happiness. The wound of solitude has been healed.”

What do you know about loneliness, Dermot thinks. He jibes, “Wow. This is what religion does for you? Sounds good.”

“Religion is an all purpose monkey wrench, an adjustable spanner, a skeleton key which pushes the right buttons and seems to replace the intended need with an artificial one: a belief in an abstract love. It is the ultimate advertising slogan. Fill any hole. We will make our product your solution, no matter what your weakness. We are so damned good!”

“But it is present all over the world. There might be something to it.”

“Does it not tell you something that the distribution of religions in the world is geographical? No, Dermot. It spreads like a virus, just like any form of politics or hearsay.”

“So is it a good thing or a bad thing, this control?”

“Ah, finally. This is the interesting question: the moral question. People are wired to be social creatures. That means that we want to agree with our neighbours. We want to homogenize. That is the key weapon that allows us to be manipulated by the righteous and the ruthless. So, yes, we want to belong to a group, but we also want to belong to a safe group that places the needs of the many before the needs of a few rich executives, or extremists.”

“And what does the crime team do about it?”

“We follow the development of the prevalent dogmas now. They are usually associated closely with organized crime and exploitation. Some with religion, and the above... But it is all getting much worse, and we are falling behind. There are more competing ‘religions’ than ever.”

“Maybe that is good – you know like keeping lots of the bacteria in your stomach healthy to prevent the ulcer variety from growing too powerful.”

Bishop laughs drily. “I like it. That is one way of looking at it. Unfortunately, those who are most malignant will tend to dominate. But don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of powerful messages from the law too. As a police force, it is not our job to decide which are right or wrong, only which are counter to society, or which foster crime. But we see the need for a counter-strike on the the propaganda front.”

Dermot nods.

“The project you are working on is part of the indoctrination introduced by the U.S. and other governments to consolidate its control over society, but it is now under attack. It was only a matter of time, of course. The economic model does not always lead to quality... only competition.”

“You lost me,” he grumbles.

“The contract was sold to a number of contractors, but the tendrils of corruption go deep. Evangelist churches in the U.S. see the spread of this game as an opportunity to hijack the indoctrination process for their own aims. America is really a test case. It is a prime example of what happens when a culture dumbs down in a process of fear and dependency over generations. Everything becomes simplistic. The media has a simple edge detection algorithm that turns things into black and white and the kids in schools are taught how to toe the line. It is an authoritarian culture and a culture of propaganda. They eat it up.

“The churches are pretty annoyed, you see, that secular politics has all but stripped them of their power over the years, so they have been formulating strategies to win in politics for a long time. Who owns the most land, the most wealth? Who takes ten percent of your income? It’s a cynical ploy to buy your politics, by playing it at its own game.

“We have received a warning from the F.B.I. about the possibility that they will be setting up here too. There is a Christian South here too, although Norway has less of a missionary reputation. The evangelists see that religion is threatened, even in the U.S., by a propaganda medium that they have not conquered. That could see the end of several very powerful and rich empires. They are looking at ways of fighting back.”

Dermot is not sure whether he is annoyed now or simply exhausted. “So again. Why me? How can I help you?”

“According to my information, you are the one who works on these technologies here. I think you can help me to plant the information I need in the public consciousness. The short of it, Dermot, is that I need to counter-hijack this psyop pathogen.”

Autumnal hues are splashed onto the trees; limp yellow leaves fall along with the drops of rain splattering onto his umbrella. Dark brooding hangs in the sky, as he walks into a suddenly altered unknown.

Dermot paces solemnly back towards the tram station, his mind spinning and over-full with things to think about. Does he really believe what he has heard? Does he care? Shouldn’t it be someone else’s job to figure this out? I am just a programmer...

A skinny girl, in her mid twenties perhaps, is standing there waiting too. She has a short black skirt and a smart jacket, and shoulder length blond hair. She glances at him shyly. Her thin features are neither old nor young. He guesses that she must be twenty something, but who knows? She smiles shyly at him and he smiles back. Dermot has never been very good with girls, but he knows one when he sees one. And she really is one. He is not shy, but he is bashful. He finds himself aroused.

He recalls the ease with which Bishop had struck up a conversation. Just look unaffected and say the words, he thinks. “So when do these trams go anyway?” he says, as matter of factly as he can.

She just smiles.

“Do you have the time?”

“Sorry.”

He stands there in the rain, watching the drops splash on the pavement. Nearby he can hear soft ambient song echoing from a jazz cafe, contrasting with the proximity of the thudding pellets. It is all vanishing now, slipping away. The whole meeting is dissolving into the reality of those hammering drops. He finds himself suffused by a melancholy and his eyes are drawn to the girl’s slight figure. She seems more important to him at this moment.

A rumbling caterpillar tram thunders around the corner, squeaking on its tracks, as the lights change to green; it stops in front of them. Doors whoosh neatly open, ejecting outwards and sideways, like a space capsule, and bid them entry into a crowded chassis. There is only one double seat left. He sits down next to the girl, looking down at her skinny legs, black tights, short skirt. Damn. What dream is he wrestling with now?

The train rumbles through the town, shoving them from side to side, as it is clumsily forced to alter direction by the bumps and imperfections in the track, and thoughts abandon him. All he can see now is her blond hair and small hands as they fumble with an old mobile handset. Something about her is special. There are beautiful girls everywhere, but she has a quality that attracts him. An undefinable fragility. A calmness. Something else?

Several stops. He is nearing his destination. He has to say something. The effort is excruciating and results in more of a squeak than an inquiry.

“That’s a classic,” he blurts.

“What?” she snaps. Nervous wide, Scandinavian eyes, full of terror. She knows that he has been looking at her. She must be sure that he is a creep.

“Your mobile. I haven’t seen one like that for years.”

“Oh.” Her voice softens. “It’s my brother’s.” Then, as an afterthought: “Are you into computers?”

“Eh ... yes,” he half-stammers, taken aback.

She nods with the outline of a smile.

He fumbles in his pocket and pulls out a paper card with his name and position on it: a gimmick from his old company. She takes it as though it is something dirty, fingering it as though she does not really know what it is for.

“Dermot,” she reads. “That’s you.” It is not really a question, but he has to say yes. “I haven’t seen one of these for a long time.” She closes her palm with the card in it, as if to say: this is unimportant, but I am going to keep it anyway.

Normally people ask him about his name. What kind of a name is that? Dermot? But not her. She seems to accept it without question. He likes that. It makes her seem experienced and intelligent. She does not say another word.

The tram comes to a stop.

“Well, anyway. Nice to meet you.”

The girl smiles without looking his way and says nothing.

He flees the tram, stepping back out into the rain and starts off towards his apartment. That’s about as far as he ever gets with women.

They crowd into virtually anonymous bars, congregate in the backs of cars, of taxis or trains, like warehouse stock; a flotilla of suits celebrating their importance through the ritual snubbery of the ambient mass. Make no eye-contact, forget taste and touch. Don’t waste your time on on these senseless bluffs. It’s all coded now into THX and pixel-dust.

Constellations of wolves and sharks, reach out into the troposphere, the arctisphere, beaming their microwave egos across the void, drawing sustenance from insubstantial, imagined intimacy. Remote voices joined by paternoster telegram.

The spaces between them are empty and void of meaning or interpretation. What happened to the guesswork? The curiosity? They know only the highways and datastreams of the airwaves. Make room, asshole. Did I tread on someone’s toe?

They wander from place to place, through interpersonal space, every translation to each location the same to the spider man, to the cat woman. Minds wander in the half world of the dimly connecting and the clumsily colliding; no apologies. Suspicious and envious of limbo shadows. Excuse me? Did you say something? Just drive me to the airport, will you? Can’t you see I’m in the middle of an important meeting?

We, the friends of Satan, indulge in our egotistical rites: that’s what we are here for, right? Never put others’ wishes before your own. Never invite a stranger home, unless it’s a commodity fuck. Forget those bothersome neighbours. They don’t know anything about your problems, your needs. They cannot imagine what you are going through. Why should they care what we do? Why should we care what they think?

Would you get out of my way, idiot! Stupid bag of flesh and fat. Smell bad, dress bad, you’re nothing to me. What, you don’t think I got any friends of my own?

Put on your goggles, don earplugs, your spider suit. Forget about the tropical interpersonal chill. Go on parade, don’t be afraid, you know the drill. Just show yourself, be yourself. You don’t have to answer to anyone.

This icy playground in summer, is lit only by these ex-patriot solar rays, now embalmed in microwaves; place kids on standby, in their newly formed ranks of curds and whey. The kids of today speak no common language anyway. Cottage lumps of cheese, now separate with ease, self-dissected shards of kid, no useless friendships undid. Herded flocks of angry boys and gossipping girls, babbling into their hands-free toys.

Don’t talk to me! Do I know you?

Sunday morning. Den sees the flimsy houses they build in this part of California as he drives past the residential lot. They seem like cardboard shanty towns, scarcely strong enough to withstand a sea breeze let alone an earthquake. Do they get earthquakes down here? Decent middle class people live here but why in such rag tag accommodation? It is the merest veneer of order on top of the desert chaos.

As he looks at these houses, he thinks of the security of his London office block, its grand entrance exuding authority and substance. Here the power lines seem to be hung up like washing lines in the shanty commune, haphazardly hooked over poles that look like shaven cacti and pass through crumbling plaster into these shacks. He can see the obscene trappings of reality intruding forth into this would-be civilization, like a broken bone penetrating the skin. This is not like the slick malls and corporate cathedrals he is used to. Perhaps he is spoiled? What if it is really this way everywhere, just beneath the surface–even in the aging dereliction of old London town. He has never really considered it before, how the perfect marble foyer creates such stature and grace, such triumphant authority over the natural world. How deep does the illusion really go? he wonders.

As he drives out of the city, around the curving roads, he sees the families gathering at the coffee houses. At one time, Sunday was a day when people probably went to Church in most parts of the Christian world. Then there was a time when Sunday was for washing your car. Now we have reached the age of going out for Sunday coffee, he thinks. It is useful to see these trends. They are partly a testament to the work that his branch of industry has fostered.

Den hears the sound of sirens far off. There is a commotion ahead on the freeway. Some police are already here. He slows down to match the rest of the traffic and begins to see several police cars at the side of the freeway already. A group of activists seems to have taken over a huge advertising billboard and have done something to it. It does not seem to be showing video properly in real time anymore. Den slows down even more to look closely. The billboard seems to be showing a political advertisement for the upcoming elections. The film is some kind of sales campaign for the Democrat candidate, but the image on the board seems to be getting stuck in certain frames. It begins in bursts, showing the overly made-up face of what is presumably the candidate for the election – Den cannot honestly say that he has seen this man before, nor does he much care. He has learned that some of these billboards can break into the car sound system as it passes. Luckily for him, he has turned off the radio altogether, or he would doubtless be assailed by some of this nonsense. His lip curls at the irony of his own intolerance of this kind of advertising. Well, you don’t have to like it to make it.

He thinks back to the pleasant afternoon he spent with Cathy Kim, and how they ended up in his bed.

Suddenly the image is gone and a slogan appears prominently but looking not unlike a frame in the actual video sequence. The frame contains a slogan: WEISSKOPF MAKES CHILD PORNOGRAPHY. Some more of the film runs and then another: WEISSKOPF IS UN-AMERICAN. Then another: WEISSKOPF THINKS HE’S INTELLECTUAL. And so it seems to repeat.

Den is a little curious but it takes a moment for him to see what is going on. It looks like some kind of smear campaign. But are these activists responsible or are they just exposing the subliminal content that someone else has planted in the ads?

Some international news channels are here on the scene already. That seems strange in itself, since the police seem to be doing their best to shut this down quickly. Perhaps this was staged.

The traffic is slowing down and moving into single file. His mind wanders to the work he did on political advertising in the U.K. a couple of years earlier. It seems a far cry from this. A police man waves him past, staring at the line of traffic with impenetrable black glasses. Den does not look back, but files past and follows the traffic into a line that is bound for the next exit. He follows the ramp as it curves up and around and directs him away from the traffic. After a short spell on this residential looking road, he finds the turn he needs.

Finally he is off the freeway and onto the narrow road that leads towards to hills. It is narrow but straight and it fills him with a sense of release, as if this narrow constraint on his driving were somehow a new found freedom. He puts his foot down on the gas, the only freedom left to him, and enjoys the simple sense of power that the acceleration gives.

As he approaches the forested hills, the road begins to wind around a river and then begins to enter a series of bends to ascend. He has to slow at the first of the sharper bends and notices that the road quality is deteriorating. Den curses the sluggishness of the car and shifts the gear stick into terrain mode. He loathes the automation of this rental. Soon they will automate the steering of these cars too and then there will be little room for drivers. Probably a road like this would cause cars of the future to simply stop and deny the possibility of coping.

He drives up the swinging road to the chateau in the open top convertible. He enjoys navigating these switchback hairpin bends. They illuminate his spirit with an invigorating sense that he still matters to the driving process. This is the life, he thinks. The complete mastery of a simple challenge.

He follows the winding road up the hill, passing a couple of residences hiding in the trees along the way and feels it gradually flatten out. As he reaches the crest there is an open gate marked with the game logo. He steers into it and puts his foot down once more for the last mile.

He reaches the main gate house and from there the small parking lot and cuts through the cars to park almost in front of the house. Judging from the number of vehicles, including several limo’s, other guests have been arriving for some time.

Den puts the roof up on the Cabriolet and uses the cover to check his appearance in the car mirror. A Sunday brunch reception is a very American and very charming touch, Den thinks as he brushes his dark suit. These meaningless functions are done so well here. There are few vestiges in Europe that take themselves seriously enough for such formal occasions. Too bad.

Den gathers himself and steps out of the car. There is a feint smell of smoke in the air, perhaps a barbequeue. He trots up the steps and is greeted by a doorman who checks his ID and dispatches him into the lounge area.

The room is impressive. With only a little daylight filtering into the welcome lounge, the lighting is subdued, allowing candle light to work its charms and welcoming an air of expectation. The date must be approaching Halloween, Den thinks, as the room has been filled with carved pumpkin heads with candles flickering inside them. But it is only mid-October. Well why not? Christmas, after all, starts in November these days.

Tables of canopés are layed out on silver trays with cakes and drinks multiplying at the hands of smartly dressed Latin waiters. A mighty fish, frozen in the moment of capture, spews nuts and vegetables from its gape. People are already helping themselves to the food. There is perhaps a hundred persons in this social pin ball game.

Den wanders in, wondering how long it will take to find someone plausible to speak to. These dinner parties are always exceedingly dull. No one really knows what to say to anyone else. Still, these dos are good places for networking and that is what he has come here to do; on the other hand, some of the company at these things can be intolerably dull. Most of the chit-chat has nothing at all to do with the group that is here. He picks up a glass of champagne-like bubbles and sips at it, surveying the scene.

He strolls, as casually as he can, into to the lounge, observing the silhouettes of small groups that have already arrived against the huge garden windows. He sees a tall, broad man, who seems to stand out from the rest for his sheer dimensions. “Social structure emerged when we left the egalitarian hunter-gatherer life for organized agriculture,” he is saying. “It is a development that is hard to reverse. It has pushed us out onto an evolutionary ledge. It we don’t learn how to fly, we have to perish.”

A woman who is staring at him with an almost annoyed intensity, interjects, “So, you think that society is a time-bomb? That we are not really adapted to make it work? I mean, not fully?”

“That could be true,” he admits. “Certainly, we are far from perfect. For one thing, our intelligence gives us basically anti-social behaviour. Look at the insects: they are adapted to life in society. We have too many selfish qualities.”

“Yes,” says another man, “but our human intelligence is what made us gravitate more socially together in the first place. Our need for grooming? Or do you disagree with that theory?”

“Well,” says the woman, “that has a basis in truth, but our intelligence arose because of the complexity of the relationship between those in the group. Competition, particularly in sexual selection is not the same as cooperation. The arms race of intelligence is a result of psychological warfare, not of peace.”

A short woman, who is more smartly dressed than the others adds, “So do you think evolution will ever change us to make us more conducive to society?”

“Well,” laughs the second man, “natural selection has been all but eliminated in the West. If a new phase of mankind is to emerge, it would have to be in the third world. But that does not seem very likely. The changes would have to be small. We are too effective at changing the environment. The environment no longer changes us.” They all laugh.

“My God, can we allow it?” says a voice to his left. Den is startled and focuses on a man in military uniform. He does not recognize the man but he smiles congenially at him and raises his glass of champagne and his eyebrows together.

“You gave a great talk yesterday–Morris, don’t you think?”

“That’s right ... ” Den extends his hand, changing glass-hand humbly.

“Cedric Hopkins–General Hopkins, by habit.” He smiles. “I think you convinced us all that what we are doing is a force for good. Certainly I think of my grandchildren moving into a better world, where we can all feel safe from the noise of information trash and where crime is a thing of the past.”

“It would be nice to think that could happen. Perhaps I over-sold it a little,” he laughs.

“Oh, don’t sell yourself short, son. You did such a good job on everything else.”

“Well, I did my best.”

“You just arrive? Got yourself something to eat?”

“Oh, yes. I just got here. I can wait a minute for food. I was just trying to get my bearings.”

“You’ve been to these things before?”

“Once before,” Den admits. “A year or so ago, we had a similar get-together, but without al the press attention–and far fewer people.”

“I see. So you’ve been spoiled by our taxpayers before then.” He winks.

Another man sees the general and comes over to them. “General,” he acknowledges and shakes the General’s hand. “And ... ah, I think I recognize you. You gave the talk at the conference?”

“Den Morris. Guilty.” They shake hands perfunctorily.

“Colin Frank. I’m just a friend of the General here, and an investor.” He smiles. “You know–more money than sense.” he laughs again.

It is fascinating, Den thinks, how the old social rules of thumb work time and time again. If you place an important figure in a crowd, he or she will accrete hangers-on in a heartbeat. It is like a magical law of attraction. Fortunately, he thinks, Americans have a natural congeniality about them in a neutral setting. It is easy to get along with people. “So, General, what is your role in all this?” Den asks.

“You mean: what am I doing at this pussy-assed brunch, full of egg-heads and schemers?” He laughs heartily. “Well, I am happy to say that my primary motivation is to eat some of the excellent food that I know will be served here today, as you should too. It too often that we forget to appreciate these fine things, when they are laid out for us in the lap of luxury.”

“Sounds good to me!” Den say.

“Alas, some of the people here are too used to this life. You should put them all in active duty sometime. When you spend time in the field, you learn to survive on less than ideal culinary achievements, shall we say.”

They laugh with him.

“Barring that, I hope to just get to know some of the fine folks who have been involved in this project. I am just a military man, but I like to think that I can appreciate good work when I see it.”

“You are part of the project?”

“Well, I have been following it for some time. I am pretty much a desk job these days, though don’t say it too loudly. I try to keep up with what is going on in the army’s research programs.”

“So, General, do you think the game will have any benefits, in a strategic perspective? Do you think my investment will make be money?”

“I am sure it will.” He looks around him, as if scanning for someone. More people are entering now. Another car must have arrived. “I actually have a friend, who said he would make it here. He works for the space industry, you see.” He sticks his tongue under the skin over his lip, as if trying to move something stuck in his teeth and swallows. “Hmm. He tells me that you would be amazed at the bi-products that emerge from any major project that is technologically challenging. You see, to make these things happen, you have to involve so many creative minds and give them an opportunity and a salary to do what they do best. Under conditions like that, great minds do great things.”

“Most people would say that the space industry is a no brainer,” Frank mutters. “There’s not so many people standing in line to invest in that anymore.”

“Well, there is the voice of a cynic,” he laughs and stares at Den “You should be wary of men with too much money. But then you are trained to deal with them, I would think. You have the right weapons.”

Den laughs. “I’ve heard that the space race did produce useful innovation. Maybe even computers are a result of it: the very technology we are using here.”

“No,” says the General. “Computers come from my turf. That would be bombs. Bombs and planes.”

“Well, now we’re talking more lucrative. Now you are getting me interested,” Frank says. “Arms sales. Now there is a profitable business.”

“Perhaps not for much longer, Colin. Isn’t that part of the vision here?” He raises eyebrows searchingly toward Den,

“As I understand it, yes.”

“Oh, come on,” Frank mocks. “You are not seriously telling me you believe our own propaganda–that, by putting people into a safe environment where they all can meet and play together, that you will promote peace and understanding.”

“Well, aside from putting a decent meal in their stomachs, that is a crude rendition of a complex argument, but essentially correct. But not only that. By putting the opportunity into the hands of American business and our allies, we are providing a financial incentive to turn entertainment dollars into a force for good. It will draw people in, and they will love it. Before you know it, the benefits are spreading out in all directions!”

“I think the lodge is somewhat afraid of the idea, General.”

“Bahh, Colin, you should spend more time away from financial sharks and get out into the world.”

By now, the general has attracted more attention and, by standing in his wake, Den has also been noticed. Several-passers by have nodded to him as he stood here. He feels quite important now, and his posture has begun to elevate in keeping with his new stature.

“Mr. Morris?” says a voice. It is Alfred Cooney, the man who has organized much of the conference. “I would like you to meet someone special. Would you excuse us, General?”

“But of course, take him away to some more interesting people!” He laughs again, in a fatherly way. “Have fun, son.”

“Thank you, general. Perhaps we’ll talk again later.”

Cooney leads Den away from the growing cloud towards a young man, perhaps of his own age and a another perhaps in is forties. The first has classically Jewish features, short and plump, with balding ginger hair and freckles. He is badly dressed in a light flannel suit that looks as though it is ruined by sweat stains. “This is Jim Moskewitz, from the department of marketing studies here in San Diego.”

“Mr. Morris.”

“Call me Den.”

“And this is Jonathan Bradshaw from the University of Southern California. He has been one of the instigators of the new anti-terrorism study bachelor study program.” He is a skinny man, of about the same height, with thick black hair, somewhat better dressed. Den has no idea what his ethnic background might be.

“Hello. A study programme in anti-terror?”

“No less.”

“That sounds interesting.”

Bradshaw begins to describe the basic ideas of his course, as though it were a pampered child prodigy being flaunted before socially inferior parents. His tone bursts with pride and arrogance, stemming from a total lack of self-doubt. Even Den, master of himself, finds the man presumptuous and even boorish. Some of the ideas are interesting, but his words simply seems to say: you probably don’t understand this but I’ll feed you some scraps to be politely condescending.

“But you are part of this meeting. What aspect of the game are you interested in?” Den interjects, when he has reached his tolerance level.

“Oh, what aspects am I not interested in?” He waives loftily.

“Jonathan is a pretty dynamic kinda guy,” adds Moskewitz in apparently genuine admiration. “He is an expert on pretty much anything you would like to mention.”

Bradshaw does not protest.

“I can see that.”

Cooney says, “Den, I hear that you are one of the creative interpreters of the game. perhaps you would tell me about just how you go about turning out mission objectives into what the end user sees?”

“I am in charge of molding the team that does the real work,” Den replies calmly. “I play a part in the process, but there are many others involved. It is really something like the job of an architect, I think.”

“I have heard that your work is quite impressive.”

“Well, my team has been working with gaming for some time, doing profiling and characterization, scenery, subliminal messaging and so on.”

“Directed imaging. That is what they call their mind-control tricks,” says Bradshaw. “It’s all part of the marketing parlance. The different packages take a different attitude and undermine the opposing viewpoints.”

At that moment, a gong sounds and a voice calls for seating to begin in the main dining hall.

“Ah, time to be seated, gentlemen. Why don’t we move into the dining area?”

Den takes the opportunity to wander away from the group he has been set up with. He is wondering whether Cathy Kim is here, or if there is any other talent in the room. So far he can only see well-to-do airbags, huffing and puffing at the wolves in sheep clothing. Someone at a nearby table is complaining a little too loudly. Den wonders how many welcome drinks he has already consumed.

His entrance to the room is a moment of revelation for him. Several groups are already seated and his appearance in the doorway is greeted with several glances and smiles, as if people now recognize him. His performance at the public meeting must have been a greater success than he has hoped for.

He begins to run through his routines for impressing people at dinner parties, a few anecdotes for a suitable occasion, a menu of discussion topics to steer the conversation without making him appear single-minded or boring.

A group sits down at the table beside him and one of the group greets him.

“We enjoyed your talk,” he says. “Are you going to be doing more of the imaging?” he asks. “I might be interested in an internship at your company, if you are hiring.” He has a slightly camp, Latin accent and his features are possibly Mexican, Den thinks.

“Well, we have no current plans. Who’ do you work for?”

“DiPix,” he utters, flatly, with mock gravitas. “But don’t hold that against me.”

“Or tell him he has a beautiful body!” his friend laughs.

Den is looking for Kim; finally, he makes a sighting but he sees that she is led to another table. Kim is speaking closely with an anonymous looking man with glasses. She is wearing a black suit of smart synthetic looking material that is loose enough to engage the imagination but tight enough to reward him with a few hints of her astounding figure. She looks great, he thinks. He cannot identify exactly what it is about her, but there is no doubt that she is both attractive and alluring and he wants to see her some more before his visit is over.

“Look, Den, why don’t you join us here. Tell us some more about what you are doing.”

Den sees that there is no space next to Kim, and the other tables around seem to be filled in advance,. There is no particular alternative so he bites the bullet and says, charmingly, “Thank you. That’s kind.”

The brunch is served seated and Den finds himself trapped amongst these programmers who liked his presentation. They are well meaning and friendly, but they offer him no opportunities for advancement. At best he might learn a little about his competitors here; but, after his talk, that seems to be redundant. He is the man of the hour and only needs to follow up on it. But there is still time yet.

Some of the programmers have come down from their Los Angeles film studios to join the meeting. One could not come owing to an outbreak of forest fire close to his house. They seem to have mixed feelings about the project and begin to discuss grievances that are not entirely appropriate for a brunch held in the lion’s mouth itself.

At least this is not a team of fully committed automata, he discovers. He will be exposed to a little bout of honesty, a rare privilege in his line of business.

“Our goals are being changed at the last minute,” says one called Carlos. “We do all this work on the characters and then we get a last minute spec change on the concealments, sometimes even rendering details.”

A woman wearing a reporter badge, who works for the project, has joined them at the table. She is young and pretty. Den smiles at her. “And you are?”

“Kay Bayley,” she says. “How do you do? I work for the press department.”

“How do you do” Den replies.

“It is hot where I came from”, she says, out of place, as she seats herself. “You must be European?” Looking at Den.

He nods and shakes hands. “How hot is hot?”

“Oh–’bout ninety Fahrenheit. I don’t know what that is in that Celtic time y’all use over there.”

“Celsius,” Den nods.

“I don’t understand the jargon,” she says in a southern accent. “Do you mind if I ask what y’all are talking about?”

The Mexicans look sceptical but play along. One of them explains, “There are several levels of actuality in the game,” he begins. “There are the high level goals (called mission objectives), the interpretation of those goals (called concealment). Then there is rendering of strategy and imagery, where Den is involved. Finally there are the technical algorithms and resource economists.”

“I see.”

“Well, anyway, as I was saying. There is some strange shit going on. We have been getting these ‘interventions’ from the contractor. Some of them have been on government paper and shit. It’s almost like these changes are coming directly from some government agency.”

“What kinds of changes?” Den asks, vaguely interested in this gossip.

“You know, stuff like moral parameters and facial changes to distinguish more clearly between good characters and bad characters.”

“Yeah,” says another. “It’s like all the good characters have to look like fucking Disney drawings with the big sappy eyes, and all the bad guys have unshaven convict faces.”

“And that’s just the women!” the other chortles.

They laugh.

“Yeah, but no shit, man. This is weird. I mean, who are they kidding? I thought the idea of the game was to have these complex characterizations, not this fucking cliché shit.”

“Well I just think it is marvellous that this game is under the guiding hand of such a great man as our president, chosen by God” she says with the kind of conviction that a TV ad or tortured prisoner might redeem.

“Say what?” says one of the programmers rudely.

“The game is about the future of our youth. It seems only right that it should require the highest standards of morality,” she recites.

Den’s heart sinks as the others look at each other in hopelessness. She is an attractive girl, with a pretty face and too much hair, but what she said makes her suddenly as ugly as anyone he has ever seen. The attractiveness of her shell seems only to compound the deceit.

As the discussion continues, frustrations begin to emerge amongst the guests. Den follows the loosened tongues with interest. This could be significant to his role in what happens next. America is suffering from civil unrest in several states due to the increasingly right wing detachment of the government, but the last place he expects to hear this kind of open criticism is here.

The food servings seem to pass quickly. Den does not overindulge. He wants to be in top form, but he eats a little to pass the time. This group is not exactly what he had envisaged for today, but it is slightly interesting to him that some international members of the team clearly feel left out of the enterprise. It is all very well that the American directors want to be in control of the operation, but some freedom must be relinquished if there is to be progress. There is a dark mist of foreboding thickening in these conversations.

Why indeed should they be satisfied with the banner of a single media corporation’s logo when each brushstroke of the creative enterprise is an entity in itself? The game is not just about technology, but about design, architecture, art and drama. It is perhaps the greatest artistic undertaking in history. Why should it be corrupted entirely for some multinational marionette for the US government? Why should the efforts of so many be subsumed by the profits of so few?

As they are served coffee, they are beginning to repeat themselves. “As things stand today, the company is guilty of creative interference and moral embezzlement,” one of them claims. “There should be a proper acknowledgement of the sources of ideas, especially since the game would be an obvious vehicle of propaganda without our concealments.”

“You mean as opposed to a subtle form of propaganda now.”

“Exactly. Sometimes I wonder if we are doing the right thing by working on this at all.”

“My lord,” says the reporter girl, “Have you lost your way?”.

“Jesus, girl!”

“People are just not being treated properly, if you ask me. It’s not just us, it’s all over the country. People are demonstrating in the streets for fuck sake, and still the government is treating everyone like children.”

“Well, we have to trust the government to know what is right for the nation,” she drones in her southern accent.

One of the programmers called Juan Pablo becomes irritated. “Lady, if you want government bullshit blown in your cunt, that’s fine, but shit is going on here that is not all it seems. Why don’t your write that in your fucking propaganda broadcasts.”

She blinks with an open jaw; the blow stings and she is apparently seeing stars in the crockery. Several others from other tables have turned to stare.

At that moment a couple that has risen walks past Den saying, “The protest groups believe that a skilled psyop team can inject actual attitudes and motivations into a willing mind.” They look at Den as they pass and the man gestures towards him, as if implicating him in this little conspiracy.

“How interesting,” says the man’s apparent wife. “In what way?”

Den uses the opportunity to extricate himself from the table. “Would you excuse me?” He rises and nods to the passers-by as if pretending to join them.

“This young man probably agrees with me, yes?” Den tries to look politely surprised, as the man continues, unimpeded. “It is the ultimate form of saturation teaching,” he says. “Eventually people’s applied knowledge of the world will be erased by the noise of mighty slogans. That is what communist and fascist regimes have tried to do throughout history. Look at North Korea today and they are doing a pretty god job. No longer do you just feed people Omega 3 to make them think better–now you can more or less directly inject any idea straight into their brains by targeting their favourite brain centre.”

“It must be very exciting work.”

“But do we fully believe it?”

“Look at the bible belt, for crying out loud! It has been going on successfully for years!”

They make their way to the exit. Several tables are starting to leave the dining area now, for the lounge beyond.

“But tell me,” the woman asks quite seriously, now looking at Den directly, “you were talking about this in your speech. When do you think the human mind becomes saturated? When do you think the noise of so many impulses becomes so great that a person might actually go mad?”.

Den smiles uncomfortably and is saved from answering by another man who has been hovering behind the couple, listen in in on their conversation.

“Don’t mind us wolves,” he says. “We are all harmless here, except for the folks with the money. Can I get you a drink, Mr. Morris?” He offers his hand in a manner that seems to brush the couple aside; they glance at each other and continue on alone.

Den adjusts his composure and asks: “And you are?”

The man steps forward, “Howard.” He offers his hand. “I heard your speech. It was good.” He stuffs his hands in his untidy sports jacket as if searching for something. “Oh I’m from the psychology advisory. I’m not supposed to say more.” He winks. His face is wrinkled with pocket of loose skin as though he has lost weight.

The man picks at the back of his teeth as he speaks, as if to remove some piece of food from them. “Uhmm. Consultant. Strategy.” He nods, as if agreeing with himself.

Den tries to steer them towards the figure of Cathy Kim. She is standing with the same man, still talking at length in a subdued way. She sees him now and seems to jerk to attention, acknowledging him with her chin. The lounge is filling with bodies now. Some glasses of dessert wine are circulating with waiters. Den takes one.

“I am not sure I completely agree with your analysis, you know,” Howard says.

Den looks at him calmly. “Well thank goodness for that,” he laughs, concealing his uncertainty. “Everyone else seems so convinced; I was beginning to wonder if this were all a dream.”

Howard laughs. “Ah, avoid conflict at any cost. It is easier to stab you in the back once it is turned than to face you head on. But I don’t have the social graces you know.”

Den examines the man’s grey looking pallor, wishing that he could escape what seems to be an obvious trap. “So what is your angle–Howard?”

“Well”, he says. “Your summary of the work was fine, but it is this business of using the game to engage people. What was it you said? Something about getting kids engaged in political and social issues by adding real-world context to the games. You make it almost sound educational.”

“I think it is,” Den parries.

“Good. Then there is a chance that it might be. But I don’t think you put the case strongly enough. Have you ever thought of the possibilities for forming players’ basic attitudes to learning through the game?”

“I am not sure I know what you mean.”

“I mean... ” An elegant woman in a red dress taps him on the shoulder and hands him something without interrupting. He acknowledges her and puts the small object in his pocket. “I mean the subliminal signals and implicit cues that are placed into the imagery.” She walks away, glancing only tangentially at Den.

“Well, what makes you think there are subliminal signals?”

Howard laughs loudly. “Nice try, Den. Can I call you Den?!”

Den nods in amusement.

“Well–did you see the cuffuffle on the highway, coming here?”

“The billboard.”

“Yes, the billboard. An angry mob of people tired of being sent these subliminal signals took over the electronics in order to reveal to all, in slow motion, just what the billboard is really doing.”

Den snatches a glance behind him and sees that Cathy Kim has received a call and is walking away from the lounge to talk. “Well, okay. We have subliminal channels in our scenery. That is part of the spec. You must know that.”

He nods. “Of course, but how is it being used?”

“Well, I don’t know all of the content. My company works on certain things, and helps to design the strategies for targeting interest groups.”

“But you have access to these channels. Channels that millions of people all over the globe are using.”

“That is true,” he agrees.

“A position of great responsibility.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

“So, in fact, you have the skills to manipulate the manipulators, if you wanted to. You could even change the course of the development. You are a powerful man, and you perhaps don’t even realize it.”

A plump woman approaches purposefully, with a lesser man in tow and, thankfully ignores Den entirely. Rather he addresses himself to Howard. “Mister Rubin,” she interrupts, “would you do me the honour of allowing me to present you to the Vice Chancellor of the faculty of political studies.”

“I ... Look, would you excuse me. I don’t mean to be rude, but I have to speak to someone quite urgently.”

It seems that the time for substantial conversation is over. People are becoming weary and drunk. “Mr. Morris, you haven’t touched your drink. That will never do. Can I get you something else?”

“No, no thank you. Excuse me a moment, I have to find a t... restroom.”

Howard looks to Den and seems to be about to say something, but the dinner gong sounds once again. Saved by the tolling of the bell, Den thinks.

“Ladies and gentlemen, colleagues and guests, may I have your attention please.”

The talking gradually desists and faces turn to find the source of the voice. Den makes his escape while he can, walking purposefully towards to hallway. He pushes forward through the band of dignitaries and lesser mortals gathered in various states of attire before him. Who on Earth have they not asked to this monsters’ ball? he thinks.

“Those of you here today, are helping to build a better future for the world... ”

Den suppresses a pang of dismissal at the political rhetoric. Certainly there are people here who believe in the game as the important channel of communication in the future.

He decides to make his get-away while the speech is going on.

He almost walks into a man whom he learned to loathe at last year’s meeting. Den has been avoiding the wife of this man, whom he met last year. Celia Waites. She is older than him, perhaps in her forties; she has been stalking him impatiently since seeing him at the conference. He has been trying to avoid a meeting, given his current involvement with Kim, but she catches up with him at the edge of the room.

She is stunning in a tightly fitting dress that highlights her perfectly preserved figure. He is reminded of the reason they frequently ended up in his hotel room last year. She might be older than him but her astonishing figure and elegant attire makes her smoulder in a calm and demure way that he finds alluring.

“Hi,” he says simply.

“Hello,” she looks up at him as if peeking under the rim of her eyebrows. “It’s very nice to see you here.”

He nods. “You look wonderful, as usual.”

“And so do you.”

“How are you?”

She tilts her head. “I am fine.”

“So, how long will you be here in California?”

“I have to leave in a day or so from L.A... ”

“That’s a shame.”

“Yes, it is,” he agrees. “I like coming here.”

“You look good,” she states, plainly, wistfully, scanning him quickly with her eyes.

“So how is your work here? Are you still running the economic detail?”

She nods. “It is chugging along as it should. It gets me out to see some faces, but it does not excite me to the depths of my being.”

“I am sure you are appreciated.”

“Perhaps.”

“Well, these events are fun, once in a while, though,” he fumbles, lost for words.

She smiles and brushes the remark aside. “So there might be time for a quick visit from a handsome prince?”

He smiles at her genuinely. She is quite incredible, he thinks. “I would like that,” he says. “But I don’t think there will be an opportunity. My time is pretty much booked up. Perhaps I can take you up on that another time.”

“Well, I don’t know when I shall be available.”

He nods. “Well, I can cross my fingers.”

She looks plainly back at him more sadly than in annoyance. Suddenly he feels a pang of empathy for her. She is clearly a lonely woman, stuck in a lifestyle that neither appreciates her style nor her wit. She smiles ruefully back, impaling him on her sharp gaze, intense and wide-eyed. “You appalling man, Dennis,” she says. “You know you are the best fuck in this sorry group. I’m not asking you to love me you know.” Then she smiles to make light of it. “Maybe next time, then.”

They exchange stares, then she moves off, pushing her upper body against his, making sure to brush against him in all the right places. He finds himself uncomfortably aroused and sorely tempted.

Jesus, Den. Get a grip, he thinks. Take control of your life.

He composes himself, quenching a pang of guilt, looks back at her as she walks away from him and then presses on to the hallway, suppressing any further thought.

He emerges into the spacious hallway and sees Cathy Kim standing by the sculpture in the crossroads of the entrance hall. She flashes a smile at him as he approaches. “Hello, cowboy,” she flirts. “How was your brunch?”

He blows air through trumpet lips and gives her a significant look.

“Well, it’s a good thing that we’ll be staying here for a while. I am feeling a little giddy.”

“You seemed to be heavily into a discussion about something,” he says.

“Yes, someone I have worked for earlier.”

“So how did you get here?”

“I caught a ride with a colleague. But I need a lift back.”

“Good.”

“So have you made any money? Any contacts?”

Den laughs. “No, these brunches are not for doing business. With luck, I might still make some good contacts, or pick up something useful. How about you?”

“I am here for fun. It’s you I needed to meet.” She smiles; Den feels a tingle of response.

“Happy to oblige. Of course, you realize that if I am going to be helping you with your work, ours fortunes are intertwined.”

She grins back at him. “Then I should do my best to support you.”

“Let me rescue you from this rabble,” she says.

Music has started at the edge of the room again.

“Would you like to dance, Den?”

“So you think they can still pull this off, even with the story broken?”

She puts a hand on his rear and and clasps it. “Like Eisenhower said: take nothing for granted.”

Reboot. The morning greets Sara with damp earth and clear skies. The night’s blessing has left snow on the higher ground and the rank smell of rotting vegetation around the cabin.

Diagnostics. Felt better. Perhaps she should stay here for one more night. Could use a day to recover from the climb up here and tend the blisters that her pampered lifestyle has rendered her susceptible to. She is no stranger to the rugged lifestyle, but it has been a while. Besides, she will not be able to defy the mountain police for long.

Self-test. She winces as neglected musculature bemoans its strife. Legs swing stiffly off the bunk and meet with the icy cold wooden floor. A short trip today. I am not going very far. Need to recharge soon.

Interface. Picking up her wrist console from her pile of clothes on the floor, she performs a quick scan. She is picking up a stray signal. It looks like a VeiVek. That, at least, is good news. She makes a quick attempt to log on to the VeiVek’s console, but there is no answer.

A message has parked on her mobile. It is from the mountain rescue service. It tells her that the mountain is still off limits, and tells her to call in immediately. She considers the request. She ought to call in. She doesn’t want to talk to them; on the other hand, she doesn’t want them coming after her and landing her with a fine. Perhaps she should just accept fate, roll over and wait for someone to cuff and incarcerate her. If there are gang fights out there, it could be dangerous, couldn’t it?

All right, she’ll call in. But not yet. She has an appointment to keep first. Still no word from the French. Still no word from her supervisor at the research council. Fine then, just abandon me in my time of need.

Stow Sara’s private insecurities, and don Vibe-armour for the new day.

Everything was going well for Vibe until recently: work has been steady, progress acceptable. Then came a letter to her group, informing them that her project would most likely be cancelled due to changes in funding priorities. Just a few months of life left, maybe? All her work this past year potentially to be wasted, rendered useless in a single splurge of electronic administrative ink. All for nothing. That is not something to lie down and accept. Not her. This is about her future, her present. And let’s not forget the past, while we’re at it.

She has been trying to contact Lindgren, her co-advisor who also works for the Norwegian Research Council, for confirmation of the letter – and general pleading for clemency, but he has been unavailable. Unavailable! In other words, embarrassed to speak to her. Bullshit.

And as if to add insult to the threat of injury, that was when she began to lose her telemetry. One by one, and then in droves, she lost communication with her babies. All of the chirping that she needed to complete the current phase of her work simply stopped arriving. She investigated and met with nonsense. She wailed for help, but no one bothered to reply to a stupid graduate student. She contacted the group of French technicians who deployed them and received no more than a non-committal text.

With no one helping, it seemed like a good time to flee the city and come up here to see what was going on. So she asked for leave to go into the field. Expecting hesitation, she was met only with administrative obstinacy–a perfect reason to flout their wishes and come here to see with her own eyes.

How freakin’ hard could they make it for her?

Someone is just not on her side. she thinks. But here in the mountains, few things matter in the quite the same way. City matters seem to pale beside the power of nature, and mere human matters are rendered trivial by the basic matter of survival. This is a good place to be at a time like this.

You freak, Vibe, she thinks. You’re just too used to getting your own way.

Recharging. After breakfast, she feels detached from the city. Even a brief bout of messaging with Bea does not refocus her self-image. She needs snacks for the day: chocolate to stave off the provinciality of her surroundings.

Access goodies, digg, snop, cleansing sugar. A young man is in line in front of her at the front desk. He looks like he has been holed up here for a few days. He looks bored and a little too comfortable. He too craves something sweet.

“We have chocolates, muffins, sugar candy... ”

“Yeah, I’ll take a muffins,” he says.

Vibe cringes. He could be quite good looking, but the momentary illusion is shattered by this linguistic stupidity. “It’s a muffin,” she hears herself protest, involuntarily and instantly regrets it.

The man turns around. “Yeah, a muffins.”

“No,” she insists, “just muffin. There is no ’s’ on the end.”

Shut up! It doesn’t matter, girl.

“I’m pretty sure he said muffins.”

“One muffin, several muffins. It’s English.”

You just can’t leave it alone, can you?.

“Yeah? So who made you the expert?”

He takes his muffin and leaves with a wince.

Jerk. She shudders in annoyance and embarrassment at her own bitchiness. Adding extraneous esses to English words is a Norwegian disability that her upbringing has taught her to despise. Muffins, caps, binders? Had Peter Green been here, he would have just loved her now for defending their language, wouldn’t he? It is important to know these things, if you want to impress someone. Now she has gotten off on the wrong foot with this guy, probably one of the few people here at the cabin at this time of year.

Queue service event. The desk-guy is looking at her blankly with characteristic Norwegian alacrity. Now it is she who is standing there stupidly, thinking about the wrong things,

“Chocolate please,” she says. “And don’t spare the horses.”

The man looks at her oddly as she waves her wrist interface over the sensor to pay. As she does so, a text message comes in on her mobile,

”Relaying, ad hoc. Will be at Leirvassbu tomorrow evening. Problems. Confirm receipt. Laurent.”

The French. So they are not falling over themselves to meet her. Confirm receipt, my ass. What does she expect? They probably only take her half-seriously, just a kid. Just a grad student.

Then she sees the time the message was sent. Yesterday, last night. The message has been travelling ad hoc, they said. That means they have not been able to contact her directly by main net. Where are they? Somewhere off the net.

Well. At least that gives her time to rest here today. She is closer to finding out what is going on, even if they are not telling. Cool, if she could figure it out without them...

She arranges to keep her room for another night, takes the chocolate and flees to her room. She is not supposed to go anywhere, but still. Her mobile is already visible to the locator devices of the police, and the cabin personnel know that everyone is supposed to stay put while they round up the war-gamers, but she does not like leaving things to chance.

In her room, she unpacks what she needs from her large backpack and stuffs it into a smaller day-sack. Clothing herself for rainy weather, but light travel, she abandons the luxuries and concentrates on equipment for the VeiVeks. She ought to be able to find a few near here, given their last reported positions. A little food. Chocolate. She downloads maps into her mobile, in case she loses the signal out there. She is almost ready for Moon-walk.

The VeiVek project is a collaborative project between NASA and ESA and the RKA. It is a test of space engineering and robot rover technologies for rugged terrain exploration and mission maintenance. On Mars mission, or Titan trek, little robots like this have to get around in rugged terrain and perform actual work: everything from collecting samples to repairing equipment.

Some, of course, would like to use these robots for defusing mine fields or other terrestrial bombs, but that is not an application that she feels inclined to think too much about.

They come in all different sizes and classes of capabilities. Instead of one all-singing, all-roving robot, the space technologists have gone for a strategy of making several smaller, lighter, specialist robots that work as a team. A creative, collaborative ecology of workers.

Some are made in the U.S., some in Georgia, some in the Netherlands. And then there is Sara Stensrud. She has been teaching them to collaborate.

She needs to carry around some connecting probes for emergency inspection. The little robots are all supposed to interface together, without wires, but they do not all have the same hardware or software. That means she has to wander around in the wilderness looking for them. If the central controller had been operational, she could have called them all in to her location for analysis, but she cannot even interface with the controller station.

This work is a brilliant idea. What better locations than the mountain tourist trails to see if the bots can monitor the environment, perform maintenance and detect life? But times have changed since the idea was envisaged. The mountain regions are full of challenges, both environmental and human. Now they have become a playground for gang war-games.

Beam me out of here, without meeting anyone and with the minimum of fuss and bother. Options? Transcendental meditation probably only works in the Himalaya. There is the door...

She crawls out of the small window in her room and clambers through tall wet grass and marshy mosses to the trail, hoping that she can get far enough away before someone notices that she is gone. She feels the inclement cold of the morning bite into her, but soon she will be boiling hot and sweaty from climbing. Off we go. Back in no time, so no biggy...

In daylight optimism, challenges are fresh and bodily suffering soon forgotten. The trees are no longer sentinels but ushers, welcoming her to a path that winds and shrinks to a speck, far too quickly, up the forested valley. The horns of the valley rise up vertically, guarding the pass, way off in the distance.

On the other side of that channel, she should find what she is looking for. Perhaps an hour or two away.

Like an instrument on automatic control, she starts walking.

She spots her first VeiVek some time later. It seems to have become stuck on a boulder patch that is wet and mossy. She waits to see if it can sort itself out.

It will not be long before the weather becomes too poor to have these rovers out walking around. They will have to plant themselves for the winter or go to a collection spot. The carbon nano-fibres make excellent legs for walking, but they will not cope with the snow and they do not grip well on mosses and slimes.

The little locust-like device is only about fifteen centimetres long and gets around by walking and hopping on its six insect legs. Its ultra-light carbon nano-fibres and plastics are dark and almost translucent; it almost blends in to the scenery invisibly. Supposedly there is an ultra thin hot air balloon inside here somewhere that could lift it out of trouble if need be. If it is true then this one seems to have forgotten it. It has a small probe and collector for measuring soil conductivity and samples of vegetation. The little bio-memetic robot hops across a boulder like a grasshopper, skidding to a tentative halt on the slippery rock plane.

Vibe interfaces with the robot’s software and verifies that it is functioning normally. No problems here, but it has no signal from a controller.

Neither do I, she thinks.

She downloads some of its data and sees that it has been faithfully collecting rain and soil samples on and off the trail for about a week, without talking to a controller. It’s memory is nearing full.

She crouches down to take some pictures to verify the condition of the path and match it to the Veiv’s assessment. Some of the small leaves here, which have not been rained away, are coated in a dusty deposit that could be from the metal ore processing plant down at the head of the fjord. She can analyze that separately. Now she will need samples from the top and bottom of the plant to see any anomalous DNA effects due to radiation damage in the flora and fauna. A single sample will not show much, but a principal component analysis should be able to show up some kind of trend if there is one. There will be sufficient data to correlate any patterns with the maps of the magnetic disturbances. Someone else’s job, but she is happy to be a messenger.

Solar radiation is quite high as the magnetic pole steadily weakens up here. It is an ironic turn of events that the genetically manipulated plants introduced here to provide a fuel source for the larger VeiVeks, could be reprogrammed almost as soon as they are introduced in to nature by the increased radiation. What exactly will the mutation rate be when the magnetic pole starts its fibrillations?

In the distance, an echo, almost imperceptible. A human voice? A bird? She moves on. Nothing to see here, folks. Move along.

She climbs higher. At the top of the pass, the valley opens into a plateau: Martian moonscape, re-touched in green. Scratchy crystalline deposits of something coppery glisten on the surface of the boulders here. The scree could be nature’s quarry for mineral riches, but the large boulders and deep cracks are simply a hazard for the robots. Only the largest maintenance-bots could cross this, with their paint-guns and cleaning solvents, painting their tourist T’s and scrubbing off graffiti that would have been unthinkable when she came here as a child.

Officially she is out here to observe these little robots, investigate the controller problems, and confirm their ability to perform maintenance and detect bacterial life. But most of that could have been done from the so-called comfort of her office, or through a VR interface to the game that she has been working on. It is an indulgence, coming out here. She could have waited. But Vibe doesn’t wait. She acts.

Hey. Snow is supposed to be good at trapping bacteria and gases. Perhaps she will find some of her kids along the snow line. Best keep plodding up.

Plod. Plod.

Approval. Out here again, on the expanse of this range, a shell of urban platitudes seems to separate and lift from her dorsal conscience. It brings with it a clarity of perspective that is unusually humbling. It seems hard to imagine why she has been so wound up about things recently. Troubles with childish boys, posing as men, dreams of men posing as dreams, worries about her work and the possible demise of the project. These ancient mountains hardly care about such trivia and yet they have survived millennia. Surely, if she can survive them, she will live.

Still, she should never forget that she is here on sufferance. Her advisor, or one of the three who are supposedly guiding her in this work, Professor Hart, did not take to the idea of her field work.

She argued with him.

She recalls his face becoming grimmer and grimmer as she felt herself decline in his estimation. Hart, the big man. It was Dr Jonas Lindgren, a well-known ecologist, who had just moved to a position serving on the research council, who defended her. Hart seemed to view her as a perfectly formed chocolate tea-pot, perfect in form and theory, but ready to melt at the first meeting with reality–as soon as she got into hot water. Lindgren, though always distracted and distant, had encouraged her to pursue traditional scientific values of empiricism.

“It could not be more important,” Lindgren said, “especially when you work in the technologies like information science. Engineering is seldom practised as a science these days. It is driven by stupid bureaucrats like I am destined to become, if I stay here too long.”

She is grateful for his moral support. But it was her father, before he died, whose encouragement filled her with the approval to take a chance on her convictions–to pursue science as an adventure, not as a bureaucratic penance, that would bring more aggravation than comfort. He worked then for the Centre of Non-linear Science in San Diego with the Americans and their French colleagues. With Peter Green.

Plod.

Vibe’s family has been instrumental in her making. Her father was a simple man who liked nature. Her interest in ecosystems comes from him. He would never have spoken openly of something so pretentious though. Her father was a private man, but his work was something out of the ordinary. Something that she had never felt comfortable asking him about. He was not a military man, but he was visited by a lot of military types: men and women in uniform. She would hole up in her room and play the clarinet when these American visitors came. Later her father would apologize and tell her to be careful around such men. As a twelve year old, she never did fully understand what he was talking about–now she could only guess.

Her mother has always been the intellectual of the family and Vibe is somewhere in between all of her family members.

Her little brother, strangely enough, was her main comfort growing up. She realises that brothers and sisters are not supposed to like each other, but her brother was straightforward and attentive, if nothing else. She played his games with him and they explored VR together when they could no longer get away to see the Real World. Their mother had the bright idea to give them a supplemented education, which kept them more isolated than normal kids of their age. She promised them that they would thank her for it eventually. Her brother made it possible for the apparent chore to be fun. She would help him with his studies; he would help her with her bitterness at being singled out amongst her friends.

She doesn’t hear much from him these days. He spends much of his time living a lie, brandishing secrecy, evasion and circumlocution in order to prevent anyone, except his closest, from knowing him; specifically from finding out that he is gay. It is sad, she thinks, to invest so much effort in implicit deception. But how is she any better?

‘Vibe’ was also her brother’s joke. It came from her penchant for American accents and her mastery of the clarinet. The Americans could never pronounce her middle name. Her real name is Vibeke, but the Americans pronounce it insistently as if it were part of the anatomy of a duck, so he shortened it with a hip kind of brevity that better fit her sensibility. And her musical interest.

Vibe.

Sara.

Vibeke.

Stensrud.

Duck.

Beak.

America.

What are you thinking?

Then there was Bea. Almost family. They did pretty much everything together once they had finally managed to become friends. They looked at each other skeptically, from afar. Each one presumed that the other was aloof and would not be interested in talking. Each one secretly admired the other.

Vibe.

VeiVek.

Vibe.

Disappointment.

Peter Green.

After her encounter, she forgot about him for a long time. She would tease boys with her newly found sexuality. It was a good way to wrap them around her little finger, or to wrap herself around their little finger if she so desired. Always playing the role, cool Vibe. She and Bea. Until she realized who she was.

Look at me. Just a spoilt bitch. I’m just a freaking cartoon character.

So she studied. Long story. Cut it short. Suddenly, the VeiVeks stopped responding at her terminal. She contacted the American team and asked who was working on the field deployment.

That was when the surprise struck. Peter Green. She saw his picture. It was him. Years later, in a different world, they were to meet again. She had not forgotten her encounter, but it had been consigned to the past. But the temptation seemed too great to resist. Suddenly there were two reasons to come here in person.

How rational is that? Coming here, hoping to re-live a moment of fantasy, that she has undoubtedly amplified beyond all reason in the resonance of her mind? Certainly it is not rational.

But, after all this time, she wants to know what he is really like. The thrill of danger from a safe friend of her father. What more could a girl ask? So why? If only to dispel an adolescent fantasy.

Vibe.

Plod.

Vibe.

She treads from boulder to boulder, always with excellent balance and coordination. The steady plodding, the regular breathing, the aching of muscle. This sudorific incantation to the mountain.

A whoosh and then a crack that echoes once only in the damp air. A feint fragment of a voice wisps in the wind. She remembers the warning about gangs. The gangs with the paint rifles.

She looks around and sees a splash of yellow paint nearby. The larger VeiVek that she is standing over perks into life as its ocular sensor detects the flagrant colour. It begins to move towards the area, ready to act with its solvents. But it is a hopeless task. This little eco-robot cannot possibly carry enough solvent to wash away this kind of vandalism, even recharging itself regularly from the modified plant sources.

The rain will probably do it eventually. The paint is most likely water based. She considers talking sense into it, but just makes a note to alter their programming later tonight.

Then she sees it.

Another little robot, not far away, hit by a splash of the same paint. Probably it sent a distress signal and this other one has been on its way to the rescue. Now the rescuer is reevaluating its priorities. The rain of paint is throwing the VeiVeks into confusion. It is all happening too fast for them. They expect their world to change slowly, now the environment is changing around them.

She clambers over the uneven ground towards the other robot. It is damaged. Not just discoloured. It has lost a leg and another is broken. Helping it would be useless at this point. It needs to be repaired.

She considers putting its thirty centimetres into her pack to take down to the cabin, but decides against it. Might as well leave it here as a net relay. One thing she has learned is that these robots are actually communicating–working the way she has always intended them to work. Now that their central controller has gone away, they have started to make the best of what little communication they can to establish contact with their neighbours, to solicit help when needed.

The loss of a central command is actually perfect for her research. The idea was always that, instead of centralized control, they would form a community of collaborating agents, each with their own specializations, and each working independently as part of a collective. A society of mind, as Minsky put it. But NASA and the RKA were against the idea, telling her that it was too uncertain. They wanted a military-style centralization of command and monitoring for the robots. Like Cape Canaveral on ice. Now the central command point has been taken out somehow, or is not working. The little robots have started to communicate with each other instead, just as she had originally planned.

Another shot cracks close by and she hears actual laughter now. Stupid male Neanderthal jerk. She can’t stay here.

Another paint-ball lands near to her. Are they shooting at her or at the robots? Shit.

“Fine, herd me fucker.”

She pulls out her hand-held to get a better interface and scans for private band com-channels to see if she can get a signal strength. It might tell her how close they are. She can see three networks in addition to the public access point: NRBKN, NLSKN and NASA-VV. She starts at the last of these. It is a signal from one of the VeiVeks. Instantly, she forgets about the immediate threat and attempts to log on to the signal. It accepts her key code and her password and she is admitted to the interface of the robot.

She wonders just how far she could reach into their little network by piggy-backing off their ad hoc internetwork. If she can talk to one, and it can talk to another, who can talk to another across the horizon... she might, in principle, be able to access nearly all of the little robots.

She accesses the newcomer and looks at its communications log. It has contact recently with two others. She tries to follow their addresses, but they have moved out of horizon, probably when this one came here to render assistance to the crippled unit.

The status of the two robots robot seem to be ok, apart from its broken legs... She attempts to get a picture to see what is going on. She reaches the camera in the larger robot and it is working well. If she could interface to the ad hoc network, she could use the VeiVeks to survey the landscape.

She hears another whoosh and a splash of colour explodes onto the rock some metres away from her. More laughter now, closer. It is clearly her they are targeting. Good thing they are incompetent, probably drunk. Time to get out of here.

She recalls the message she received this morning and takes a moment to echo the gesture by inserting a message into the communications buffer of the newcomer. Then she adds a backtrack instruction to its priority list and sees it falter in its efforts to cross the boulders, and turn.

The sunlight level is low today, so its power levels are probably low, but it will eventually go back the way it came.

Vibe frees her hands of as much mobile gear as possible. She picks up the broken VeiVek and takes it with her. She will carry it with her a short distance to form a relay closer to the cabin. It might be possible to use it later to access the VeiVeks from the cabin room. Then she turns and skips rapidly across the boulders, in a zig zag, back to the cabin, back the way she came.

Blink.

A head turns, face staring up through eyebrows... In the semi-darkness you would be forgiven for thinking her skin was blue. Her skin. Yes, definitely a she. The eyes close for a long moment and re-open. The shadow of long dark hair, pushed behind ears, frames a narrow but attractive face, apparently in need of rest. Skinny blue-brown arms protrude from a lively white sari jumbled with untidy youth and energy. A child? A young woman? Age can be deceptive, isn’t it? It doesn’t matter, either way.

In her family’s eyes this girl is dead.

Blink. It is still there, in the forefront of her mind, even after all this time. The whole journey. Shame and dishonour, unleashed by an impassioned refusal. Propelled from an ordinary family home, into unforgiving streets of Srinagar, with only the clothes on her back and the merest hope of escape. Some connection to her past died at that point, as though a binge on some alcoholic dream finally damaged her brain with a selective loss of emotion so that she could turn her back and leave without regrets. And yet it was the indulgent folly of her enquiring mind that brought her here, along an unlikely trail, far from that shepherded upbringing to this virtual sweat shop, to a new and completely different country. But that was almost seven years ago, and there is no time for this day-dream.

Blink. Preeta knows her limitations, but the computer refuses to play along. She is totally exhausted from these past few days, yet the cursor blinks at her incessantly, waiting for her input. Now! it says, I am ready, what are you waiting for? Type!

Her concentration hovers between the captive screen and every avenue of possible digression, as she tests the boundaries of her fatigue. If she can hold out for just a few hours more, there will be a chance for sleep. She has the night off from the chapati van. If she can just escape from this high tech incarceration.

Outside, palms sway in a late afternoon gust of wind as if rattled by the passing traffic on the carriage-way. She senses a heavy, brooding air mounting the roof of the city, just beyond the glass pane. It brings a slight thrill of nervousness, like an encroaching menace over a Gotham Asia. With the fan in her tiny bedsit broken, it will help to have a cooling force tonight, however inconstant it turns out to be.

Preeta Dhawan rises from her place amongst the rows of programmers and walks modestly to the washroom to splash some water onto her face. She tries hard to maintain outward appearances here. She must not show that she is weary of the work she has been assigned. She needs to keep this job, at least for now, even if it is causing her some measure of mental anguish. More importantly, she must not show any sign that her boss’s intimidations have any effect on her.

The washroom is empty. She is afraid that someone will notice how often she spends here. Fortunately this futuristic domicile is spacious and busy and few have time to pay her much attention. She looks at her greying visage in the high tech mirror. She is tired, yes, but look how far she has come. She has escaped from one oppressive life, moved into two new ones, but she is half way to her dreams, isn’t she? Her features are drawn, but a few hours sleep and her charming youth will be restored. If that is the case, why doesn’t it feel that way? She stretches her neck muscles.

She feels, these past days, that she understands how a turtle must feel being kept in a box. Her right flipper aches from the typing and the mouse of her computer. Her rear end is numb from sitting. It is made worse since they would not even give her a left handed mouse. She takes a moment to savour the lower light level in the washroom, relieves herself and then she slips out of the washroom into the hallway, to return to her terminal.

“Wait!” shouts a voice from down the hall and she feels a javelin of dread pierce her good fortune. It seems almost inevitable. She turns to look at the fat little man who brought her here and who still holds her captive. “What progress have you made?” He sleazes towards her with an artificial smile. Her boss. He knows that he owns her, having brought her here from the Indian branch, where she started her unlikely career, in Bangalore. He reminds her of it at every opportunity. She calls him Mota. Fat boy.

“Nothing yet,” she replies as congenially as she can.

“You’ll need to work extra hours to solve this. This contract is very important you know.”

“I know,” she says. “But I should take a rest soon, you know. You know, approach it with a fresh mind.”

“You will do as you are told, girl, isn’t it!”

She scowls. “There must be someone else you can ask.” She knows there isn’t.

“You will stay. There are people coming to inspect our progress. We have deadlines.”

“I need to talk to you about something important.”

Mota looks straight through her and gestures to someone else. She knows he is listening to her, but there is a way about him that tells her she is incidental, that she does not matter to him. She is just another piece of machinery in this office. Well, that is about to change, she thinks.

“Later. When you have done your chores,” he mumbles dismissively and wanders away, already focused on someone else.

She looks at him coldly, uncertain whether to hate him or feel sorry for him. She could simply leave. But can she sabotage this flagrant attempt to control her? No. For him it is simply his right. She can see the wheels going around in his supposedly superior head. I do not belong to any caste, she thinks. I belong to society. Nor do I even want to belong to India. I am culturally Asian and that is enough. Don’t look at me that way, you bastard.

He will not deign to touch a computer. He is a Hindu snob. He just gives the orders. Typical that he thinks the computer is just another Untouchable. Stupid primitive. He is like some hopeless bureaucrat trying to be a Bollywood parody of a real man. Alas this little private internal speech does not help her situation. He could find someone else to help her out, but he does not want to. Like her father before him, he sees her as his slave, using guilt to reign her in. As usual, through his own inaction, his refusal to employ more analysts, he manages to get her to do the job. Her conscience is her weakness and she knows it.

But she hates the way he treats her with utter contempt, giving her a look of utmost superiority. Like a servant, or a server. With a little sticker slapped on her forehead “Dalit Inside”. Not that he would recognize one if he saw one or understand what that meant. But she must not let him see it. He is not going to get the better of her mind.

He is abruptly distracted by something else and turns away, seeming to forget about her. She takes the opportunity to slip back to her terminal, out the scope of his radar.

As she walks into the terminal room of this office tower, her gaze extends to the darkening outside world. One can see far from here. The lure of the Padang rises in her. She follows the progress of a solitary tuk tuk amongst the shining air conditioned vehicles as they pass by the Samad. Imagine if she just jumped onto it and asked to be taken to Europe. She has come this far, so why not?

Her glance falls glumly back into the matt sheen of her monitor. There is too much light reflecting in it, giving her a headache, but she cannot spend time worrying about that now. She did not take time out of the University to feel sorry for herself. She needs the money and she is working on a bonus.

She has been working on this particular job now for months. The program is coming along, but tracking this bug has led her nowhere. Even a wild goose chase would be preferable to this insufferably endless game of cricket. Her only trump card is that she is actually good at her job. Whatever shortcuts she has had to take in her education, she has surprised herself in finding her calling: analysis. That is why he needs her. I am good, she thinks.

She begins to scan through the code where she left off, adding tracers. Preeta has never been much of an artist, but she can admire some of the newer fragments of code, like stanzas of poetry, that illuminate the passages of hackery in the original program. They stand out. She has been programming now for three years, but she does not feel yet that she has found a style that she can live by. Programming is almost like a lifestyle. The code she writes says something about her basic attitudes.

These nested loops, have a certain strange beauty to them. There is no fat, every statement is a precise and minimal instruction to the kernel exec. There is a push and pull, a question and answer, a conversation going on that she finds fascinating. Never would she have imagined that such a program might be possible. The complexity alone is breathtaking–and yet she understands it, piece by piece, verse by verse. She almost feels that she can play the game in her own mind, but by reading these logical statements on the monitor in front of her.

The ticking revolutions of a watch’s hand meet her casual glance on screen two. The test program is still running with only one tenth of the modules loaded. Without this amount of simplification, she would be unable to run a simulation at all.

She sighs in frustration. Any normal girl would be surrounded by her girlfriends chatting about romance and manipulating men, but Preeta is not any normal girl and she has had her fill of manipulation. For ten years of her life her father ruled her by guilt from his wheelchair.

Her teachers have taught her the power of simulation here at the University in Kuala Lumpur, and she has found that it is a considerable help in figuring out the chains of cause and effect within the program. Most of her studies at the University have been simulations. Malaysia is not a poor country, but funds for education are always limited. Besides, Preeta has always enjoyed fantasy and using her imagination.

The levels fluctuate up and down madly. The power spectrum is almost down to 1.5 – a long way off exponential. She has been told to expect this, and her comparisons with the limited data that she has been given by the contractor confirm this. What is strange is that the queue lengths are not growing significantly, but the CPU load is at such a low level. Everything is taking a long time. Instead of rising to the provocation like a hive of angry wasps, this simulation is merely grinding along more like a windmill in a light breeze.

This is not going to happen today. Wait! There it is again! On the output log, a message appears.

She recognizes the message. She has seen it several times lately. They have stared to appear quite often now. In the logs the program is complaining, “No exit this way. Better backtrack and try again.”

At first the message seemed to defy explanation. It did not sound like a programming message, or an error condition. What could have caused it? What was it asking for? Then her curiosity is peaked. She begins to search in the code base, using her analyst access to access the module docs. She discovers that the message is not an error message at all. It comes from the game itself. The message is advice to the VR players in a tactical setting. It id telling them to change their tactics.

Now it is appearing in the logs, perhaps due to some buffer overflow or memory error. The message is clearly an error, but ironically appropriate. Backtracking is exactly what they now must do in order to solve this mystery. They will want this fixed. Their employers see the game as too important to leave it alone. She smiles at the thought of the game actually playing its programmers.

A lone siren wails outside.

The sky has shrunken into a dark glove around Kuala Lumpur as the incoming message registers on her console. There is little more than reflection to be seen through the windows of the programmers’ den now. Her reflection is drawn and weary. Preeta tenses with a mixture of excitement and trepidation at the continuation of this adventure. Suddenly she does not regret having to stay late.

She has been exchanging messages with this mystery X who calls himself JP for weeks, even months, passing on her findings. All that she knows is that this person works for the game consortium, or at least has access to its private channels. She chooses the game silent mode as always; she cannot talk aloud here in the den. Also, she routes the visual to her glasses for privacy. No one could suspect that she is not still debugging.

She finds herself in a small room that looks like a cafe.

“It has been a while,” she says. “I thought you had gone away.”

“Had to lie low for a while – when the story broke. Even though it was expected eventually, it was not supposed to come out this fast.”

“So why now?”

“I need your help again.”

“I think I know what you are going to ask.”

“Good.”

“This is exciting”

Pause. There is a long wait. Are they sizing her up, or is her counterpart actually a computer program?

“I could make it more exciting. You could really help us.”

“Maybe you could get me a job in the U.S.?”

“You want to work somewhere else? The good life? Beautiful women?”

She smiles. The person, if it is one, does not know that she is a woman. Naturally she appears as a man in VR.

“Sure. Beautiful women. :)”

There is another pause.

“The U.S. is not good. Europe is best. We can move you if you are ready.”

“Why not the U.S.?”

“Public interest.”

“Which public?”

“The whole world.”

“I won’t be doing anything un-ethical?”

“You have already done the most ethical thing you can by helping me out.”

A slight thrill runs down her spine. How can she be even entertaining this idea?

“I’m ready, Thelma” she says.

The avatar smiles back. “Are you female?”

She nods.

“Well, hot damn.”

“You are not a computer program?”

“No. LOL.”

There is a pause again. Her boss is hovering close by.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Now look, be careful. Someone might come looking for you soon.”

“Wait. Someone coming.” She pauses the session.

Claire Thambusamy comes over to her terminal. “Preeta, can you look at this?” Claire is her friend. She has been searching the files of the American consortium database for several days now to see if they can confirm their suspicions.

“Claire, not now. I’ll come by in a moment.”

She pauses, sending her an enquiring glance, and then nods and leave again. Preeta snaps the session back on.

“Ok, sorry.”

“As we speak, people are meeting half way across the world to turn this into the biggest vehicle for propaganda since the invention of radio.”

“I know,” she says. “But I don’t think it is going to work.”

“The programmers at the Norwegian office seem to be pretty much in the dark about all of this. They are only working on the modules. They probably have not seem what is happening in the field.”

“Really? Interesting. I’ll follow up on that.”

“And there is this message that is cropping up everywhere. I think I am starting to understand what is going on.”

“A message? From a user?”

“From the exec. I’ve seen it in the game, you know. How the rules of the game allow players to made sudden transformations of behaviour. It is what I want for myself, you know. It says, ‘backtrack and leave”’.

“Time to go now,” says X. “Back soon.”

His presence dissolves and she exits from the channel too, left feeling disjointed.

Preeta feels a chill, suddenly alone with a secret that is too big to keep. In this city, it does not feel right to be living a step ahead of anyone. Better to be a shadow, anonymous and invisible. The way that she has been for half of her life.

Some say that fortune blows in on a cool sea breeze. Tonight there is considerable fortune on the wind, for the unwary Preeta, though she does not know the half of it. That a fragment of an idea, half held in a moment of inspiration could steer the course of an unencumbered human being, from one side of the planet to another, hardly bears serious consideration, and yet this is what is about to transpire in the most peculiar of ways for her. As usual, she is sitting at her terminal in the programmers’ den.

From her place. she can see along the corridor to a Caucasian looking man with short clipped hair and what looks like a suit recently made in Bangkok to a blueprint whose sell-by date expired in the 1970s. Yesterday it was an oriental, perhaps Vietnamese hanging around.

He is watching us, she thinks. No. He is watching me! The man has been loitering with an unconvincing, almost studied disinterest for an hour now in the lobby. She is surprised that no one has come to meet him. He seems to be studying the room plan on the wall beside the secretary, Monika, as if looking for someone by name. Eventually Mota waddles out to and talks to him. They talk for several minutes and they both turn and look at the terminal room, but at no one in particular. Then they talk some more and Mota leaves the man. Just before he himself leaves, he turns to look at her one more time.

Mota comes over to her; she smells his sweaty odour home in on her.

“We need someone to take these welcome packages to the hotel where our guests will be arriving tomorrow. You will have to do. You can leave early.”

Early! she thinks, failing to protest publicly.

“Who was that man? What did he want?”

“Mind your business, girl! We keep you here for your womanly charms, not for your questions.”

Little does he understand, she thinks.

“Now, pack your things, they will be arriving. And there is one more thing.”

She looks at him without speaking.

“I want you to persuade them that we can do the job.” Then he continues: “You are a young girl and if you want to help us all here you will entertain them and work through the night to get this all done. It is absolutely necessary that we impress them.”

“What exactly are you asking?”

Another siren. What kind of city is she living in?

Preeta steps out of the chill of the air conditioning into the hot soupy moisture of the evening. She could get a cab from here, but she feels like walking. It has been too long since she felt the wind on her face.

She traverses the stone pavement towards the central reservation of the main road ahead, letting the cold ache of her air conditioned bones be replaced by the sweaty glow of Kuala Lumpur’s true air condition.

The white arches of the Mosque and its palm sentinels gape at her as she crosses the busy road.

Traffic, traffic. Bustle and fumes.

Allah, do you remember me?

What would your punishment be for one like me?

Her head spins with thoughts and fears, excitement and uncertainty. Who has really been betrayed? Who is the victim? Is she really redeeming herself now through this secrecy? Should she feel ten feet tall, or as crooked as a roach?

The night’s choir sings its woes as the streets slides past. This brooding torrent of sleep-deprived events orbits, not far from her conscious mind.

Preeta reaches the lobby of the hotel Shang-ri La just before 20:00. The splendour of the hotel seems somewhat beyond her means. She feels instantly underdressed compared to the sleek attire of the hotel clerks. The space-age curves and expensive looking art are practically dizzying. The decorated floor makes her wish she had expensive shoes.

The bundle she is carrying feels ridiculous to her. Full of useless leaflets about their company. It is as if these people are helpless tourists. They will no doubt take a taxi to the office tomorrow, like anyone in their right mind would. Why is she here then?

She approaches the desk and requests to leave a package for a Mr. Brown. The visitors have already checked in. Is she late? No, they are early. The desk clerk points to them. They are sitting in the bar lounge, just a short distance away. She curses fate and looks at her own attire. How inappropriate is she? She considers leaving.

The visitors are a man and a woman. His accent is American and hers is European perhaps, but she has dark eyes, skin and hair. She looks almost Indian except for her curls.

“Hello,” she says. “My name is Preeta Dhawan. I am from the office here. I was not expecting you to be here yet. Please forgive my dress.”

“Our plane arrived somewhat early. The jet-stream was in our favour and we were given a landing slot straightaway. Lucky.”

They ask her if she will join them and retire into the Horizon Lounge.

She wants to hide her face. “I could not. Forgive my attire. I came here straight from the office to give you these. I hope you don’t think me rude.”

She hands the man the package; the woman takes it.

“It is some directions and information about getting to the office tomorrow. But you must be very tired now.”

“Oh don’t worry. We have slept a little on the flight. You must be tired yourself.”

Is it so obvious? Can they see the lines around her eyes, around her weary soul? Preeta’s expression conceals nothing of her agreement. “I am.”

She looks at the woman’s dress, wishing that she could hold it in her hands and feel its rough texture. The textile is so unlike the shiny silks of Asia. Yet this woman’s skin is far more like those shiny silks, except for tiny golden hairs than glisten slightly in the bright fluorescent light.

“We are looking forward to visiting tomorrow and hearing about your progress. We have some new plans to unveil.”

They ask her what her position is. She answers them that she is a senior analyst for the company.

“And you are working so late?”

“My boss takes the company very seriously,” she pries out. She feels utterly exhausted, as though she is feinting in a dream. They can see it. She is ashamed. They look concerned. This was not the impression she ought to be giving. Mota’s desire to push her around comes before his greater common sense, she thinks,

“Your boss should take better care of you, if he does not want to lose you.”

“My boss is a fool! It would serve him right!”

She immediately regrets her pompous outrage. Revenge might be a motive but it is a response to someone else’s motivation, not hers. She will not be such putty in his hands.

“I am sorry. It has been a long day. Forgive me! That was very rude.”

The guests smile.

“We are flattered that your company thinks so highly of us,” they say cordially.

Of course you are. Asia will do anything to placate the West. It is such a two faced hypocrisy: while condemning Europe’s Imperial past, they sign on to the new so-called global empire of commerce. Global, except that it is controlled by the U.S. and the E.U... But she must not allow her passions to rule her.

They are polite after all.

So should she be.

As she steps out of the hotel, she looks up at the sky and feels a certain relief flood through her. Her duties for the day are over; she has survived it; she can go home and sleep.

As she reaches the end of the drive-way, she turns onto Jalan Raja. A screech of tyres roars above the choral night, and there is a commotion in the street.

People scatter from the path as an aging white van pulls up at high speed. She watches disbelievingly as it approaches. It seems detached somehow from reality, as if it were part of a sim or something in the VR.

This is the real world, isn’t it?

The van skids to a halt right in front of her, the back doors fly open. She staggers backwards a little, as two men jump out and run towards her. Behind her she vaguely hears someone run around the other side of the van behind her. Are they police? What is happening? Her world seems to slow to a treacle of dazed speculation as she watches them jump out; feet hit the tarmac, legs bend and absorb the shock; a head turns and dark eyes blaze through her; his mouth opens, body straightens and aims itself like an arrow through her chest. He is heading for some place behind her and there is danger there. She starts to turn her head to see what commotion is stalking her.

Someone throws something dark over her head and all dreaminess is shattered by the reality of physical contact. She feels a jolt and a suffocating proximity. Hands push her, hurt her. She finds herself bundled forcibly into the rear of the van, unable to see. She tries to scream or cry out, but she has never tried it before and it hardly seems to be in her nature; the feeblest hint of protestation emanates from her.

Voices around her sound almost Russian, but not quite. She can no longer remember the face that she saw. Her brain is drowning in adrenalin. She might consider listening more carefully, but more pressing matters call for her attention in her hindbrain.

She feels naked under her thin attire, and all too exposed to men who are holding her down. She feels hands on her her thigh. There must be at least two of them, Suddenly she fears for her virtue. Is this to be it? The moment that innocence is wrenched from her without grace or passion? She could at least be grateful that she is no longer anywhere near hear homeland, or her next fate would no doubt be an ad hoc funeral pyre.

There is clanking as she is dragged into the metal van, and she feels the rough corrugations of the floor of the van press into her back. Her head hits something and then men are holding her by her ankles, preventing her from writhing. She is pinned down like a butterfly in a collection.

The van takes off at high speed and swerves around several bends. The van is speeding through the streets, anonymous and nocturnal. It is one of a thousand vans of its description, with nothing special to identify it, nothing to pin-point her in the city’s folds.

She is tossed from side to side, as if the very hands, which are clasping her limbs, are shaking her. The swerving subsides, as if the van is driving in more of a straight line, but the white flames of fear explode inside her as the strong hands holding her legs and ankles pull apart her legs.

Allah the merciful, please no!

A hand reaches up into her sari and tugs down on the front of her panties. It remains there for a while, as if they are making a judgement about her, discussing her as she is forced to wait.

Something scrapes her leg and she tenses and almost manages to scream. But expectation fails in its threat; she feels a knuckle on her genitalia, which remains there for several seconds. Then something sharp or prickly thrust into her panties. The hand lets go of the elastic, snapping the panties shut and leaving a cool presence touching her most private of places. A hammering on the van wall brings the van to an abrupt halt, bashing her head into the wall behind her.

The men slide her along and throw her out of the van. She lands badly on the hard road surface, twisting a wrist, and blindfolded by the garment over her. Even though the fall was short, she finds herself paralyzed with shock, with no idea where she is or what lifting the head covering might reveal about her surroundings. She has hit her head several times.

For a moment the world is white and ablaze, then slowly the rushing sound of water reveals itself to be merely an illusion that her mind has conjured. The waves of nausea and the blinding numbness segue into a more normal reality; the burning cools, the world returns and sounds begin to manifest themselves through the fading rush of the tide.

She hears the sound of people around her. As it slowly sinks in it brings some comfort. Then she hears an American voice, “Jesus, did you see that. Hey – are you all right?”

She hears a boy shout, “Mummy, mummy, look!”

Sound clearing, vision returning.

A British woman shrieks in return. “Micky, get away from there, right now. Come here!”

No Micky, help me.

“Micky – now! Come here.” She hears nothing more.

Then she hears an American voice.

“My god, ma’am! Are you all right?”

The man’s voice does not run away. She wants to reply, but she is still too shocked. The voice seems kind. There is sympathy. She is so tired. Americans.

“Careful. You look a little shook up.” Man.

“Can we take you somewhere.” Woman.

Slowly, over a time she cannot comprehend, the world returns and she believes that she has been dreaming.

There is a little cafe with cheap Formica tables close by. They help her out of the road and almost carry her to the cafe. She breathes slowly and evenly, but every movement wracks pain from her thin frame.

“Thank you,” she musters, remembering herself.

“My god, you poor thing. What happened? Do you know those people?”

“We should call the police.”

“I need to use the rest room,” she sobs. She does not think she has fouled herself, but she needs to be alone. She needs to remove whatever it is they put inside her panties.

“But we should call the police.”

“No, no. Please, let me ”

She enters the little cafe. The owner has come out to look at her and, seeing that something has happened, ushers her inside. The Americans follow her. She feels a shield of protection for the moment, but the world is suddenly not the one she knew a few minutes ago. It seems as though she is a tourist, or that she has undertaken a journey. She finds the room.

Inside the little cubicle, she slowly unwraps her sari and looks down at her skinny hips. Her panties a bulging open with the scrunched up paper. Irrationally, she hopes that they did not see her unshaven crotch. As she looks down at herself, she thinks about escaping from this place, from her heritage, from her life–to a place where she could have herself and wear fine perfumes and sleep for six hours at a time.

Sobbing now, she removes the paper carefully and unfolds it, half expecting something to fall out. It is a simple note written on scrunched paper, nothing more. It is hand written. It says simply. “You work for us now. Keep your mouth shut and tell no one. You will receive further instructions.”

She stares at it in terror. How could this be happening to her? It is like something from a movie. She begins to sob uncontrollably and hot salty tears run down her face. She wishes that she could go home to her mother and be held in her arms. And be forgiven.

Then her cold iron mettle gradually kicks in and her face straightens until only resigned bitterness remains. That is not going to happen and she is used to running for her life.

She straightens up and adjusts her clothing and her eyes. She still has her small bag and there are tissues here in the washroom. She makes the best of a lost cause and summons herself to return to the world.

As she emerges, she sees the Americans waiting for her. They are still here. She has almost forgotten about them already.

“My dear, sit down awhile,” says the woman.

The man says,“We bought you some tea. Do you have a home? If you need to call the police... ”

“No, no. I have to go. Please, leave me alone.”

She instantly feels guilty for resenting their ineptitude. They do not fail her out of malice, only helplessness.

“I’m sorry. I can take a taxi. Please, thank you for your help.”

“Well we are going to follow you there. If you need to clean up, you are welcome to come to our hotel. It’s just around the corner from here.”

“No. You are very kind. I’ll be fine.”

They look at each other uncomfortably, as though they are not doing their solemn duty. “Well, okay then, but you mustn’t be afraid to ask if there is anything we can do.”

“No, thank you.” She smiles at them, as well as she is able and flees their presence.

Back in her little bedsit, she lowers herself carefully onto the mattress and suppresses some tears. What exactly is it that just happened to her?

Later, she allows herself to sleep.

When she returns to the office, Mota looks at her with a curious horror as though he perceives that something has happened. For a moment she wonders if ... no, even this bloodsucking tyrant would not sell his humanity to such a bidder. No, there are surely physical signs of her ordeal that she has not been able to conceal. He can see that something has happened. But, that is not it either.

“Where have you been?” he demands. “Our guests have been here for an hour or more. What has happened to you?”

The guests! She has completely forgotten about them. Even now, after hours of sleep, her body is deadened by an exhaustion and apathy that she cannot overcome. She wants to be good, but her physical incarnation is fading.

“You cannot remain here in that state, girl!” he moans. “What the bloody hell has happened to you? You are late for the meeting.”

“I must talk to you about what is going on,” she blurts. She has tried before, but actually, what is the point? “There is a problem in the game that we can’t solve.”

“Don’t be silly, girl. All problems can be solved with a little imagination. If you clean yourself up, and see a doctor, you’ll be in ... ”

“I can’t fix it.”

“If we do not, we shall not be able to meet the goals set by PlasmaScape.”

“We are going to lose this contract,” she tells him.

And for the first time, in a long time, she feels the hot blaze of his unequivocal stare.

“You must go home. And do not come back.”

Surely he cannot mean it, after all they have been through?

“You cannot dismiss me!” she barks back. “I am the one knows what is going on here!”

“Then you will just have to put someone else in the picture.”

He is sacking her. He wouldn’t dare.

She could fight it. She knows the ropes. She has not fought in causes for nothing. But, as the shock of the redundancy wavers, the spectre of suspicion creeps its way from her fluttering stomach into a white pain in her temples. She realizes what she must do.

She goes to her desk and reconnects, tries to locate her online friend.

“Help me. I need a job. I need help.” She explains what has happened.

They say: “Pick one: U.K., Holland, Norway. ”

She misses the mountains from her childhood – but she might even have family in Norway. “U.K.”

“Ok–Norway it is. There is a project there that you can work on. But it should be soon. Someone wants to find you. I want to keep you hidden.”

She was planning to stay here for some years to earn enough money to travel. Now it seems those plans are forfeit. As she is thinking, a letter arrives. It comes within minutes of her conversation; it comes from Mota.

She looks at the letter with a strange kind of awe, holding it as though it were toxic parchment, with a mixture of reverence and revulsion. The letter is simple and to the point. It informs her that her services will no longer be required at the company of PlasmaScape Asia.

She knows what she must do. She hastens to copy her data and extract the necessary information before her authorizations are revoked.

Then she takes up the offer. The Europeans. It is almost too much of a coincidence, but why does she care? She was saving to travel and now she can. An electronic letter arrives in her mailbox and it is copied to Mota, even before he can make her unemployment official. It signals her transfer out of the country.

So Preeta, just twenty-three years old, is going to Europe.

“And you will not help them?”

She smiles in defiance. “I have never known a day when I did not awaken to an enthusiasm for my job–to leash the people to their obligations through the wonders of taxation.” Laughter.

“The trouble is that it is the rich who have been responsible, in their tribulations, to make this country a better place to live in. It is the poor who let us down and create a burden.”

“Those and the women, who have never worked.” An uncomfortable look: eyes move back and forth seeking approval in the faces around him. How curiously unsettling to realize that your long held prejudice is starting to wane from the public consciousness, that one is no longer guaranteed a sympathetic ear for a choice folly.

“You male-chauvinist bastard,” laughs the woman, too inebriated to care.

Den emerges from the private room a little dazed, edging past this conversation. There seems to be some kind of commotion. People seem to be leaving.

“Mr. Morris?” A voice arrests him as he finds his bearings.

A military man, out of uniform, but still wearing one in his mind, approaches, together with the General he met earlier.

“Let me introduce you to Senator Dean,” he says, his voice a sound like shovelling gravel.

“So you are the young man I have been hearing about.” Grey hair, lean. Moustache. Alcoholic basso profaino.

Den shakes his hand. “Hello.”

“I have been hearing about your work on the directed imaging and it seems to me that you have your finger on the trigger.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have used exactly those words... ” A little smile.

“Walk with us. Let’s retire to a quieter place.”

The idea of escape appeals strongly. Den scans the room for Cathy Kim. His feet tell him that this would be a good time to sit down, but he should not just abandon her. She has been trying out the drinks all day and she is probably doing the same now.

“I shall probably be working with a lady I met at the conference,” he adds, glancing around. “She works here in San Diego at the game research facility. Perhaps we should include her... ”

“Yes, I saw you together,” his voice a smile. “But not this time. When a man comes to work for national security, they sow buttons on his lip. The ladies were always pretty good and undoing buttons, if you get my drift. We should keep this to ourselves for now.”

“Am I going to be working for the military?” he says carefully.

“A distinct possibility, Morris. I think we can come to an arrangement that will be of great interest to you.”

Den gets a closer look at his uniform than he cares to see. It is an ugly fabric, like some cheap, used stretch fabric in a faded colour. “Well, we are quite busy at the moment, but we always have resources to take on new challenges.”

“Excellent. Come on. let’s go through here.”

He walks with a politician’s confidence through a house that he makes his own simply by being in it. He seems to know where to go and what to do. Den admires his air of command, his apparent composure. A man in a dark suit trails them from a distance. The senator barks an instruction to him. “Get me the British guy and Bob. We need them in the library right away.”

They enter a small library, and the suit closes the door behind them. He redirects to Den. “Sit down. Take a seat.” He seats himself next to a dark-wood table, befitting for a senator. The room seems to accept him, as a cell would a virus. He slots neatly into a receptor meant for something else.

“Son. your speech was good, but it missed the point.”

“Really?”

“That might be harsh. Let me tell you how I see it.” He takes the time to wave some signal to the suit with the earplug. “We are all here to talk about this game technology. And to address all this hoo-hah about its political motivations, as you know: rumours started by a disgruntled part of our society to undermine the good work we are supporting.”

Expectation on the senator’s face suggests the need for a response, but Den is tired. He waves his head in non-committal receptivity.

“Let me be direct. We, in the civilized world, are under attack today. By forces we hardly understand.” His eyes blaze probing holes in Den’s head, but Den is an experienced manager of his appearance. He is not ready to divulge his opinion yet. Dean proceeds, brashly: “It started with the millennium and it has been growing in its sophistication every since. Groups in the developing world who hate America, its democracy and its superiority in industry; that and left wing element of the anti-globalization, anti-Western activists. They are doing real damage to our society. We have kept this under control for a long time, but then with the failure of the Patriot act and the civil liberties trials undermining our powers in reigning in the terrorists, our main crisis today has become the breakdown of order. There are too many media channels for a society to support a sense of identity.”

“Yes,” Den adds, in a momentary pause for breath. “It is the theory of virtual nations. We use it in our advertising models. People are condensing into smaller groups through common interests, using the media channels and the Internet. The sense of national identity is reduced as a result of that.”

“So they tell me. But I don’t completely buy it. We have always had a free press and the Internet has been around for a long time. That did not prevent Americans from being loyal to the constitution before. If you ask me, I think it is tied to the decline in the armed forces. All this so-called redevelopment in commercial use of the network will all be in vain if we cannot protect American from the insurgents.”

“The insurgents.”

“Don’t you watch the news? We have major unrest in Seattle and in New York... ”

“The demonstrations?”

“Yes, the demonstrations.” A tremor of annoyance belies the extent of his intoxication. One has to admire his posture in such a reduced state. Den decides to hold off on any judgement, given his obvious condition. “The police are authorized to use tear gas, but it doesn’t help much. These people are organized. They want a free lunch, and they have forgotten what it means to be patriotic!”

“We have been looking at ways to change the law,” the General adds.

“Changing the law?”

“Yes. But there is resistance amongst the judicial system. Even the government’s own men in the judiciary are reluctant to help.” He points to a plaque on the wall of the library, next to a poster of former presidential busts.

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion,
or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom
of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to
assemble and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

“Yes, quite,” Dean mumbles. “It all seemed to clear back then. The recipe for oppression is individual rights. But it’s the paradox of having to limit freedoms to grant freedoms: that is what the law is about. But let’s not get into that here. Poor Mr. Morris will think we’re wasting his time with politics.”

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Den quips to deflect from the embarrassment of the admission. “I am happy to take the weight off my feet for a few minutes.”

“All this game talk is a good initiative, but it needs to be used more thoughtfully. I believe we should view this technology like a training sim, to expose young people to the rigours of discipline from an early age. To the chain of command. All right, I know there are popular locations like the Iraqi war-fields where there is virtual tourism, of whatever they call it. But we need to tie it to discipline. There is no conception of it today, and we see the country going to hell.”

“Research shows that computer games encourage skills like problem solving and manual dexterity, concentration... ”

“Then why aren’t our kids growing up to be decent law abiding citizens?”

Den shrugs. “I know of several theories... ”

“Any minute now they will call me out to declare Marshall law in the state of New York or Washington, and I will not have sufficient resources to take charge. The chain of command, in our country, has become muddied.”

Den considers his options. He is uncertain of his role here. Is be being approached to do something? Caution could be called for.

“Well, you know, we actually spend a lot of time in our company working out what we call ‘command pathways’ in our imaging. You know, how to push people’s buttons, the power of suggestion.”

“Is that a fact?” the General quips, with comic lack of surprise.

Of course, he is expected. “I suppose that is why I’m here... If you are interested, I could arrange a presentation, showing... ”

The senator changes track. “I want you to remember the service you are doing to millions of kids around the world who look up to the ideals of freedom and justice. You are empowering them to take control of their lives with this game. I don’t need to be involved in the details. I just want you to ally with the goals of this administration. We need to mold the players of these sims into decent, moral people. We need to spread traditional American values. And Britain has always been our ally and has shared those values.”

Den wonders if it is really true that he is empowering the game’s players, or whether he is simply programming them to do the US military’s bidding. But, this is not the time for moral qualms. He has a business to run.

“I am sure the scenarios we create are entertaining to them, and that gives them a sense of escapism, and a means of experiencing a wider world. That is why most of the game is set in a facsimile of the real world. The aim is not to take poor families out into outer space.” He laughs.

“Entertaining isn’t the half of it, son. We would not have started this project if it were not for the benefit this will have to hundreds of thousands, eventually millions of people all over the world, in bringing them closer to a free world. Our aim with this project was not just to be nice to our allies and our enemies’ oppressed peoples, but to bring the message of freedom, America’s core values, to the very fore of consciousness. To show them what it means to have freedom of speech.”

“That seems like a noble effort.”

“It is noble, that’s for sure. It is also necessary. Never before have these countries been in a better position to threaten American sovereignty.”

The General coughs artificially.

“Our moral superiority, our values. We have given them nuclear weapons, biological and chemical weapons, our information technology, our industrial techniques.”

Probably Japan and Europe played a role, Den thinks, but he does not interrupt.

“It is the West’s destiny to lead the world into its future. We practically own the future. America is in the lead–it always has been, but our righteous governance is slipping away because we are not keeping the peace.” He eyeballs the General. “This game has only two useful purposes: to provide us with communications intelligence and to spread the West’s moral values to the rest of the planet.”

“I have heard about these goals. Though they have never been stated quite that bluntly to me.”

“I feel that you are on our side, Morris. You have clearances for a lot of the data streams. You’ll filled out the NDAs. You are a team player and I hear that you are doing good work with your team in the U.K.”

“Thank you.”

A knock at the door breaks his momentum; the suit opens up for a shorter, wider man. They look expectantly to see who it is, framed by the doorway.

“Hello, Bob.”

“What’s this about?” he asks. Seeing Den, he nods. “Ah, I see. I thought we we’re going to wait.”

The senator uses the interruption as an excuse to visit one of the left-over trays from the dinner. “Brandy anyone? Bob?”

“No.” Grumpily. “Hello, Mr. Morris. Congratulation on your talk.”

“Thank you.”

“I was just telling Den about our ideas.”

“That might be a little premature. Not something to be discussed at this late hour over brandy.”

“Ah, an essential freedom, Bob.”

Den offers his hand.

“Time for me to leave,” says the General and nods to excuse himself. “Good luck, Den.”

Den looks at him, hardly having time to digest his meaning.

“The fact is,” Dean continues, “we need new measures for law and order. We are looking at reports of civil unrest in several parts of the country, and in Germany and the Netherlands.”

Den speaks up, deciding that he needs to remain outwardly confident to deal with this unusual, impromptu meeting. “I have heard reports on the news channels. I thought it was some kind of lobby group phenomenon. An outgrowth of the anti-globalization riots.”

“Well, that might be true, but they are increasingly organized. And in spite of the work of our intelligence agencies, we have not been able to tie them to any particular known disruptive organization. If I were a terrorist, I would use this kind of cover to further my cause.”

“Terrorism is usually bombs and guns, senator,” says Bob, who still has not introduced himself.

The senator ignores him. “People not only have private channels, but they are increasingly disenfranshized with the politics of civil society. They are dragging us into the ghetto, the slums. Increasing in mob activity. Organized crime. We need every possible means to counter these threats. If we don’t, our police forces will no longer be effective. Should we call in the army on our own people? Will we degenerate into an old Soviet style state?”

Bob turns to Den. “I am Bob Regis. Secretary of the information agency. We know of your work for us.” He sighs and gestures towards to senator, who is sampling his brandy. “There is a lot of truth in what the senator says. Mafia’s and mobs. They need poverty to succeed. Protection rackets. Look at Naples–it is a poor region. Russia. He is right about that much. We are at a critical juncture.”

“It is cultural terrorism,” Dean moans.

“We are looking at ways of using the same techniques that we have employed in information warfare to curb these developments,” Regis adds. “You see in the past we have been focusing on reprisals–going in and taking out key targets with smart bombs. But that has never been an effective measure and it is actually harming us now in our goals.”

“What about fines, sanctions?” adds Den.

“Sanctions are useless. For a start, it only works on governments or companies. These people are not usually that organized. Secondly, it was never any punishment to them. You can’t subdue people based on a threat if the threat doesn’t work. These people are used to living with pain and hardship. They can’t keep their own lives together for five minutes, how would the threat of chaos move them? Regular policing doesn’t work. It just starts a physical war with barricades arsenals and fortresses in the poor regions. We have seen it in New York and Naples with the mafia and in Iraq in Fellujah, with the Afghan Mujahadeen in the mountain regions... ”

“Our aim is more subtle than that,” Regis says philosophically. “We like to think of it as attitude engineering. You know, it’s what you do with your teenage kids, when they start getting unruly.” He laughs. “It is a more long term battle of hearts and minds. Something that we have not done very well in the past. It has taken Congress years to understand that we need the help of our allies to tap into the nation psyches of our neighbours. We need to be able to think like them to know their soft spots.”

“Of course, we have our foot in their doors already with corporate America’s strong position in the soft drinks and fast food markets,” Dean suggests.

“Well, they are of more symbolic importance than anything else. In some places they even harm us.”

“Attitude engineering has many philosophies and many angles,” Den inserts. “That’s what I do.”

“We owe a debt of gratitude to the churches here,” Dean says. “They have been generous in their support of this initiative and have taught us a lot about addressing these issues.”

“There is the IPA,” Regis corrects.

“They are too goddamned intellectual.”

Den guesses that they are talking about the Institute for Propaganda Analysis, but he is always amazed by how Americans talk in three letter abbreviations without realizing they have many possible interpretations: what about the Institute of Practitioners in Advertising, or the International Phonetic Association, which he has often arrived at by accident himself, in looking for the former.

“Half of our votes belong to the Evangelical churches. They have a lot of votes. We have to serve their interests first.”

Den is slightly taken aback. “I really didn’t know that there was a direct involvement with the religious organizations.”

“So now you are privy to our little group.”

“We are really working with the church?”

“No. Not a single church. They are just involved in this project to lend it some moral fibre–and some technical advice. They have been doing attitude engineering longer than most of us. They are a partial substitute for our lack-lustre political institutions. But don’t worry, you don’t have to believe to be on the team.”

“But the government is involved... ”

“No. The White-house cannot be directly involved in this game, nor can Whitehall. The French would eat us alive if they made a connection. So don’t go saying that too loudly.”

“Then what?”

“We are keeping this as a hands-off venture. We handle it just like we handle all these deals. We have family connections and we make sure it is profitable for the right people.”

“But, we can’t manage this all alone. We have already been this road.”

“Yes, Bob, and our dependency on foreign contractors threatens our agenda. How can be trust these people to uphold American moral standards? It is an open invitation for the mob to move in on it, for terrorists to corrupt it. We don’t even hold the power of veto on changes anymore. What the hell were they thinking?”

“Unfortunately that is the meaning of democracy,” Regis points out.

“Bob, you’re an ass sometimes. Have I ever told you that?”

Regis winks at Den. “Often, senator.”

“I say we should keep a firm hand in this technology. I don’t like power sharing. The more you dilute your assets, the less effective they are. We should consider affirmative action measures like withdrawing patent protections on certain inventions for national security. The private sector can only be rewarded if they serve America’s primary interests.”

“I think that would be a mistake. I repeat my suggestion of granting patent rights only to trusted U.S. companies. It is in the best interests of everyone involved that these businesses have the right to make money.”

“Surely the government can better regulate these matters?”

“We do it by deregulation and pricing. And a little under the table incentive. That’s the way we have always done things. I don’t see any reason to stop now. It is every patriotic industrialist’s basic right to be able to profit from the generation of wealth. It is the basic platform in which our country is based.”

“Yes, I agree. It would be a dangerous path to tread if we were to begin reducing the freedoms of businesses that contribute to government’s own funds.”

The senator focuses on Den. “Mr. Morris. Let’s focus here. We need your help. You are going to be the man of the moment for a little while at least. I want you to help us get to grips with this content management. We have a serious problem to solve. Forget about our difficulties for a moment, and think about the possibilities. Now that the press is on alert, we have to be even more relentless in our pursuit of these goals. Every opportunity we have has to be used to promote this return to civil society. There are limits to how we can put pressure on foreign countries. Trade agreements are one possibility, but they don’t work like they used to. I am already working on the British Ambassador to help us with the E.U... Can we get those egg-heads at RAND in one this? Mass media is not just television anymore–I might be old fashioned, but I know how this works.”

“You know that the Nazis were the first to use television for propaganda purposes?” Bob comments to no one in particular.

Den acknowledges. “The power of television is well known. Butan. A Himalayan town that installed cable TV in the 1990s. It tore into their traditional society, making them all into devout consumers in no time at all. Girls even started prostituting themselves to pay for the latest hair products.”

“I don’t think this is an appropriate topic of conversation,” Dean snarls. “Bob, cut it out. Den, can we include you in this work? There is money to be made here. Corporate America is willing to foot the bill for this. But we need to act fast. The problem is only going to get worse and it will be harder to make our case now that the press is on our tail.”

“Our agenda is well intentioned. There should be no reason to keep it under wraps. As I told you yesterday, my choice would be to work at two levels, both direct messaging and advertising about our program. Increase public awareness.”

“Multi-tiered strategies are always best,” Den nods. “If you can get some information on the background to me, we can integrate it into our other game related activities. It might be possible to redeploy some of our resources to make a start before Christmas–the holidays.”

“Faster than that, son. I believe this has to start now, within the next week. I need to show investors that this is going to give results.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he relays flatly. His eyebrows reveal that he does not take the promise very seriously.

“Good!” The senator rises unsteadily from his chair and strides deliberately forward to shake Den’s hand. He rises, understanding the signal as one of dismissal. “Den, it has been a pleasure meeting you. We’ll be in touch. Bob and I need to talk alone here. Bob, don’t go away. Give us your private ID and we’ll contact you.”

Den touches his watch and beams his card to the room.

“Excellent. Will you be here for a few more days?”

“I’m leaving the day after tomorrow.”

“Good, we’ll be in touch.”

Den is left wondering what exactly what has just transpired. Wham, bam, thank’s Uncle Sam. Why does he have the feeling that he has just been recruited by the secret service?

Released from the little library, he steps into the hall outside, right into the face of someone having an animated conversation with a counterpart on the other end of a mobile link. The man clearly signals irritation ‘Watch it, buddy!’ at the interruption and waves, almost pushes, Den aside as he gesticulates. Den side-steps him and walks back towards to central hall. The place seems to be emptying. People are collecting coats.

He sees Cathy Kim. She looks pleased to see him and he mingles into the group she is standing in. There is a smell of smoke again. The party seems to be breaking up, he thinks.

A Brooklyn accent is waxing: “All civilizations conk out after a while. What makes you think ours is any different?” A large woman with her hair in the most elaborate bun Den has ever seen.

“Well, say what you will about Reagan and Thatcher,” another is saying. “The world had fallen down a well when they came on the scene. We were stuck. It wasn’t important what direction they took, whether they were moral or immoral: from a purely theoretical viewpoint, they were the only two who could generate a strong enough message to pull us out of that rut. Then once we were on a level playing field again, it was possible to change direction.”

“But are we really headed anywhere? Where is society going? From one rut to another? Seems to me we’re just grinding economic metal. We’ve fallen into a new rut of trading without vision. We have no direction. The days of future visions seem to be dead.”

A Texas female voice. “Well, I don’t know anything about your theory, but I do know that their hard line was a welcome trait in my part of the world. How comforting to know that there is a scientific explanation for it.”

She whispers to him. “What’s going on?”

He is about to say that he would explain later; he remembers the General’s warning. “I was going to ask the same thing. Where is everyone going?”

“Home. Fires. We’re being evacuated.”

Texas: “We must not accept a reduction of profits that would deny us our very ability to run the country. The privileged classes must prevail. Without the rich, there is no one to inspire the poor. The class society is the only stable form of society.”

“You know, I think I agree you are absolutely right. If these liberal intellectuals argue for wealth to be spread too evenly, there will be no place for money to flow. Rivers flow from great mountains, not over flatlands. If we level the playing field too much we shall reach economic oblivion. It is the second law of thermodynamics.”

Brooklyn: “The beginning and end of society. Control basic freedoms for the good of basic freedoms. It is the paradox of society.”

Kim pulls him away from the group. “Come on, let’s get out of here. The party’s over. We’ve got what we came for.”

They step out into the hall. The blaze of sunshine entrance is gone.

“You have a coat?”

“I left a sweater in my car. you?”

She shakes her head. “Acclimatized native. I can sit with you?”

“Are you kidding?”

People are streaming out to the wardrobe to collect their belongings. Den Morris and Cathy Kim weave through a tunnel of conversation.

“The U.S cannot continue to foot the bill of this global economic policy... You know, we tried consolidating our allies through the GATs treaty. The goddamn W.T.O... It’s a disgrace the way they treat America... America used to be a place people ran to escape from the rest of the world. Now we are having to re-infiltrate every corner of it.”

“Some say it is revenge... The demographics will kill us. It’s the aged.”

Don’t listen.

Out into the thick haze of a darkened sky.

Den is glad that he closed to top of his rental. The party has been brought to an abrupt close due to the outbreak of major fires in the California forests. The sky has turned black even earlier than usual and it is raining ash. They have to evacuate the area and return to the city. There is now a choking smoke in the air.

Helicopters and light aircraft can be heard in the distance. “The conflagration is complete out of control. You’d think in this day and age that Man would know how to tame a fire.”

They trot across the gravel to the sports car.

He sees a woman looking at him. She is tall and thin and dressed in a red dress. She has long straight auburn hair to contrast with her pale complexion. He remembers her from the party. There is something unusual about her, or about her demeanour. She could be beautiful, but there is a coldness to her. She seems to stare intensely at him for a moment then she gets into the back seat of a Jaguar and the door is closed by a driver dressed in a simple black suit, black shirt and black tie.

As the driver walks around, she feels her looking at him through the window of the car, but the light is reflecting at too steep an angle to see in.

Strange, he thinks. It was almost as though she knew him. The plates say simply VASCON. Is that a company? Sounds like an oil company.

In the window of the car is a flag that he does not recognize. So she is not American.

Den nods, opening the passenger door. “Do you know who she was?”

“Who?”

“Red dress, thin, moody looking woman. Long hair.”

Kim looks annoyed. “No.”

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Dermot’s ex-colleague is wearing one of the new nano-T-shirts which flashes advertising slogans at you, a badly fitting pair of what might pass as trousers, in some circles, and several spare tyres worth of blubber that is vying for freedom between his trouser button and the base of his T-shirt.

That’s what it’s like here at SmartMob Gaming and Hosting, he thinks. A far cry from the crime team’s slick and polished headquarters, with its middle class family employees and their matching high-street shirts. How to choose between this nerdy fun and the straight boredom of the folks at the crime team? Dermot does not feel that he really fits in with either batch.

“We’re getting a visitor,” he says. “A girl!”

He loiters, showing off because Dermot has moved on and he hasn’t. He is trying to prove that it is he who is the loser. His geeky colleague laughs at his own realization. Camp blathering touches Dermot’s sympathies, but he cannot bring himself to fall into the role of commodity geek. The glove simply doesn’t fit.

“Jan said that she is a programmer. One of the testers from our out-sourcing in Malaysia.”

“Really? Why is she coming here?”

He shrugs. “He seems to think she can help us or we can help her. Some kind of internship maybe. My – eh – sources tell me she could be working with you and your spook friends.”

He looks Dermot up and down, trying to understand why he is concentrating on something instead of gossipping with the same enthusiasm.

“Aren’t you curious?”

After all, this is a gaming company; life is a game. Dermot is searching through some rooms in the VR, as if looking for something. He is not making a lot of sense.

“You know, you shouldn’t go that way. You should... ”

“I am not trying to win,” he says coldly. “I am looking for something.”

The other man seems to think about this for a moment, regarding the whole matter with some suspicion, before losing interest.

“You know, I heard the Malaysians don’t eat meat, so we are going to have to find some new take-out.”

“Really. Isn’t that where chicken satay comes from?”

“Well, I think that is for tourists.”

Dermot tuts in frustration. “Something isn’t right here.”

“Do you think she’s a Muslim, Buddhist or a Hindu?”

“Maybe she isn’t religious at all,” says another colleague, entering the little programmer’s den.

“You think? I mean, we are talking about a proud Muslim part of the world, right next door to a Buddhist nation that was invaded by Catholics.”

In any other setting, Dermot would be exasperated by this oral masturbation, but here it is par for the course.

“Fine, Petter. But, can you look at this? I don’t get why this server is so slow.”

Petter leans over him, dangling his bulbous stomach and smelly T-shirt next to him. “What’s your trouble?”

Not what’s the trouble, or how can I help, but: what is wrong with you? Superiority is second nature; super size, super ego.

“It’s like moving through treacle here.”.

The larger man does his best to appear nonchalant. “Well that could be part of the normal behaviour of the new filesystem,” he struts. “The filesystem characteristics are quite poor since they added journalling with the ACLs. We upgraded about a week ago.”

Dermot sighs. He might be right, but something tells him he is just barfing off.

“So what do I do? No wait, look at this. The CPU is working busily on something here... ”

Petter, put-out that his theory might not be correct, adapts quickly. “Oh right, it could be this new thread they have been testing on the subliminal engine. If the network is slow to reply, these processes go berserk. They use busy-waiting. It might mean that there is a bug in our friends’ program, down the hall.” He smiles at his own innocence in the matter. Clearly it is not his fault and it is nice to be able to point the real finger of blame to those lesser mortals down the hallway.

Dermot tears his eyes away from the T-shirt. What makes the system guys make these ridiculous fashion statements? Jesus.

Technically, he too is a geek, but a moderate one by comparison.

“You know, I met Torvalds at that last conference in Amsterdam. He was saying that ... ”

Dermot cuts him off, before he gets going. “You were saying about the visitor.”

“A visitor? Ah yes,” He refocuses and reloads.

“Yes. An expert on the game – looks like you’ll be working together, on your days here. I hear that the Malaysians are quite good at this testing stuff. You know that they pay them next to nothing. Maybe we should brush up on our Portuguese – they all speak it from colonial times. English too, I think.”

“What?” Dermot’s mood dissolves into suspicion, peppered with tentative outrage. Someone coming to work together with him? On the crime team’s project work? He has spent so long on this code that it feels like his own.

There are others who work on it, of course, and others still who test it, but he has always felt as if he was its Oslo curator. This is his domain. Stupid really. Better things to worry about. It will continue to be his if he just continues to do the best job.

He changes the subject. Who cares who this girl is? “So what are you up to this weekend.”

“It’s my old man’s birthday,” he says. “We’re going out to the cottage... ”

“Hytte... hytte... ” Dermot can’t help himself from correcting him. Everyone speaks such a funny version of the language these days. Something of a mixture between American and their own pidgin Norwegian. Anyway, ‘cabin’ would be a more accurate translation. Cottage sounds distinctly like an English thatched stone house that hobbits live in.

“... to go kayakking. Want to come?”

“No. No thanks. You know I’m allergic to families. How old is your old man now?”

“He’ll be sixty seven. He’s talking about starting over. I think he’s bored. He’d like to start another family. You know – that thing they are advertising in the gulf for the rich.” He laughs.

“Ugh. Isn’t one more than enough?”

“Uh, well. I guess. Don’t you have a family?”

“Sure... ”

“Maybe you should try visiting them. Maybe it’ll change your mind. Or pick up some hot Berlinde and start one of your own.” Guffawing, from the room.

Now he is sorry he asked. He pulls out of the game, having lost his concentration. He hasn’t found what he is looking for anyway. So much for Bishop’s preaching.

“Fine. It sounds pretty weird to me.”

Families have never worked for him. They have always left him feeling like a fifth, square wheel. He has never quite found his niche. Dermot’s mother was Irish, but he half grew up here in Norway and has lived here for the past ten years, since finishing his Master’s degree in Cork. He finds all the family-bond blarney a source more of distress than of comfort.

“What am I supposed to do now?” he says, to himself, to the world, to anyone who is listening. What am I supposed to do now? About anything?

The others look at him, waiting for complaint in depth, but he would rather bury the thought...

“Eat?”

He nods.

Even at the tender age of 31, Dermot has already lived what seems like three separate lives. He has not changed appearance, or taken any genetic enhancements; they have come about entirely naturally. That is a lot of lives to swallow for his colleagues and friends here in Norway. Family-oriented society still survives to a much greater extent here. People don’t change. Status quo is everything. Some adventurers take complete personality make-overs and relocate; he simply changed his job and moved. None of his so-called lives has been worth anything.

He joined a gaming company to see if he could recapture a sense of childhood fun that he had never really dared to experience. All he can really remember about his own, is being disinterested in other kids and in his family. He would hole himself up and read. He bought electronics magazines because they were cool and technical, but in all the years he never managed to make a single circuit that worked. Software was his saviour. If you can’t do the real thing, fake it.

Eat.

His family was remote too. At the dinner table they never talked. It was a standing rule that they had to eat together, but it was mainly a form of monitoring. It was not for the joy of it, that much was certain. He saw other families, on TV, enjoying a meal together, talking and laughing about their day. It all seemed disturbingly fake to Dermot.

So, they are outsourcing to Malaysia these days.

Skim pages of info on the net. He has been putting this off, troubled by the implications of the search and equally by his own weakness. Reminders are building up in his in-box. Can’t put it off any longer.

If any of what Bishop said is true then he ought to be able to confirm most of it from a reliable source. He turns to the munificent information highway for his revelations.

Bishop said that people are using their mobiles to talk mainly to people they know and like, avoiding people they don’t know and that this is causing society to break up–and he didn’t just mean friends, he meant companies, businesses, governments.

Dermot digs around, but it is hard to distinguish the conspiracy nut information from serious discussion. Is it really true? Bishop recommended a few things, gave him some pointers.

He finds an essay claiming that money is worth what people think it is worth. It argues that if people lose confidence in money, then society will really crash. You can no longer buy each other’s goods. You have to go back to trading favours for one another to rebuild trust. That kind of fits, but it is not about communication, is it?

Dermot does not believe for a moment that society is breaking down, as Bishop claims. It sounds ridiculous and hysterical. Yet there is a part of what he said that resonates with intuition, with things he has seen of late. That cannot be denied.

As a kid, he would trade picture cards and comic books as hard currency. An original Sandman comic was worth way more than its Euro value to him and his friends, but his mother regularly tried to make him dump them with the trash to clean up his room.

If people are not using the same currencies, or have different scales of value, then they cannot interact. Society needs a convertible currency.

What else? Preferential attachment. People who are popular remain popular because they attract attention. Okay. Some article about the ‘small world’ phenomenon–the idea that we are all interconnected, by friends of friends, and that there are no more than six degrees of separation between an Eskimo and the European president? No. Six is an average number, not the number. Most people are further away than that. But the article also says that the links that bind society are mainly weak and few. Really?

So why? It goes on ... most of us live in small cliques of a few close friends. Like Bishop said. The reason we have the illusion of connectedness is that there is always someone, in any clique, who knows someone in another clique. It sounds like a precarious kind of model for the world, but the author claims it is ‘remarkably robust and accurate’ as a depiction of society. So, if these cliques share their own currency they are fine amongst themselves, but they need these inter-clique links to knit together. Dermot can easily see that something could break down there. It is just like the communication pipes between programming entities. Most of the errors occur when the pipes fail, not in the objects themselves.

In fact, it reminds him of an old professor at College complaining that he could never make his field of research respectable because he could not persuade people of the importance of publishing in an established, respected journal. They did not place value on that; rather, they formed their own community, completely separate from others, and said screw you.

They split off. Well, isn’t that what Bishop was claiming? Perhaps it really is not such a silly idea.

He saves some of the material, on his mobile, for later.

The most disturbing part of what Bishop said is the stuff about propaganda: that governments are manufacturing a campaign of manipulation to consolidate the power of central government. He shudders at the thought. It sounds too much like what happened in Russia after the breakup of the Soviet Union. Suddenly, large oil companies and mafia operations finds themselves as large and influential as the governments of the regions. They are governments in their own right, but without a military–at least, a significant one. Then there was Hamas in the Palestinian territories, with a greater popular base than the cardboard leadership. Governments cannot not always compete with these runaway groups. So call them renegade and illegal, force them to take arms. Society breaks up. Maybe, but not convinced. Where is the evidence from home? From here in Norway, for instance?

He finds nothing specifically about Norway, but he finds a litany of references to Televangelists, of the kind that Norway and the U.S. have in common. They and their involvement in organized fraud, smuggling and tax evasion over the years–using pious talk as a cover for pirate operations and bribery, right up to the level of government. Some have been investigated by the F.B.I. and the crime team, and have been found wanting.

One Tennessee Trinity-tycoon has been on the boards of drug companies and international fashion-design houses, arms dealerships and diamond smuggling; using money given to the church for international investments of stocks and profiteering hardly seems concordant with the professed words of the church. It is not just a rare or minor transgression, but a persistent and planned corruption and illegal laundering.

And not just once. They come back and do it again, under different church fronts. They repeat their fraud. Criminals returning to the scene of a crime.

Evangelist preaching is nothing if not the most blatant form of mass media propaganda. That much has always been clear to him. But it is preaching to the converted, the desperate. It is more like mass hypnosis, or mass hysteria than propaganda.

Isn’t it?

All right.

Focus.

Backtrack a little. What am I looking for?

Propaganda. Coercion.

Let’s see. Propaganda is defined as a concerted effort to spread a doctrine.

Okay. “Gee, Mr. nineteen-fifties Incredible! Is that bolt radioactive? Radioactivity is a powerful goodness, but we must keep it secure. Let’s go! Not until we repair that bridge, Frozone. Nothing is more important than keeping the American traffic flowing!”

It is persuasion technique that is advantageous to the sender. It is intentional and it is one-way communication.

Not a dialogue.

Here is this ‘guy’ – this person – not a rag dummy that you throw on the bonfire, like in Britain, but a man who let off some fireworks of his own. His name was Walter Lippmann. Considered the father of American journalism, it seems he was a writer of propaganda leaflets for the Americans during the second world war. They used to fire leaflets in artillery shells into the enemy camps. They persuaded the enemy to give up, and it worked sometimes!

That figures, Dermot thinks. I mean, how many of us are just doing something for someone else, without questioning it, without any idea of why? Do we even care? Why should we? We are just doing what we’re supposed to. And who decides what “supposed to” means? That is just our ‘life’ and we are supposed to accept it. And why not? What the fuck else would we do? There is no meaning to life anyway. At least, unless you make one of your own...

Anyway, apparently, Lippmann eventually saw how easily people were taken in by propaganda and became so disillusioned with the general public’s lack of critical reasoning, that he wrote a book, The Phantom Public, in which he said that the public had essentially no role to play in the governance of society, in government, because they were just too pig ignorant. Keep people stupid and they will follow, like a herd of sheep.

The more the public trusts in the spoon-fed convenience of the media, the less they bother to find out for themselves, and the less reason they have to criticize or question the information they are fed. It ends in a downward spiral of complacency.

Well, that pretty much describes the West, he thinks. Hell, if it weren’t for the BBC, we might as well give our souls away on a platter, right now.

Here’s something. Reference to the Institute for Propaganda Analysis, 1937.

Jesus, such a thing exists? Seems real...

It claims to have identified seven techniques for coercion. The Sun Tzu of deception. A kind of propaganda karate.

He notes them down. Here we go.

1. Name calling to influence perception. (The evil terrorists, this great country of ours... )

Sticks and stones might break my bones, but whips and chains excite me!

2. The selective use (and suppression) of facts to support a point of view. (It was in the papers that some unknown object crashed, the night the alien ship landed. The object was actually a weather balloon, but you don’t need to know that... )

3. Implying the existence of a bandwagon of popular opinion for your doctrine. (Join the increasing number to have plastic surgery now! 8 out of 10 dogs said their cats preferred it!)

4. Using respected figures to support the cause. (Abraham Lincoln swore by it! Luke Skywalker used it against Darth Vader!)

5. Associating the idea with the common folk. (Computers for dummies, not those smart geek assholes!)

6. Then there is associative transfer–using a symbol of something good to appeal to patriotism or other emotions, something like the national flag, or associating the cause with democracy. (As you can see, I am wearing this French beret and stripy shirt, so now you know our food is of the highest culinary standard!)

7. That brings us to the technique of ‘glittering generality’, or using words like freedom or democracy that push peoples moral guilt buttons: a slogan so attractive that its audience cannot fail to be taken in. (If you love democracy and freedom, you have to let us invade their country!)

This is actually fun, Dermot thinks, though it seems to him that this is nothing more than modern marketing techniques... It begins to make sense to him why a government would be interested in the game: for the same reason that advertisers are... and one more thing. Aspects of modern warfare look like a video game. No denying that. If your message is warfare, legitimizing military incursions and the like, then the game’s battle sims are a good starting place. Associate your political objectives with this fun game and see the world reaching top score in months!

Dermot goes to Petter to hear what he thinks. Naturally, this is no surprise to him.

“Have you seen the reference in the game development manual itself?” he asks. It quotes President George W. Bush from a West-point speech at the start of the century:

“We have a great opportunity to extend a just peace, by replacing poverty, repression, and resentment around the world with hope of a better day... The 20th century ended with a single surviving model of human progress, based on non-negotiable demands of human dignity, the rule of law, limits on the power of state, respect for women and free private property and free speech and equal justice and religious tolerance. American cannot impose this vision... ”

Great language, reminiscent of Lincoln himself, and all the right push-buttons: freedom, women’s rights, religious tolerance... Then, he invaded Iraq and cast a nation into darkness, poverty and violence, exchanging rule by fear, grotesque individual torture of Iraqis, for mass deaths in the foreshadow of a democratic dream.

Why doesn’t the media uncover these un-truths, these exaggerations and deceptions? Too much effort? Too much risk. People go quiet, instead. They return to their private channels and talk amongst themselves. To their splinter groups. In the safety of their cocoon. In their own virtual reality.

It is only the blanket, insipid nonsense that is suitable for mass consumption on the news channels.

Rational influence is calculated using game theory, Petter says. Propaganda is about forcing irrational choices on others.

Of course people would turn inward.

Dermot is cold. He goes to turn up the heat.

Boredom, dammit.

Reading and thinking for half the day. if he is to understand how to identify the mechanisms, in the game that are used for user programming, he needs to understand it at all levels. He has to be certain that he believes. But...

He needs a break.

Perhaps Petter is right. Perhaps he should skim the dating pages. Get himself a date.

Right. Who is he kidding?

The dating pages are as far as he ever gets. He looks at the faces, but he could never get out himself, ‘out there’.

His love life is a disaster. What love life?

It is not that he thinks he is ugly to look at. Just ugly on the inside. He has never overcome his fear of revealing himself to others. When no one wants you, you get used to living in alternate realities. Especially those which try to fulfill your dreams. Welcome to SmartMob Gaming and Hosting.

Dermot can no longer claim to understand, in detail, the reason for his clandestine personal life, for his secretiveness. He knows only that he wants no one to know about what he does or doesn’t do in his private time. It has something to do with his parents and their unnatural attitude towards human relations; something to do with the humiliation of being paraded as an oddball in front of his mother’s women’s group as a child; something about his father’s pretending that affection and desire were non-existent concepts. Watching television was deadly embarrassment: if someone kissed or there was a hint of sex, it would be switched off immediately.

He has a recollection, at the age of three years; he is sitting in a neighbour’s house; she is his baby sitter. They sit in a sunken settee, next to a droning television set. He recalls her thick curls of hair and a pink apron which she wore for household chores, but he remembers little else about her. Only the incident.

She has made them something to drink–a beaker of fruit juice. She is settled with her cup of tea, all cosy, reading a newspaper and he has climbed up next to her with his beaker of juice. She stretches out an affectionate arm to him and they huddle together reading the small ads. Dermot cannot read at this age, but he sees an advertisement for a shower, with a line drawing of a nude woman standing in a shower cabinet. Her back is turned, and only the merest hint of her behind is visible. He had not seen anything like this before. He reacts as a child would. As a child should. He points out of fascination. “Look!”

“Don’t be rude!” snaps his uncertain sitter.

The shock and grief of this admonishment remains with him, now, at a sub-cellular level. Her reaction, as he tries to comprehend the sudden change in her manner. Pulling away, and running as fast as he could, to the back yard, through the wire fence and into his own house. Running up the stairs and throwing himself down on the bed, crying.

And he hides there for the rest of the day.

The neighbour does not come to find him. He stays there, alone, until his mother returns and calls him a silly little boy.

A silly little boy.

Even now, this episode is burned into his memory.

Fuck propaganda.

Fuck this stupid job.

Dermot leaves the building in frustration. Time to get out of there and go home. Too many thoughts for one day. Perhaps he’ll work on some programming later. The purity of logic and imperative thought will cleanse his mind of this unpleasant skullduggery.

It is dark now. It is almost eight in the evening. He gets on a tram at Biermanns gate and endures its ponderous ride down to the city centre.

As he reaches Schous Plass, Nazis invade the tram. Skin headed hulks, in a noisy gang. Dermot is immediately uncomfortable. If he could get off the tram now, he would. But they have filled up the car so that no one can get past them.

They have good looking girls with them. How the hell do they do that? They are slick and elegant. What are they doing together with these denim clad, skin head jerks?

They are carrying beer glasses that they took with them from one of the pubs along Grünerløkka. That is pretty illegal. They throw themselves around for show. They are telling absurd jokes about Jews too loudly, making a statement to the unwilling public on the tram. Everyone is looking pretty uncomfortable, but they are trapped in this metal box.

Dermot realizes that there is a football match on. They are wearing the colours of some Norwegian football tribe. Fucking savages. Why the hell isn’t football banned these days? It turns grown men into little more than a gang of beer guzzling chimpanzees.

Dermot takes out his mobile and starts keying. Little do these fuckers know that he is one of the principal coders of the police commando network. From his mobile, he can key into the system to alert the forces around town to a potential altercation. He doesn’t know it for sure, but it is not hard to guess that this group will be trouble. The football scarves are just a cover.

He hates them. They are not people. They are not even fit to be characters in the VR. Why do they have to be here? Mobile communications, alone, can not be responsible for this. No matter what Bishop says.

As the tram swings into Stortorvet next to the department store, he sees the policemen and women standing watch. Some of them were here already, in such a public centre. Others arrive quietly by van nearby. There are many people standing around the tram stop, walking on their way for a night out, or whatever it is that people with lives do.

Suddenly something startles the skin-heads. One of the shouts, “Fuck! Did you see that fucking queer?” Dermot cannot see anyone out of the ordinary outside on the street, but the skin-heads are excited now. They causally discard their women, attendant to the promise of violence. “There he is!” As the tram halts and the doors open, the one who called out throws his beer glass to the ground, smashing it and splashing beer over the tram floor. He storms out, with hatred in his glare, straight towards some random individual in the crowd. Dermot cannot see anything special about this man. He must be forty or fifty, with a thick beard. He doesn’t look very gay, but the Nazi walks up to him and simply punches him without warning.

His friends storm out of the tram, now in full gear for a fight. The man they have beaten is incredulous. He staggers backwards and falls away from the thug who hit him, who looks around him for approval from his peers before laying in for the kill. This gives the older man a pause to protect himself.

But the police are standing right next to the scene and have heard the altercation. The stupid Nazis haven’t even seen them. Dermot’s heart is racing and his whole body is tense, as he watches the police rush to the scene. This is a lucky break for the man, and for the rest of the town. With any luck, the police will take these jerks off the streets tonight. Maybe even treat them for violent behaviour.

Dermot feels a relief, but also a discomfort at seeing his safety bubble so nearly penetrated by such an ugly sight. Jesus, he almost cannot believe that some people expose themselves to this kind of barbarism willingly by attending these football matches. What on Earth are they thinking?

He is reminded of something Bishop said to him. Society works because, collectively, it can wield disproportionate force against even the smallest transgressions of its doctrine. That is what keeps the people in line. It is the idea behind zero-tolerance policing. If the force is undermined, people lose their concensus of belief in the doctrine, by slowly testing the boundaries of acceptable behaviour. Random crime, opportunistic pathogen. Eventually the provocateurs’ self-interest overpowers their instinct to conform - and they become anti-social. Now he has seen it with his own eyes.

He snaps shut the cover on his mobile just as someone sits down beside him. It is the girl whom he met just the other day.

“Hei”, she says.

“Hello”, he replies with a genuine smile. “Did you see that?”

She nods. She does not look scared or shocked, or even glad that it is over. She is beautiful, he thinks. The tram rumbles on to the next stop.

“Lucky I was here,” he tells her, waving his mobile. “Not everyone works for the enforcement net.”

She seems impressed.

“So I have been having trouble with my computer, at home. Maybe you could help me with it?”

Heart misses a beat. He nods. “Sure, why not.” He touches his wristwatch and beams her his number by infrared.

“You already gave me a card.” Then she gets up and walks towards the exit, without saying good-bye, or even looking his way. Just a matter of fact transaction of information. Then she gets off the tram and walks off into the night.

“Good morning Europe! Another downtown day here in big city. Urbanization is on the rise, as we know, and we are here to discuss it in Birmingham, England. Our experts have been telling us that it is estimated that there are already more people living in cities than on the land on our planet. There are more consumers than providers. Yes that’s more mouths to feed and more useless bodies.”

“We’ll be interviewing psychologists later, for now we want to ask you this! Have you been following the hoo-hah about the so-called game? Here in radio DG 101, we’ve been talking to experts this week about where does the agression go? New research claims now that people are releasing their aggression in gang-style violence because they have no natural outlet. Studio gymnasiums are absorbing the aggressive energies amongst the rich and middle classes, but what about those who cannot afford to spend time on expensive gyms?”

“Yesterday we talked about the new phenomenon of toilet smashing that has been growing in Paris. This is where gangs smash up public toilets, apparently just to see what happens when you destroy something in the real world. A spokesman for the city told us he thought this was a backlash from too much online gaming in our kids. What do you think? Send us your views.”

“European health and education ministers met in Glasgow earlier this week to look into ways of using computer games to absorb violent tendencies in children and adults. Scientists at the John Radcliffe hospital in Oxford say that this is nonsense. They are seeing more cases of game rage every year, as children’s emotional aggression is whipped up by games, but their physical bodies are lethargic and immobile... ”

The cloud has lifted somewhat, so that she can see up into the higher ground where the first snow fields lie. Someone has drawn a makeshift flag in the snow, using some kind of dye. It says:

N-RBK-N

   v

N-LSK-N

Shit, she thinks. It’s a freaking football team. They’re just pathetic football hooligans.

Vibe places the broken VeiVek at the mouth of the valley, before her descent down to the cabin, making a quick test to see if she can connect to the other. It seems to work for now. So assuming that the other does not get shot up on its way back. she might be able to sew together a network by the time she gets down the hill. She starts a mapping program to get the locations of as many of the little robots as she can. Cloud is lifting, so this one should be charging nicely.

The program should do its work while she is burning her thighs on the descent, back down the valley. Imagine the worst case scenario; if these assholes have destroyed many of the robots, then this could be all she has left for her thesis. The thought is not very heart-warming.

When she arrives back at the cabin, Mr. Muffins is waiting on the bench outside the main entrance.

“Been out for a walk?”

She nods, innocently. “Can’t keep a mountain goat penned up!”

“Thought we we’re supposed to stay put. You came in yesterday though, didn’t you?” There is a trace of disapproval in those eyes, but he hides it well.

She nods. So what’s it to you?

“Seems as though you survived the trip.”

“I reckon it’s pretty safe. Big place the mountains. Not much chance of meeting these gangs.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

She fails to muster a smile. Rather, she acknowledges the comment with a wave of the head, and heads for the outhouse and her room.

He is just a little bit cute.

She sits down to call Dr Lindgren again.

Vibe opens a window to get some fresh air. She can smell rain. The room opens to the sound of the rushing brook and a cold breeze. She will need this aural sense of space and cooling wind to counter the claustrophobia of the little room when she enters the game. You cannot balance the illusion of reality without some tactile stimulus.

She takes out her mobile’s travel kit and digs in her backpack for the glasses. It has been a while now since she was in the VR, but she and Bea have arranged to meet. She needs the comfort of companionship. She feels abandoned. Time for a little fun.

The batteries are well charged from the solar fabric and boot dynamos. She can be in there for a couple of hours if she needs to, this close to an antenna. There’s no electricity here in the rooms.

She dons the jewelry and gloves of office and ties the components in to her home-station for integrated capture and feedback. Vibe leaves her mobile on receive mode, in case the French team tries to call, and dives in. Kill the light and enter VR.

Appearance can be almost anything one desires in the game; flap your whims and lie away. There are some restrictions. She could not appear as a table or as an inanimate object without risking attention. Those things are forbidden by the software and would run the risk of triggering alarms and errors that would bring her into the spotlight of a monitor. It is not even supposed to be possible, but like most software the game is not very well written, and she could do it if she pleased. She knows how. It is common knowledge.

With only her travel glasses to paint her landscape it takes Vibe a while to adjust to her new surroundings, to integrate: the wind from outdoors and the distant rush of water of the valley intrude and confuse, but they are necessary as she goes deeper. The game is huge, but she and Bea have found a serendipitous secret in this world.

She enters the VR in downtown Plovdiv to meet Bea.

It was their private joke to meet here and then migrate somewhere else afterwards. She remembers Plovdiv from a summer holiday some years ago. The visit was mainly characterized by rushing from toilet to toilet to relieve her explosive bowels of what could have been a build-up from a pressurized water reactor. Here in the VR such Earthly inconveniences scarcely intrude from the real world. Then it became more than a joke.

She has learned a thing or two about the game here in Plovdiv. The game is not well built here. I mean, who wants to come to this backwater by choice? No one except the Bulgarian hacker communities, and they were just so nice in leaving shoddy back-doors open when she and Bea first started coming here. So it was possible for them to get access to the game at a level that most players would not even know about. Vibe was just the person to take advantage.

She materializes quite quickly here. Although she is in a sim of the real world, there is no mandatory materialization warning. This part of town is quiet and the details are sparse, so it does not get much attention from the system. No one comes here for virtual tourism. Duh. Fans of concrete and old communist iconography perhaps.

She finds herself in a familiar, paved shopping street, adjacent to a main road and fairly empty of people. In such a remote location as Plovdiv, many of the figures she sees are sims–padding to provide a realistic background. Long legged skinny beauties in short skirts are scattered around, looking into the clothes shops. One of them could be Bea, but Vibe knows that is not her style.

Usually, they begin their meetings with a friendly game of hide and seek, to see who can fool the other for the longest time, though this game has been wearing a little thin of late. Bea has lately been seeing someone she met on a one-nighter, and Vibe has been tied up with work, trying to figure out what is going on with the VeiVeks. They have not done this for a while.

The little paved street is near to a crossroads of small shopping streets. People are sitting outside their shops on shiny plastic chairs, wallowing in the heat. Of course, there is no heat here really in VR, but the visual illusion is quite good, confusing her body in the valley chill.

Vibe is about to walk into a small shop and buy something for show when a stray dog jumps up and paws her. “Gotcha, girl,” says Bea.

Vibe is quick off the mark and morphs into a specific tree for Bea, and only for a moment. “Don’t disrespect your Elders, dog,” she laughs.

The dog paws her and lifts its hind leg. “Old joke, but we love the dress!”

This all looks rather silly and out of place for their surroundings, but that is what one might expect from a couple of stupid girls playing. And hell, that’s as good a cover as any.

Bea barks for good measure and says, “Come on!”

As dogs, they both lope off through the streets, through the small town centre and out past the concrete monstrosities of the former Soviet era. No one will care about a couple of stray dogs in Plovdiv. They take off in search of a hidden menu panel: their springboard to mischief. The panel moves around from time to time, so they need to locate it first. They have done this a dozen times in the past.

“Let’s try the station.”

The old train station is practically in ruins, in reality, but it has been the official hiding place of all kinds of back-doors in the game for some time. They discovered it by accident on one of their first trips.

“How’s things up in Valhalla?” Bea asks, as they trot through the town.

Vibe huffs. “Don’t ask. They have totally fucked off and left me here. There is no one here. And – wait for it – the mountains are officially off limits because of some stupid gang thing going on. I had to slip past this police bitch to get up here and now they are probably going to be on my back.”

“Come home,” she suggests. “Nothing to do up there.”

“Can’t. I have to sort this out somehow. Otherwise I’m toast. My project depends on this.”

“Yeah. This is your dream project. Sorry girl.”

“Yeah.”

They scamper down a dilapidated stair case to one of the train platforms and drop down onto what used to be the railway track. It is overgrown with grasses now, but there is a hint that there was once a train in the relief of the landscape. They walk along the platform.

“So I met this guy,” Bea gossips. “I told you right? Quite cute but way too interested. He came and just asked me if I would be interested in a date. He actually said stuff like there is something special about me. It was really creepy.”

“Well, we all know what’s special about you, girl,” Vibe quips, still a little moody.

“Ta dahhhh.”

“A date?”

“Yeah. Retro. And so I thought: Loser.”

“As you would. As you should.”

“But then it turns out that he is like this actor who has been in a couple of movies that I have never seen. And he suddenly starts talking to this guy who apparently is his bodyguard. Bodyguard! And so he rose in my estimation. And the bodyguard was pretty hot too.”

“Ew–bad call.”

“Yeah, but not to worry. I regretted my decision and decided to allow him a second chance. Threw a body-scan and waited for him to come back.”

“Hey! You are so cool, feline.”

“Reversed course. Now he’s on the payroll. Met Mr. Finger yet?”

Vibe cringes. “Please! Don’t call him that! No I haven’t. No one is here. I mean no one. And they don’t even answer my messages.”

“Isn’t that a bit weird?”

“A bit? It is seriously weird. You don’t just start working with someone and the disappear off the face of the planet.”

“Creepy.”

“Trouble is, they seem to have taken all my work with them.”

“Hey, over here, this way. So what are you going to do?”

“Good question. I need to talk to my advisor, but he’s never available.”

“For you? I thought no one ever said no to Sara Stensrud.”

“Dammit you’re right. Why should I take no for an answer? I should start a full scale assault. Hack my way in! Program these little robots to invade his office! Track him down and subdue him!”

“That’s the spirit. But that won’t help you find Mr. Finger.”

“To be honest, I don’t really feel like talking about it.”

“Really?”

“Really. I am pretty exhausted. Haven’t walked this far for ages. My buttress has gotten used to propping up a terminal, not walking up a mountain.”

Vibe stops for a moment, while she thinks. Bea trots around and comes back. “What’s up?”

“Wait a second.”

“What is it?”

”I have to try once more.”.

Bea waits. “Okay.”

She wiggles her thumb inside its glove. “Game command, options.”

A scroll of text unrolls in front of her. She selects New Contact, Private Channel and a translucent box, like a telephone booth, comes down over her, cutting out the sound from the VR. It is quiet now, except for the sound of the stream from the world outside her room. She selects as the recipient Jonas Lindgren and waits for a connection. Connecting...

The network of mountain cabin relays never sleeps, even here in the mountains, powered by its solar batteries. The signal strength is good. But it takes longer than it should. The ring-tone purrs away for what seems like a eternity. Just as she is about to give up: “Recipient is marked busy. Would you like to be transferred?”

Vibe screams inside herself. “Yes!” Damn you.

Instantly the view changes to an image of a receptionist. “Hello, Ms. Stensrud, how may I help you?”

“Uh hello. I have been trying to reach Jonas Lindgren for most of today and yesterday. Can you tell me why he is not available?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Lindgren is listed as being busy today. You should be able to see a link to his message service, if you wish to leave a message?”

“Yes, thanks. I know that, but I really need to speak to him.”

“I’m afraid we haven’t been able to reach him all day. Best to try again later.”

“Right.”

She stabs the exit control moodily and lets out a growl. Normally, her dog head would have morphed to display this emotion, but they do not want to attract attention in this area. Realism is best when wandering around in the real-world sims.

Bea has moved off while she was talking. Vibe catches her up.

“So I found the door panel,” she says.

“Cool. So what do you want to do?”

“Fuck this. Let’s go and play with the soldiers? Pwease? Can we? Can we?”

Vibe laughs to herself and her character barks.

Sailing high over the Earth, navigating the land and seas as if with a superimposed map of the ancient Mariners, the girls choose their destination and soar back through the satellite captured details, down to VTerra firma. Down towards the desert. X marks the spot.

The illusion of flight is dizzying, but they know it is artificial. They could choose to switch it off, but this is part of the fun. Once the mind has absorbed the imagery and the illusion, Vibe finds it hard to imagine that she is still Earth-bound, until the pins and needles settle into her legs. It is like getting lost in a good book, but more so. You are really talking, really moving. More of the brain is engaged.

The game is a multi-dimensional House-that-Jack-built, she has often thought, in which Jack might spring out of his box and surprise you at any moment. On the first level, there is a satellite and indoor-cam mapped facsimile of the planet. The outdoor areas of this level are always close to what the real world looks like. They are for those who simply want to explore the world from the privacy of their own homes, for the disabled and for the poor who cannot travel. After all, travel is now for the rich or the bold. Most people in the Western world do not want to travel from the safety of their homes and most in the developing world cannot afford to.

The second level is a world map with modified scenery, offering a variety of smaller game scenarios, historical depictions and futuristic scenarios. These are as much chatrooms as anything else. The capabilities are quite limited for exploring your fantasies. The main selling point of these is the fact that, no matter who or where you are, you can talk to other players in your own language. That is fairly cool. The only minus is all of the half-hidden advertising: the Christian cajoling and the Jewish chutzpah that is supposed to bring you back to God.

They are heading for Baghdad, to the centre of the war-games. It has become their favourite mischief. Messing with the Man.

Formless observers, privileged with powers beyond their status, they move quickly in ghost mode over Fellujah and over the desert past Baghdad to the site of the old Islamic House of Wisdom. There is a fitting tribute to this historical site in the history level. It is the site to which all of modern technology owes its birth. This was where the old scholars would gather and write, on their imported Chinese paper, of mathematics and of medicine. Perhaps they wrote love letters to the Mongol overlord who eventually destroyed them. And yet no one much goes there. They are all too busy in the war-game sims. So Vibe and Bea come here too, to play.

The decorations in VR are eclectic. A lot of attention has been given to details here, she thinks. This is a popular part of the game, especially amongst young American males and young anti-American males. This is where they come to play their war games–one of the few fully planned and constructed parts of the game, where a combination of a fantasy scenario and virtual tourism by camera are skillfully interwoven for maximum realism. In that respect, it is more popular than the North Korea war-gaming sim, which is more a way of planning possible scenarios for invasion. The country is still a black hole.

It is a work of multiple artists, not a singular vision. It has the feel of a biology of competing messages. It is an open endeavour; only the basic rules of this world are proprietary and secret.

For an essentially Islamic part of the world, there is a lot of Western symbolism going on though. She and Bea like to come here and make fun of it all. Why is it that the Western players have to stop at Christian churches to recharge themselves when they lose? Why do messages from command come by Angel? Why are all the enemy figures in the game so ugly and have non-American accents? And if they are all so goddamned pious, why do they spend half their time in VR brothels with hired harems?

She cannot understand why anyone would even pay to join the real fighting in the region. Some of these war rooms are actually connected by camera to real tanks and battlements in the real Middle East. They actually sponsor the hostilities by paying to drive some war machinery by remote. What makes someone want to revel in someone else’s tragedy, as if it were just some more prime-time entertainment?

The Christian imagery has probably been paid for in full by some rich son-of-a-bitch. It is so blatant, so insulting. Fortunately, in the supervisor levels, where she and Bea have learned how to exist, the programmers apparently have a sense of humour and have arranged some filters for themselves that make the Christian mythology more like kitschy humour than anything else. She can imagine that only America’s Bible Belt and Norway’s own Christian South actually take any of this seriously anyway.

Vibe has always coveted matters of the human spirit, of art and of beauty, but she needs no supernatural explanation for these things, no holy spirit. There is no contradiction, in her mind, between those irrational human values and the cold procedures and uncertainties of science. Science only adds to the appreciation. Religion is just trying to suppress questions. That is not acceptable. It is not spirituality, she thinks, it’s politics. Asking the questions is what moves our spirits forward.

Teenage kids drive their armoured vehicles amongst the actual tanks and patrols of the Gulf deserts. She sees how they are authorized to direct weapons on the actual artillery to help out with the allied forces’. People’s lives hang in the balance of this video game. It seems like a basic moral duty to put a spanner in the works, if she can, but it could be dangerous for someone to interfere here.

Wait.

Something has caught her eye.

When they first arrived here, there were just two sides to this battle. The sides are visible in her supervisor-mode visual field as a colour coding. Each side has its own private com channel. When she first started coming here, there were only two. Now there are five.

Five sides? Five independent groups in one conflict? Whose side are they on? Every group for itself, against all the others? They seem to be deploying through the same landscape in similar patterns, as if they are all trying to cover the battlefield as well as possible. She has seen the pattern before: with the VeiVeks. It is the same kind of strategy they have started to use since they lost their central control.

“Wait a minute, have to make a note for later.”

She and Bea watch other players for a little while. See some action. Be depressed about human nature. PhoxHollywood branches reach outwards in all directions from here: to Saudi Arabia, to Palestine and Israel. But this is not the real fun. The real fun (the real phun) is in taking the players for a ride they were not expecting...

Down to the red lights of the human playground, where Arabs and Western insurgents are all friends again. They morph into beautiful African women, with slight but colourful garbs, in preparation for their handiwork around the Persian gulf.

“What do you think?”

“Oh my, that is seriously sexy!”

“Don’t you think it makes me look fat?”

“You? You’re safe.”

She looks around the wonderful decorations of the hallways of the baths. The scenery is exquisite, detailed and presumably authentic.

Now, play like sims. See what you can get these boys to cough up to, when they think they’re in bed with a simulation!

“Hey boys, I know we should have called, but we just wanted to drop in.”

“Very smooth.”

“Hey what about that girl over there?”

“Ugh, slutty chick deluxe. Let’s move in on her turf. Heehee.”

And this is how the youth of today spend their time?

Marvellous mosaics!

In the game, night and day follow the plural timezones of the planet’s solar shadow. It has been dark for some time when Vibe comes out. She falls quickly into a deep cleansing sleep.

She awakens in the early hours of the next morning, feeling stiff but not paralysed. She finds her note-to-self; she tries again to reach Jonas.

Anxiety about the PhD project has grown from calm concern to nervous anticipation. Visions of her thesis whirling down the spout, in a maelstrom of footballers’ paint, have begun to intrude on her assuredness. Then she thinks of Peter Green. Is it really worth the risk of getting shot up with paint-balls, just to see this person, who probably has no idea who she is, or why he is important to her can’t-get-over-it teenage fantasy?

She lies for a while, in the warmth of her quilt, gathering strength and resolve then rises, curiously balanced, and back in control. Time for breakfast. She should probably check in with mountain rescue.

Ugh. :-(

Maybe. The longer she waits, the harder it gets.

She pulls on some loosely fitting jogging pants and some lightweight shoes and heads across the yard to the main cabin, where breakfast is served. It is markedly colder today. The sky is grey and damp. It will probably snow later.

The weather seems to be attached to a yo-yo. Yin-yang. Flip-flop.

Sara smiles cheekily to the desk help, swishing her long hair aside, as she walks past and follows the cabin around from the reception to the lounge to the dining room, where the predictable mountain breakfast buffet is waiting.

The pale wooden room is almost empty. Let’s face it, most people are at home in their warm lives at this time of year. From now on, the mountains will become rather inhospitable. Her little VeiVeks have only two more weeks of service before they would have been retired for this season.

There is a couple sitting together at the end of the room, and what looks like a family group, standing around the buffet, with their little slices of grease-proof paper, making their lunch packs. It is the lunch-pack ritual. Genetically programmed into every Norwegian. But she has had jean therapy. When will they learn about Tupperware?

They are flagging for everyone to see: I am born of the mountain. I am one with tradition and nature. I shall pack my lunch into this white grease-proof paper, as if it were an albino Christmas gift, filled with brown cheese glue. I am holier than thou. I shall abhor technology for the sake of this amusement-park historical lifestyle.

All right, all right, perhaps she exaggerates. But jeeze. Lunch packets.

Wait. Does that mean people are leaving today? Has something changed?

She wanders through the tables, looking at the perfectly placed regiments of knives and forks. The food does not inspire hunger in her, but hey:

BREAKFAST IS THE MOST IMPORTANT MEAL OF THE DAY!

Can’t flout tradition.

Mr. Muffins is here. He follows her into the room with practised nonchalance. This boy – no young man, she should say, still has not introduced himself, but he spoke to her yesterday. That is pretty amazing in itself. So she will introduce herself. Should have done make-up first, but too late now.

“Morning,” she sing-songs. “I’m Sara. I am sure I know you from somewhere... but I’ve met so many people here... ”

He nods, trying to appear as if the news is either uninteresting or he already knew her name. In a normal person, she would have expected a laugh or a smile, but hell this is tradition zone in the Norwegian mountains, where people have the manners of sheep.

“Hello,” he says. “You look... ”

“Ugh god! Don’t say it! I knoo ah shoulda had ma hair did... ”

“No, no... ”

She laughs, enjoying his discomfort, but only for a brief moment. “Relax, ... ?”.

“Frank,” he says.

“Is it okay if I sit here?”

“Would you like to join me for breakfast?”

Yes! Ten out of ten! No, be nice, girl.

“Okay,” she teases. After all, you are the most interesting thing in the room. “If you don’t mind, that is.”

“No, I’m sorry. Please. That would be ... nice.”

Can’t believe his luck. Where did I put those glasses? She pulls the chair out a little, opposite his. “Just let me get something to eat.”

Now she has released an avalanche of uncertainty in him, as he shifts nervously, wondering if his breath smells or his hair looks right. Relax, she thinks. It’s just me. Just need some company here.

Vibe strolls around the buffet, already bored with its contents. She picks up some slices of bread, along with some cold meats and cucumber, a dollop of fruit preserve and a boiled egg and some tea. She balances the lot on a plate and dumps it on the table in front of him.

“I need coffee in the morning,” he observes.

She shakes her head. “Huh-uh. Coffee is bad. No good, no good on a mountain trip. It just dries you out. Hot, weak tea. That’s the ticket, laddie.”

He nods, a little shell-shocked by her playfulness.

“So what are you doing up here?” she asks him, before he asks her all disapprovingly about her own movements.

“Watching,” he says.

“Watching?”

He gropes for an explanation.

“Ah, you’re a voyeur. A pervert?”

His straight face breaks into a laugh. “Yes, that’s it.”

“Well thank goodness we got that sorted out,” she winks.

He shakes his head. “No, no. I work up here at the moment.”

“At the cabin?”

“No. I am–an investigator.”

She examines him with a new filter. “Police?”

Eyes widen a little too much and a pang of guilt strikes. She should really have contacted mountain rescue... She is probably in a bunch of trouble, if they ever bother to catch up with her.

“Sort of.”

“So you’re working?”

He nods. “As an underling, I get to be up here on watch.”

“Watching for what?”

He laughs. “Well, I can’t say, but you can probably guess part of it.”

“It has to do with these football hooligans that are playing hide and seek?”

“Football hooligans?”

Damn, she thinks. I wasn’t supposed to have seen them. “I think someone said these gangs were... ”

He laughs now, more of a smile than a laugh, “So you didn’t see any sign of them?”

She points two fingers, like a pistol, at her head. “Oops.” A little smile. “I saw they had painted their tribal colours in the snow. N-RBK-N. I assume that means they are connected to the gang fights in international football violence.”

He nods. “There is definitely a link, yes. But that’s not really why I am here. I am still waiting for something to happen. Stayed put yesterday. Have to move on today.”

“Hmmm.” She races to swallow a mouthful. “So, are people moving out?”

He gestures to a flat-screen on the wall behind her. Next to the weather forecast is a message from the cabin crew. “Good news, everyone. Rescue says they have rounded up members of two gangs, near here, and that it should be safe for people to move on. They are recommending that everyone go back home, down the mountain to the west. The season is almost over, and it looks as though we shall be closing down early. Transportation can be arranged to pick up vehicles. Bua.”

“That’s good news. I have to move on today too.”

“So how come you are here? I thought they weren’t letting anyone come up the mountain.”

“Uhhmm. Well... ” She grins with her teeth and feigned innocence. “I didn’t strictly come here with anyone’s blessing.”

He nods with raised eyebrows. “I sort of guessed that.”

Really? Better watch this one. But he seems sweet and innocent. For now.

“What are you doing here?”

She remembers her own lot and her smile fades. “I’m a student.”

“You came here to study.”

“Not exactly.”

He waits patiently, and she continues when he sees that he is not going to give it up.

“You know these little robots that are being tested up here?”

He shakes his head.

“It’s been in the news.”

“Oh. They’re like something NASA built for exploration?”

“Yes, but they are testing them out here, for monitoring the environment, making sure the pathways are properly marked, and for search and rescue... stuff like that.”

“And you are studying them.”

“I am working with the team that designed them,” she corrects. “I am designing part of their programming.”

“Wow.” His eyes seem to lift her off her chair. “That’s pretty amazing.”

She shrugs. “Not really. It’s all pretty standard stuff these days. But it is kind of fun. I had to come up here, because they are not working properly anymore.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. They have lost their controller... ”

“I know the feeling... ” he mutters.

“... and so they have started working without it. But that meant I lost contact with them from Oslo. I only learned that yesterday.”

“Isn’t there someone up here looking after them?”

“Huhh. There should be. There is supposed to be a team here, of French technicians. I haven’t actually met them. They deployed the robots and maintain them, collect samples and double check analyses. Stuff like that. I came here to meet them. but they’ve gone missing.”

He doesn’t ask.

“That sounds a bit melodramatic, doesn’t it. But I wish I knew where they are.”

“Why do you think they are missing?”

“Well. I did get one message from them yesterday. It said to meet them tonight at Leirvassbu.”

“And now you can go.”

She grins. “Now I can go.”

“Well, I am going in almost the same direction today. Perhaps we could walk together.”

She smiles. “Thanks. That’s kind, but I have to work on the way. I need to find some of my babies.”

“You know, it might still be risky walking alone. The mountain police are asking people to go down the mountain, not go farther in.”

“And I am not exactly their favourite person. But I have to go. My life depends this. I can’t let a bunch of kids with water pistols ruin my degree.”

“It’s not just the paint guns. They could be dangerous enough... ”

“I know. It’s a bit scary, but I am doubly motivated.” Peter Green.

“I could follow you there?”

She winks at him. “Well. Thanks. That is nice of you, but I’ll be okay.”

He looks anxious. Because of her safety, or because he likes me? “But you’ll need company right? I am going in almost the same direction.”

“No. Really. Look, I have been planning to meet this guy. It might not be a good idea.”

“Oh. Okay. Well. I could walk with you a little while.”

“Maybe another time.”

She walks for half the day, first along the flat river valleys and then up bouldery climbs from plateau to plateau. If sunshine had been her companion on this day, she could have enjoyed the solitary walk, but fate does not always favour one’s foolishness. Looming cloud cover is threatening to spawn its devilry and the darkening greys make the landscape more drab than picturesque.

All she sees, along the way, is a pair of German tourists; they also, apparently, have disobeyed the mountain rescue’s curfew. They nod a hello and continue on their way without speaking, backpacks looking about four times too big, as though they are to be here for a year at least. Vibe wonders if they have the entire transmitter base station in there – perhaps they are the culprits? Perhaps they are foreign spies who have been sent to retrieve it, like in James Bond? Perhaps she is bored with this isolation.

The clanking of sheeps’ bells provides a relaxing break to the background of water and wind; it lessens the monotony of clambering over stoney, uneven ground. The sheep roam idly around these parts. They are tagged and marked, apparently someone’s property. She wonders how anyone ever catches them in an environment such as this.

It’s a full day’s trip to Leirvassbu and she has come about half way. She has spent the day watching the behaviour of these little robots in the cluster on her mobile, comparing it to her simulation. It is a relaxing and useful time. It is not really in her nature to court patience, but she is glad of the break, of the time to think. It is interesting to see them climb this steep terrain both slowly, and using balloons and sails, then use gravity itself to power their descents.

She sees that she is nearing the main transmitter point. Curiosity insists that she take a look to see what has happened. No response has been forthcoming from the French, even though a simple answer from them could save her a long trip. She is beginning to feel that she really understands these robots perhaps even better than their creators. The experience yesterday and what she saw in the game... it has given her some ideas. They have lost several of the robots though. They are not easy to see, but they are obvious targets for the gangs.

They are supposed to be here!

Vibe settles down on a boulder outcrop to eat her lunch. She has chosen the spot because it is where a medium sized ’bot is located. It is wandering along the river valley, in the soft muddy trails, spraying its paint, with micro-jabs, into large red ‘T’s, marking the tourist trail on conspicuous rocks. The T’s are for tourist, but it is tempting to think that they stand for ‘tombstone’ for al the places where mountain walkers ran out of steam on the steep slopes.

The process takes some time, since it has to half-manufacture the paint along the way, from the materials it has at hand. These machines are designed to run on practically no power, so nothing they do seems like a day at the races, unless anyone races pot plants. Nevertheless, it holds a certain fascination to watch cutting edge technology at work.

Interfacing with the robot’s network, she can see its nearest neighbours, farther up the mountain. They have seen more action than this lucky valley dweller. From the micro-cams, she can see that part of the neighbour’s lens has been splashed with paint.

She feels a blood-lust, a desire for revenge. Fuck these assholes with their guns. Go back to your football stadiums if you want to fight. The VeiVeks also have paint guns, to paint the tourist T’s on rocks. They could fight back. If she weren’t afraid of losing more of them, she would write the program herself. Divide and conquer. Two teams become five teams. And then it falls apart for them.

What impresses her is how the robots have been able to adapt to their tasks and protect themselves, even without explicit instructions from their overrated central controller. They have not only adapted, but they seem to be continuing their tasks as if nothing has happened. Looking at their action logs, she can see that it is her original multi-agent programming that is at work, in failover mode.

She was always opposed to the central control theory. It always struck her as ironic that the roles were reversed in her collaboration. That the world’s professed leader in democracy should be insisting on imposing centralized control, while one of the world’s last remaining tightly regulating countries should be asking for autonomy, virtual libertarianism.

Something has been happening here, something that could have destroyed her chance of getting a degree, but which might actually save it inadvertently. She finds herself teetering on the edge of wanting to go back to Oslo and wanting to stay and make the most of this opportunity.

Something about the behaviour of agents is going on that she needs to resolve. Suddenly her simulation is not just about the VeiVeks, but there are human agents too. She needs to factor them in to understand their responses. Part of her is excited; after all, this was her original idea, to test the robots without a central controller. She smiles at the insight that she always gets her way in the end.

She needs to see what happened to the transmitter.

Text to Bea: “Thinking of going up the mountain.”

Reply comes back: “Don’t forget your rope!”

It is their private joke. Inept mountain walkers somehow believe that you need to have ropes and stuff to climb mountains. It’s not like we’re climbing Everest or anything. Zig zagging up the slopes on sheep-worn trails works just fine, watching out for the quicksilver patches of ice frozen onto the stones from the previous storm. This is a dangerous time of year to be here.

“To hang myself with?” she replies.

By some twist of fate, Vibe seems to have always had her right ear to every loud noise, every open window and every shouting voice. Now she can hear differently through her two ears; a subtle timbre discrepancy and perhaps a different clarity, almost a difference in her ability to understand sound. She is not sure if she can actually hear better or worse, but she can hear a difference. There is something more real about the sound from her right ear.

But now, she can hardly believe either of them. It is quiet in the air. No, not just quiet. Utterly silent. Only when she moves, does she hear the rustling of her own clothing, her heavy backpack. When the wind stops, in the mountains, when nothing is moving except for the almost indiscernible fledgling flakes of snow, the air seems to suck the sound out of the world.

Now she knows what it is like to be in outer space. In the hall of the gods. It is like standing in the anechoic chamber she worked in, as part of her physics classes at College. There is a complete absence of sound that feels so strange, so alien, that the pressure inside her head seems to want to escape. Decompression. It is like being in a vacuum.

It hurts her ears.

And then, it begins to snow.

At the base of the mountain, on which the main controller transmitter should be located, Sara feels and deals with a palpable sense of awe. The apparently impossible challenge of reaching the summit of this towering peak is only a barrier in her mind. The feeling is one of dread and excitement, mixed with an irresistible energy. The power of the sensation is almost sexual; she senses a tingling down below at the primality of the experience.

This challenge, like all challenges, is solved by looking far ahead into the goal, and by putting one foot in front of the other, concentrating on each step of the path. The sum of many short steps is a long journey. As long as you are going in the right direction, the details are not important. You will arrive.

Each stone is an obstacle, but each brings her closer to her goal. All together, they are insurmountable; one by one, they are trivial. This is the hacker’s code, she thinks. I shall hack you, mountain.

Her stomach hurts too, just to remind her that she is not the master of everything. Nature is still laughing at her. She loathes that time of the month. It hardly seems fair, under the circumstances, to add insult to injury. You’d think that someone would have found a way to stop these unpleasant biological processes by now. But she always has her way. She is not so easily manipulated.

Then snow begins to fall heavily.

As she plods up the relentless incline, she enters the familiar dreamy meditation of walking, hardly noticing the path she is following. Half of her mind detaches and ponders the developments of the last two weeks.

Imagine, she thinks, the disruption of these criminal vandals by our little robotic guerrillas. To make these little machines trick humans, humans driven by simple motivations, into acting out different scenario. Not the one they have planned, but one that fragments them and makes them self destruct. To tease them into a different game. She knows that it is possible. She and Bea have played this strategy in the VR.

It is just a matter of adding some new states, of extending the global transition matrix to model the humans like dumb agents. It is not as if they are behaving as intelligent problem-solvers; they are just slaves to some simple minded doctrines, reacting like insects, and doing very well.

Build some new closures. Bend the top level rules. The humans become part of the simulation. The VeiVeks could infiltrate them implicitly. They would never know they were being played.

The dorks were herding her with paint balls. She could herd them with her babies, except that they are supposed to have gone now. The world is playing this game all the time, she thinks.

Wind returns in subtle chimes, as she climbs. At first it is pendulous, growing in intensity as if on a build-up to a final tidal explosion of ice. Then, as she comes over the rise, it seems to blast like a continuous signal. Cold, half-wet snow assails her bare flesh. She pulls up the hood on her jacket and winces to keep stinging snowflakes out of her eyes.

Racing air expands in its assault, threatening to blow her away, as she passes over the rim of a half-plateau. It wants to guide her implicitly, pushing her away from her real goal. That is how you influence a herd, she thinks. This is how to control the unwilling: a constant pressure, a relentless push. This is what marketeers do with their brain-dead advertising campaigns. This is what she can do with her little agents. The wind and the tide. She would smile at the simplicity of it, were it not for the cramped paralysis in her frozen face.

I could patent this, she smiles hypothetically.

“Yes,” she says to herself. The bloody taste of her gasping breath makes her swallow. “Yes.” That’s it.

On the plateau, rainy snow sleets and the wind gusts. She feels exposed here. Alone again. Where is the support that she is supposed to feel from her advisors? You just think this is a waste of time.

A gust of wind slices through her clothing, breaking her absent thought, and the world darkens from fantasy into hard, wet, mossy stone, freckled with fastening snowflakes. Pain and cold. A gripping world of sensation, near the top of this little mountain: the experience is a privilege shared by few these days. She should embrace it rather than abhor it. There is no cleaner, sharper reality than a trip to the mountains, she thinks.

Look at me now, Mr. Hart, Mr. Lindgren, you wouldn’t understand. How could you? There are people out here doing real work here and your divine jobs are just to get in the way. What’s this money to you anyway? You don’t have to care about us, after all. I am just a column in your spreadsheet.

I too could be in my spanking office sitting in front of my cheap-ass computer burning my eyes out on simulation. But I’m afraid our best philosophers all agree: experience is the key. No amount of simulation could teach her what she is learning here.

She pauses for breath only briefly. It does not do to stop when you are plodding up an incline. You might never start again.

The control transmitter for the VeiVeks should be located up here, according to her mobile. It should be a small tower structure, like a trig’ point, at the local summit of this hill, clamped with metal ties to prevent it being blown away. This is the main transmitter for remote controlling and monitoring the little robots. It is not registering on any frequencies, so it is certainly not working. But is it even here?

Onward and upward. Ad astra.

The temperature has fallen sharply again, and the snow is sticking now.

I should be going down, not up, she thinks.

The icy wind begins to make the top of her head ache with cold, her nose is full of ice crystals. Fine snow dust, too cold to form large flakes, blows like desert sand across the path ahead, threatening to bury it, swirling in little eddies. She should get out of here, before it starts to get dangerous.

She has been caught unawares in bad weather before, been so cold to the bone that even the slightest movement hurt, and those parts of her body which could still feel at all, were tender to the slightest touch. She doesn’t want that again.

It should be here soon. Her frozen, shaking hands pull a gap between her gloves and jacket to look at the wrist band screen. Her mobile confirms that this is the place. She is close. It should be here. She wanders around, as visibility worsens. She does not have long left before she will have to turn around and go back.

Then she sees it: a cairn, a little Darth Varder, where a shelter has been built, from loose boulders lying around it. She jogs towards it, bending stiff, frozen knees. A few wires, a brace, tied to the rock, a mounting bracket. This is where the transmitter should be. But not anymore.

A few fragments, barely a trace.

The control transmitter is gone.

Something is growing in the clouds; dense, thick cumulonimbus clouds, but high up. A column of yellowy, sulphurous discolouration. From 25,000 feet (why do they still measure altitude in feet?), she can not see much, nor make out what it is.

“What is that?” she asks the woman next to her.

“What is what?”

“That,” she says, pointing. Her neighbour glances at the place briefly and shrugs. “Hmm. I don’t know.” Then it is back to her magazine.

Preeta sighs inside herself as if to say: Why are people not more curious? How can that magazine, full of petty, concocted intrigue be more interesting?

Coming in to land over London, the plane descends below the cloud cover, revealing flat watery fields, with river tendrils snaking dendritically outward in smooth meanders. It really is a green and pleasant land, she thinks. Well, green and brown, actually. The agricultural patchwork is almost perfect. A mosaic of cultivated fields, tiled and shuffled.

Patches of forest punctuate the landscape, cooped up with British orderliness. The villages, or at least their rooftops, look like archaeological ruins of a Roman wall, And all over, small oxbow lakes are the ruins of formerly vital rivers; the bend which fell off the snake, a trick of Möbius.

“Are you returning to the U.K.?” the woman asks her.

“No it’s my first time,” she says simply. These are the first words they have uttered in the eight or nine hours of the journey.

As the plane enters London, the probing avenues of the city carve sculptures across the landscape. They are clearly visible from up here. They wind and curve organically like the fossilized remains of long-extinct life-forms, not like the ramshackle chaos of Asia, nor the orderly lattice-work of a city as in Manhattan. It looks organic, but not wild, not out of control–more like an organism, curled up along side the river and that petrified into bricks and mortar, or an English garden made of stone. Is this the remains of Empire? she wonders.

Her flight is drawn into ventricle four of the heart of this beast; it is still pumping people and aeroplanes around its diseased corpus after all this time, even as the memory of empire fades and withers. Heathrow looks huge, like a city in its own right. But it looks completely alien: a world in which people flow like blood through little arterial corridors, arriving in brightly coloured vessels, carrying this breath, this life-force into and out of a weary angina-ridden pump, docking with the alveoli of its pulmonary terminals to recharge them for a new journey.

Please wait until the plane comes to a complete standstill... and then rush for the exit like a ramshackle invasion force.

Preeta disembarks (or ‘deplanes’ as her American neighbour calls it, seeming to imply some kind of parasitic incumbrance), into the newly refurbished terminal feeling both the uncertainty of the unknown and excitement of the new.

She is pumped through the terminal.

Time passes quickly in the flow. All she can see ahead is a queue of bodies, lining up to pass through the security scanner ahead. They look like the crowds of refugees she has seen in pictures of the conflicts: sad, tired people staggering towards an inevitable fate. They look crumpled, having been packed into their long distance carriers like so much waste-paper in a dumpster. They look like her, as she was before her escape.

A man bumps into a child, who drops an ice-cream on a small island of tiles in an otherwise carpeted floor. The fallen whip leaves an arty smear of raspberry whirl, spread out in a creamy flame, like some primordial galactic explosion, forged in the very spark of creation. A temporal ray is fired into the aether from these spacetime coordinates.

She can almost see it happening as if, somehow, in slow motion. From this incident, great things will result; wheels will turn, continents will slide and time itself will carry the responsibility of redemption. The child’s happiness shatters, first into automatic but embryonic tears, which falter and dry as an unusual beauty in the pattern seduces his instinct for aesthetics. From the memory of this incident, the child is destined to follow that ray. He has been marked by fate; he will go on to make great works of art, championing a modern, expressionistic style of explosive colour. At this great nexus interchange, at this heart of the airwaves, wheels of fate are set in motion, so as to change the world. Preeta is here, at the hub. She saw it happen.

The queue does not seem to be abating and the minutes are falling like the autumn leaves. Why is she stressed by this delay? After all she has been through, why should this affect her? She could miss her connection, yes, but what could possibly happen to compare with the trials and threats she has endured?

This is just a part of her adventure. She should savour the moment. Perhaps it is the sense that she now has a duty to perform, that is to say: a duty that was offered freely, as a choice rather than as an obligation.

Everything seems too small.

She imagined huge halls and grand open spaces, ultra-modern design, and everything run with military precision and grave superiority. Instead, she sees people laughing and joking informally, chatting about their wives and husbands, as though they were hanging over the garden fence with their neighbours in some city slum.

For a people with the reputation for having revolutionized the world with the machinery of industry, the British are not what she would have expected. They seem almost flippant and self derogatory. There is no pride in these faces, just complacency. “Duty free, anyone? Spirits, perfumes, used cars... ?”

London is supposed to be a big city. Here it seems as though the airport walkways were designed for little people. The curiously British carpeting in these hallways makes the journey to her next flight seem like a trek along the hallway of someone’s house to visit the bathroom.

Wrist-mobile, searching for a new service: it pauses with a reconfiguration challenge. Is she willing to install and run a VCA here? The Pervasive Environment Service (affectionately known as the PES dispenser) understands the need for security in such a dense stream of unpredictability. They don’t care what you have on your mobile as long as you run a voluntary cooperation agent that monitors your behaviour. It is a device that makes sure your system is not transmitting something that it believes to be dangerous. If your mobile refuses to cooperate with the security system, it will be isolated and you can even be deported.

Out of the security embolism, squirted into the lungs of the beast, she scans the airport terminal for a bookshop, for something new and challenging to read. Amidst the perfume and cosmetics, she finds one. It has a good selection of books here, both paper and digital. Novels, new and old. Science, biography. Politics. Noam Chomsky, Arundhati Roy... these are people who see through the crap. You would never find these books on the shelves of her local bookstore. Maybe in Singapore. She laps up these classic books about power struggles. Preeta has seen her share of political struggle. She can identify almost anyone’s struggle with her own.

After she fled her family, and began to study, she belonged to an anti-dam movement. These were the books she valued then. She is well acquainted with the ways in which the Indian government has twisted words and arguments to get their way–to convince the people that they are really working in their best interests, when really they are just feathering the nests of the ruling elite. All governments are surely the same. Some of them believe that those ideals are compatible: that a ruling elite’s pleasure is the way forward for the poor also, but the fifty million people, forcibly displaced and impoverished to start those dam projects, are now kept silent. Now, the job that she was being asked to do is no different to that. It is just another propaganda engine. It made her day, even as a child to see the BJP so humiliated by the poor – when Sonya Ghandi, an Italian for heaven’s sake, has done what everyone thought was impossible and won the election. Our right wing values have made India prosperous and modern, at least for 17 percent of the population. The rest will drown in the flood plains.

It seems so distant now; her senses are saturating in this new adventure. She is a collage, a curry of leftovers from other people’s plans and wishes. She has not so much chosen her adventures as been driven from place to place, running for her freedom at each juncture. Now she is off again.

The terminal seems to be full of people from the Indian subcontinent, working in the shops and running airport services. They seem to form a subcontinent of their own. Did they also flee from their pasts?

The travellers, on the other hand, are a different race. Here, amongst them, she feels that she has entered a different plane of existence. No pun intended. The people here walk as if in a trance, holding mobiles and talking distantly to voices in another realm. They look happy, deliberate or sometimes stressed, but they show no sign of being aware of the physical realm around them. It portends of a nightmare scenario.

It is fortunate that we are not truly telepathic, she thinks. There should be an off-switch, even if people don’t always know how to use it. Without it, no-one would never meet physically. They would loathe one another, find each other repellant. How wearisome your thoughts, your voice, have become to me! They would simply pass through one another like ghosts, never have sex, never have children. The race would die out. She hopes that it is just a function of the airport to holds these lost spirits. Somehow the bustling immediacy of Asia seems less oppressive than it did.

She checks the time, NTP adjusted for zone and daylight saving. Two hours to go before her connecting flight. She looks at her pale beige slacks and open topped sandals. It is warm here in the airport, but she almost perished in the antarctic winter of the flight.

I have to get clothes.

She is going from one of the hottest places on the planet to one of the coldest. She needs warm clothes and shoes, and her mystery X has even supplied her with a little money for her relocation.

She walks along the concourse of the terminal.

The clothes shops are mostly high fashion, business garbs, suits. She needs something warm, not something audacious and brightly coloured. There are virtual warehouses filled with bottled scents, perfumes and colognes; music and video entertainment, chocolate and periodicals are stacked up by the shop-load. She finds all the same brands Kit-Kat, Coco Cola, Pepsi, Cadbury, Nestlé, Evian. Probably she should not even be thinking these names; they are registered TM thoughts. Burger King, Pret à manger? Sounds like an invitation to wantonly vandalize the Christian nativity? Fine marmalades and preserves, meats and luxury foods. Harrods. Starbucks. Sock shop. Tie shop. Sushi.

All the brands.

No practical clothes.

billboard photographs of fashion models, like the stylized apparitions in fashion magazines: compare them to the faces in the terminal. They are not alike. Terminal people have skin texture, like Asians. The coloured shadows around the eyes are not always there. They are not as decorative. The travelling women are not as concerned with the signal they are projecting as the posterized avant garde. Why should they be? They do not even notice one another.

Preeta wanders about the concourse, avoiding the small electric cars with their annoying piezo-electric ticks, mowing down travellers relentlessly and for no apparent reason. She finds tweed costumes for the English gentleman, Philippa K. fashion and design. Clothes for men. Fashion for women. She finds a shoe shop selling high heeled decanters, stiletto vases, and warm boots, Hope springs eternal. The prices mean little to her, but she knows her budget and she has been warned to find something. This does not seem to be the place to buy clothes to survive in. These are clothes to parade in, to negotiate in, to seduce in.

She has not owned a coat designed for warmth since she was a child. Preeta finds a sweater that looks warm and not too ungainly and buys it out of desperation, along with a pair of fur lined boots. She will have to survive with a poorly matched woolen frock and feet stuffed into Koala bears. Besides, it is surely better to buy clothes in the country she is going to. That way, she knows that they will be the right kind.

The wandering makes her legs ache and the dry air of the flight has dehydrated her. Preeta realizes that she is thirsty and she sees people sitting by huge windows, looking out at the airfield. She feels attracted by a sitting group of people. Humanity. Not molecules in transit.

The lure of daylight is strong in her after the long journey in venal captivity. This discoloured electrical phosphorescence is no excuse for the missing sun. It is not light and it is barely illumination. It is not here to nourish but to deprive: to make all the goods and glitter shine by comparison to the gloom of the Lung. Well, she needs to glimpse the other side of the membrane.

There is a roar from the light-bathed coffee shop lounge. Ahead, a group of travellers is momentarily united in involuntary frenzy, releasing animal instincts so immaculately pent up by voluntary solitary confinement. She sees a green splash of a soccer game on the board. It is an ugly sport; not much of an improvement on the days when Mayan citizens kicked the skulls of criminals around their ziggurats. She prefers swimming, if anything.

She sits down with her cup of chai, fortune acquiring her a seat in front of the window. Chai does not smell quite right, but it is hot and wet. It is the first time that she has felt able to relax in the last week. Chai, milk. Sugar.

A moment of solitude in a crowd. She loosens her wrist strap and taps her mobile out of sleep mode. She sees her name. She sees messages. She recalls her death.

To her family, Preeta is dead.

She was born in Srinagar, just before the turn of the millennium, and spent the first eighteen years of her life there, happy and accepting of life, of what it seemed to be. In the beginning it seemed to be a happy time, a place to run and play and learn at the local library or video complex. Then she grew older; they all did.

Slowly, she saw her brothers and sisters married off and sold like cured meats, in a pitiful play of antiquated family politics, in the wailing death throes of an antiquated and corruptly micro-managed society.

It was not all according to her parents’ plan. Her brother spent a week in a prison cell for exhibiting excessive flamboyance at his wedding. Rules and more stupid rules. The chef’s union allows no more than 7 dishes at a wedding, or the family can be fined. He refused to listen to their objections, and ended up punching one of regulators on the nose for interfering with his decadence. The inspectors said they were preserving the modesty of their culture and that the men in her family were flagrantly abusing their status. Mr. Mustafa complained to the police about her brother, and Sanjiv was thrown in gaol by the elders.

Later it was her turn. But she did not want to be married off into a dead-end life of ignorance and pre-arranged domestic servitude. She pleaded with her father.

When she first complained, he told her that she was foolish and he struck her. Her brothers bombarded her with macho-vellian bullying, whining about a tradition they have learned by rote. That was when she resolved to leave for Singapore. For a life in a free world. They tried to lock her up in a room of the house. When she ran away, they could not accept the shame of her refusal, to be forced into marriage. Though they did not, could not kill her, she is disowned, rejected, eradicated. Family honour.

She met visiting relatives as a child, relatives who had fled to Norway, as refugees. It was years ago, but she never met foreigners other than tourists before moving to Bangalore to make her new life. Strange that she should be travelling there now.

She found her way as far as Bangalore, by catching a lift with a fat man who looked at her small frame with an ugly repressed hunger, so clearly signalled by his shortness of breath and barking suggestion. However much it pains her to admit it, she owes a debt of gratitude to Mota. He was a basically decent man and she took advantage of his frustrations, shamelessly, even as he took advantage of her skills with computers. He arranged for her a job, and she was able to finish her education and make some money. One day she will go back and thank him properly.

So what is she running to now? What would she like to be? Excessive, lively, unrestrained and outspoken. Moved beyond the threshold of passion. Is that what she will find here in the West?

Where can she find a warm coat?

Violent words ricochet off the airwaves. Another threatening message arrives for her. We are watching you. Threats. Why exactly do they bother? She has lived with threats for half her life. What does she have to lose by leaving? What do they hope to accomplish with these threats? We are watching you? Clearly they are not, since she has come this far.

They did not expect her to get out of the country, surely. So she beat them.

Didn’t she?

She has known about the existence of small time gangs, of course. Her own apartment in Kuala Lumpur has been broken into more than once by home-raiders, but she has been fortunate to be absent during the raids. Lately there have been girl gangs and there are rumours that the Russian mafia has moved in and taken over parts of the high tech operations. Preeta has never paid much attention to such talk. She would rather not know about this dark side of her world. But the meteorite seems to have landed in her front room.

Perhaps it was only a matter of time before her high profile company, and its dealings with online gaming, became known. And she has been a key person in that work, perhaps by good luck, for whatever reason.

The messages have been arriving at irregular intervals, terrorising her, threatened to beat and rape her. In return for safety, she would give them access to users’ identities. The theft of self. When you own someone’s identity, you own all that they have. The virtual reality game gives them a completely new pathway to this kind of extortion. Just as the game consortium would like to use the game for manipulating opinion, so these criminal organizations want to use it for a more direct theft of individuality.

Planes are moving out there. White missiles towed across a cloudy sky. They accelerate impossibly and lift their tonnes of fuselage high into the gathering darkness. The brightly coloured tail fins of their brothers and sisters, on the ground, are lined up like an odd avant garde art installation: painted animals tied up at the corral, just like in the Westerns. Preeta breathes uneasily and feels exposed, grateful for her apparent escape from shackles and threats, but uneasy about where she is headed.

She needs to talk to Claire Thambusamy. She dials in the VR, on sound only, bouncing her call off the forwarding base that she left behind in her workstation. It will make her call appear to come from within Kuala Lumpur. She does not want to hasten the discovery of her departure by her pursuers. She wants to hear what is happening at home. Home?

“Has he forgiven me yet? What happened with the visitors?”

She tells her that the visitors have been digging into their organization, asking after her. They can see that something is not going according to plan and they are worried about the security of the game. They are missing her. She should come by.

It was a mistake for Mota to send her home. Now he cannot get her back.

She tells Claire that she thinks she has been threatened by a criminal gang and that they should all be careful. Claire is shocked and worried. Preeta tells her that she will lie low for a while. She says nothing more.

Then she sends a message to her contact–to her mystery X. They send her a code and she installs it. It is safe to talk openly now.

A moment of panic rises through her calm acceptance of his promises. She knows of stories of girls who have been lured into foreign countries by the mafia, had their travel credentials confiscated and forced to work in prostitution. Locked away in rooms without money or clothes. Beaten if they try to escape.

Suddenly there is the thought that she might have been tricked here, out of one mafia operation and into another. Is that to be the new function of the game? Sex trafficking? But it doesn’t seem likely. That only happens to girls and children who do not have jobs, who are destitute and desperate. This was not like that. And the country, Norway has a reputation for international justice. She is partly reassured.

She tells her X that she does not want to give up her travel credentials, that she has not been able to find any clothes to buy. She wants to tell him that she is afraid, but that would suggest too much trust. Instead she says that she is looking forward to having a room of her own with a shower.

X tells her: “You will meet with our coordinator in Oslo. He will meet you at the airport in Oslo. His name is Edward Bishop. He works for the Norwegian F.B.I... Don’t worry, our agents are watching your progress to make sure that you are not being followed.”

They probably wouldn’t be helping her if they didn’t think she could help them with their own problems. What are they doing for the girls in Bangkok or Bosnia or Murmansk?

Preeta always thought that Malaysia was pretty up’n’coming. More like the West than the gangs of Mumbai. She begins to reevaluate her view of the world.

When you grow up in a box, you have a strange world view. On the one hand, you yearn for freedom, but on the other the thought of it scares you stiff. Where are you going to put your boundaries? How far can you go? Is it safe? What is she headed for?

What is she doing?

Flung back into the aero-spatial aorta, she finds herself across the North Sea, terrified, in a rattling jet, huge gaping vents opening in the wings. The aircraft depletes into Gardemoen airport in its so-called controlled descent.

She falls into a snowy forest, with rivers and trees and broken mirrors of water, reflecting an ebbing orb of struggling light. The plane re-enters a human sphere from clear blue freedom, plunging her into a winter world, with winter hearts and wintery faces.

“Preeta Dhawan? My name is Ed Bishop. It is a pleasure to finally meet you. We have been talking for some time. We shall look after you here.”

Preeta has not seen many white men or girls so close. Strange to see them now in the flesh: that pasty skin, milky white and ghostly. And the freckles. Is that some kind of disease? She is both fascinated and perplexed. It has an oddly attractive quality. Sexy is not a word she would have been allowed to use anywhere in her past, but here there is no other word that will do. She feels drab and out of place. She is too dark. She needs new clothes.

“We have found you an apartment in the centre of town for now. It’s student accommodation, but it is quite comfortable. It is close to the medical centre, and to the Asian community region of the city. And a short distance from our team.”

“You can get settled in and I’ll take you to where you’ll be working tomorrow.”

“I have only managed to get a temporary visum for you,” he adds. “It lasts for three months. We’ll see how it goes after that.”

Thank you for your help.

“Oh – one more thing. I brought you a fresh mobile, with network access. It will help you to settle in and find your way around.”

She nods, afraid to say thank you too any times. A new identity suddenly sounds like a perfect idea.

I have grown tired of conformity, she thinks.

I am bored with myself.

Fresh cantaloupe, water melon, pineapple. English muffin grilled with butter and cheese. The young waiter regarded him strangely and, without inquiry, returned with a sliced and toasted blueberry cup-cake, with a plate of butter and a slice of processed cheese. Apparently no great violence was done, in his mind, by cremating the muffin, but the thought of putting cheese on it was too much like draping the flag over a corpse. When Den explained about English muffins, he was re-instructed by his supervisor, and the perfect breakfast ensued.

Seldom has he felt so alive as he does now, here on this San Diego hotel patio.

It has been a long haul, but Den Morris has gradually been upgrading his status. From a simple marketing engineer who travelled in tourist class, he has moved through the cabins, one by one. Now he can afford some of the luxuries that he has observed others take for granted. There is no denying that it lends him a satisfaction. But every dream has its price. What exactly is he getting himself (and his company) into here?

Den has always felt a desire to live amongst the elite. He wants the nice house and the big car. For some reason it is important to him. Does that make him a bad person? He finds no reason to care. He wants to make his mark. This project can make it for him.

The last few days have been a ‘roller-coaster’, as his American hosts would say, a ride of curious ambivalence towards his new friends. America is a lively study in contradictions. While no surprise could attach to being conned out of hard cash by a silver-tongued Covent Garden market-seller, he finds it hard to accept that the same style of business used in all manner of corporate intercourse here. Not to mention the bribery and protection racketing.

On the one hand there is no one warmer and more hospitable people than Americans; on the other, that warmth has, on occasion, been tinged with the not-so subtle smell of a Roman furnace, powered by the burning of slaves and Little People.

Now, as if re-living the history of the Internet, as only America can, they have started another project of gigantic potential, under the auspices of American national security–whose true potential has only been realized by outside forces. A game.

This wanton love child, sired in the ultimate blending of American beauties: a ménage à trois horriblis of fledgling divorcees: Silicon Valley, The Pentagon, and Hollywood, has taken on a life of its own. Now heading for adolescence, having seen some of the world, the progenitors are scrambling to save their creation from moral corruption at the hands of infidels in the cheap outsourcing nanny countries. Isn’t it the ultimate irony? The very nations the corporate West relies on, to power its bloated lifestyle, are the incubators of terror and instability, so untrusted and yet so exploited by the fear-mongers of Washington.

And what about this trio? Silicon Valley and the Pentagon are no surprise, but Hollywood? As David Bowie understood, even in the nineteen seventies, it was the corporate Mickey Mouse’s destiny, albeit on America’s tortured brow, to become the cash-cow of its creator, Disney. But now, with a little genetic manipulation, the government has morphed Mickey into a virtual reality simulation of more bullish proportions. It is not just a cash cow, but a multi-headed Hydra guarding the entrance to the Golden Fleecing. If not life from Mars, then the next best phoney future-scape to rival any of Bowie’s seventies bad trips.

Are we really to believe that it is all for the greater good of mankind? Or is it just a cynical ploy to take the West’s corporate propaganda message to the next level? Perhaps we have to believe that the consumer public will ensure that the best will emerge from it, as with the Internet.

Close your eyes. Feel no guilt. Nothing you can do would make any difference. It would only harm the innocents under you. Is anyone innocent? Shouldn’t he get out of it?

Den has always seen himself as a man, more of conviction than of great talent, but here he feels his qualities being appreciated in reverse ranking order. They are telling him to ignore conviction and make the most of talent. What matters is access: whom you know, and being in the right place at the right time.

What would his parents think of him now? They never held any high hopes for him, no expectations of accomplishment. Once that would only have deepened his resolve to work hard to achieve; he has come this far by hard work, but he feels like the ancient mariner who pointed his ship towards the East and ended up in America, drawn by currents beyond his control. Aye, maties. So now the question is, are we sailing under the Stars and Stripes or the Skull and Crossbones?

The delusion that wealth and success came without a price was dispelled early in his career. His graduation in London was infested with any number of hangers-on from the privileged ranks of pseudo-aristocracy: college groupies, who felt that official functions of the University made them into important persons, a V.I.P. elite, the A-list alumni.

“Leadership,” one had told him, “is it about control and retribution, or is it about guidance? And what exactly is the point of bureaucracy? Is it for control or for retribution? It most certainly is not for guidance!” A hearty laugh.

Den offered him no answer, although he had his own ideas.

“A true leader never does anything himself,” the fat man said. “All you should do is be a presence! Leave the doing to others!”

“What are you talking about, Jonathan?” muttered his apparent spouse.

“Avoid conflicts with the work process. Don’t get involved or you will be culpable. Preserve your authority, and you will do well. If you do a lousy job, you’ll lose the authority to lead. Just stay out of the doing and you’ll be fine.”

His spouse groaned. “You men. Surely you should be giving a good example to your workers.”

“Not at all,” he continued. “Leaders should simply keep the workers busy, so they have no time to mull over their discontent. That means the whole system has to be busy – no bottlenecks or rednecks.” He laughs portentously. “Keep the flow going. If they have time, they will always find something wrong.”

For Den, this dilemma has never been a problem. He has always had to work hard; the choice has never been a real one. Survival makes one do all kinds of things. It is getting harder to make money in advertising. In the information deluge, it is more and more important, but you always need to be one step ahead.

This is not exactly how he had planned it. A call from the office in London has reminded him of the ground beneath his feet, He has his agenda laid out for him already. But now he is implicitly committed to helping Cathy, and opportunity is knocking from the senate. Can one afford to ignore serendipity?

“Hello.”

A vice disturbs him from his morning reverie. He looks up to see three Ordinary People, out of place in this utopia of money and power. A tall thin man, with short-clipped balding hair, floral shirt, baggy shorts and sandals. A shorter man, rounder with longer, darker hair and a dark beard and crooked nose, also in floral shirt and slacks. A woman, or perhaps girl, with short, red, spiky hair and army-shop pants, sleeveless top, running shoes without socks. A shiny stud protrudes from under her lip. She has small round ear-rings.

“Dennis Morris?”

“Yes.”

“Excuse us interrupting your breakfast. Would you mind very much if we have a word?”

They seem friendly, filled with expectation. They are a welcome break from his work. “Uhm. Okay. What about?”

They exchange glances, electing a spokesperson.

Den remembers his manners. “Oh. Would you like to join me for breakfast?”

The troop is a delegation. Their odd-ball appearances are not strange at all, only mundane. Has he already forgotten this? Three lightening rods short circuit him to the grassy roots of the Californian earthen base. Zap.

A conversation begins; they calmly and pleasantly introduce themselves as members of the UCSD University staff. They have issues. Not so much a confrontation as a tangent. Two hours pass without mobile interruption or wireless agitation.

They are activists, trouble-makers: anti-this, no-to-that. Den has never really had much time for No people. But they are charming and they are a refreshing diversion from the sedative luxury of these past days. They began their ‘interest group’ in the early 2000’s when the San Diego power companies privatized and increased power prices by three hundred and eighty percent over night. There was a popular uprising, in which people refused to pay. They tell him that, coming from the U.K., he ought to remember, since the same crooks bought the British power grid and increased prices to fleece the more docile British public. That was probably before Den was interested in such things. They have been following corporate corruption every since.

At first, Den listens as if researching an adversary, looking into the face of the unknown soldier on the opposite side of a war. Then transmogrification: a battery of impulses resonating in his thoughts. Little needles, pin-pricks of reason, puncturing assumptions and fraying loose ends in his consciousness.

They thank him for his interesting talk. First flatter him to let down his guard. Then they express their worries. Not too strongly. Don’t want to sound like lunatics. Then the pin-pricks begin. Working him over, grinding him down.

They talk of history, of the beginnings of the free market economy. The Chicago boys’ laissez-faire dream, which the Chilean Pinochet thrust upon feudal poverty in South America, turning the country into a power house of short-lived productivity and ending it with a new class of Those Who Haves and of Those Who Have Nots. A Nobel prize in economics rests on this project, but failure is the penalty for such hubris.

They talk about the erosion of civil liberties and fundamental rights in the free market West. They remind him of Magna Carta, which surely any Englishman would understand. Den cannot remember much about it from school. They talk about the separation of church and state, written into the American constitution, during a time of greater eloquence and insight.

They talk about the Fear and Ignorance tactics of government, a strategy to preserve the old style of leadership in which only the privileged classes were educated and the workers simply did as they were told. They explain to him how this is fundamentally at odds with the modern Knowledge-based Society, where expertise lies with the workers, not their leaders. They tell him about the use of the church to shackle people, through guilt, to a higher authority.

They talk about the game and its role in this strategy. How it is playing below the belt, attempting all the tricks in the book to tip the scales in favour of Western Corporate Multi-nationals, essentially the U.S. oligarchs. A new arena for persuasion. with possibilities which he himself is developing.

Then they tell him about the alternatives. More Nobel prizes: forget the Milton Friedmans; remember the Armtaya Sens and humane development, the role of social conscience. Forget the Bible Belt power-mongers and return to a time of enlightenment.

Den feels a smile growing inside him. He likes these people, but they fulfil his best stereotypes of academics, lost in a dream of nineteen sixties nostalgia. Free love. Make peace not war. Was there ever a serious side to all that?

He cannot deny their facts. The television channels are heavily populated by political bias and Evangelical religious broadcasting. Some people would say that both they and he work in the business of public brainwashing. He has never quite been able to swallow these Americanized mass religious gatherings though. They remind him too much of pictures of Nazi Germany, with Hitler standing in front of the German rallies. The main difference is the badly artificial Evangelical sun-tans, and hair-pieces that could have been stuck on from a poor photograph, cut out of a seventies mail-order catalogue. They are easily recognizable by their vapid smiles and their anti-abortionist badges, stuck onto expensive suits, paid for by the brainwashed addicts who listen to them. His bitterness towards them surprises even him; he has never lived here, but he has seen the tendrils spread to the U.K. and Europe.

The politics of this are the essence of it. There is nothing spiritual going on here, he thinks. They are right. It is pure indoctrination. And he knows that it is has been a comfortable power-base for the Republicans, since the nineteen-eighties. Bush had won eighty-one percent of the evangelical vote. He didn’t need the Catholics anymore, not that the Catholics were exactly apolitical, but they are dying.

“Please, Den,” they say. “Don’t be dazzled by King John or the Pope. If this game is about bringing people together and giving people a voice, then great. But if it is just a cover story for more corporate corruption, a way of locking down the last public soap-box, it needs to be stopped. You ever been to Hyde Park?”

The path through the campus winds around and he loses his way several times, as he whistles his way along the path. The warmth from the paving radiates back onto his legs. Next time he must remember to bring shorts. Ticklish beads of sweat run down the backs of his knees.

There is not much time left on this visit. Time to make the most of Cathy. They still have more to talk about. They have work to do.

They seem to share the same dream, he has discovered. The dream of securing their own futures before things fall apart at a higher level. Both of them can see the precariousness of the current political climate. Money could dry up in no time, unless they play their part. And it seems that they could play that part together. They jobs have almost become sidelines to the resonance of their common ambition.

“We now have special instructions to monitor communications in virtual meetings,” she told him in between their nocturnal communions. “Anywhere people meet in groups by arriving all at the same time, or within a few minutes of each other. That is an organized meeting. Intelligence hawks are pushing for greater power to gather in data from such meetings. The trouble is that the only way it can realistically be done is by distributing the task out to every user’s own mobile. That means altering everybody’s software. It would not be practical, even if it were legal. Even the NSA could not muster the computing power to analyze every meeting in the entire game. In other words, they need us to come up with a server-side compromise that gives the U.S. government the power of escrow on the anonymity of players.”

She sat up beside him, pulling him onto his side in a playful mood. “By joining together we could build a kind of net-wide telescope. A SETI program for the game. The search for hostile life out there.” Then she took his middle finger in her hand. and placed it on the inside of her knee. “When we detect an alert situation, they then want us to be able to trace... ” she drags his finger from her knee “... the participants... ” up her thigh “... through the net.” to the place between her legs “to the source. And infiltrate deep to find their prize.”

He pauses for breath as he recalls.

It has become increasingly clear to Den that her little favour was more of a personal matter than anything to do with her job. Cathy Kim is looking for her future in all this, just as he is. She could manage without him, if she were only interested in research, so there must be more to it than that. He can’t fault her for wanting more. Maybe there is a journey they can make together. It seems like an opportunity to be taken seriously, as long as he does not become too distracted from his main goals. This trip is not turning out exactly as he planned it.

This is uncertain ground, he thinks. What am I getting myself into? He continues up the path.

Den’s mobile finds Kim in the gym. It is a large light room with large windows looking out onto a grassy area. The room has an unpleasant tang of sweat and rubber and leather fittings. She is standing in front of a huge wall-covering mirror, lifting small weights and admiring the slight but muscular figure he was admiring only hours before.

He smiles at her. “I’ve always wondered,” he says, “how the mirror helps.”

“Power of reflection. I’m almost done.”

She pumps the weights with a discipline that Den admires. She is not distracted. He likes that. She could almost have been made for him.

“I had a visit this morning.”

“Uh huh?”

“From some of the protesters, we have been hearing about in the news.”

“What? Are you okay?”

“Yes, yes. Nothing like that. They were very charming actually.”

“Really... ”

“They seemed to have the whole thing figured out.”

“And what did they want from you?”

“Understanding mainly. And I think they see me as being able to prevent some kind of misuse of the game. I really don’t know why you all think I am so important.”

She stops her pumping and walks over to him, her skin shiny with sweat...

“Thing about value is that you are just as valuable as people think you are. It’s a self-fulfilling prophesy. It doesn’t matter how it started. It’s what becomes of it that matters.”

Of course, he knows about this effect in marketing. Drop a grain of salt into a saturated solution and it will make a big diamond-like crystal. So, deal with it. Feel like a diamond, Den.

“No one at the brunch seemed to be that bothered about the news breaking like this.”

“Of course not. They do not mind these diversions. It helps to keep the conspiracy theories alive. They throw a cloud of uncertainty and doubt over their real motives.”

“Money.”

She smiles. “It’s that simple. Of course there is more at stake, but I don’t think government really believes it at this stage.”

“Government can do whatever it pleases here. The channels of corruption run deep. People have been passive for too long.”

“You know, I meant to tell you that I also found a rogue billboard.”

“You did.”

“In Dubai. The text was corrupted. It looked like a programming error.”

“Ok, maybe we can go look at it later.”

“I sent in a bug report. I’m hoping to get some analysis back from Malaysia”

“All right, never mind that, handsome. We should find out about this senator friend of yours.”

He groans on the inside. She wheedled it out of him while straddled across him, just out of reach, last night. The General was right. Buttons and zippers are no protection.

“I thought you wanted to look at the data to help law enforcement?”

“Maybe it’s the same thing. If we are going to get in on this deal, we’ll need some leverage. Something tells me that your senator friend is not a hundred percent legit.”

“In that case we’ll need a creative advantage.”

“Well I suppose I could sleep with him,” she winks.

Den experiences a momentary flash of something. Jealousy? No. He wipes out the thought. Possessiveness is not a quality that he can afford if he wants to ascend in the ranks.

“What do you think he knows?”

“I think he is just an envoi.”

“So who has the real power?”

“That’s the funny thing,” she says. “I am not sure that anyone does. This is one of those self-sustaining conspiracies. Everyone believes in each other because everyone believes in each other. That is the nature of celebrity. You know, like the boy who lifted himself by his bootstraps. There’s no centre of power.”

“So how do you infiltrate an organization that has no centre?”

She hums.

“Well, I suppose you could try to create a centre. Make a splash that gets you noticed. Then let the ripples spread. You have already done that.”

“So the trick is in keeping their attention until they remember you - and treat you as a player... ”

She winks. “Networking, Den. Networking.”

They do not come here to speak. They graze, like cattle on the liquid commons. Meet down at the poleaxe. Face in the trough.

“Pinta Theakstons an’ a packet o’ crisps, love.”

“Lager and lime, eh Carol?”

They sit in front of their wooden bar; horse trappings and photographs hang as decorations, symbols of a bygone time. They do come here though. Still. To escape, into that flat beer of the English countryside. From their nagging wives or pent up lives.

Like birds on a wire-less.

Grunt to a stranger, over-washed and ironed stripy T-shirt, or Cashmere sweater. Moan about life. The old ball and strife.

“Fish’n’chips here, petal.”

The surrogate friend and replacement spouse, welcomed by the lady of the house.

But they are still on call, by ear-piece or wrist-strap, or traditional bell. Can’t lock the canal, close the sluice. The high water-mark of domestic surveillance pursues. Talk to the lads on the blower, if you have to. Never mind the Mrs., she’s too busy talking to hers. Kids, fun to play with for a while. Quick shag and then down the pub.

To graze, on liquid haze.

It’s our cheap, private, virtual realm.

“Snakebite, love. Shandy for our Sharon.”

Time is not linear in our story. We hop back and forth as we please to pace the details as it suits our purpose.

Jonas watches the drunken man bossing his wife and sighs. He might think he is in control, but one day the elastic will be stretched to its limit and she will snap back at him with a killing force. For now the power trip of a bottle of liquor will sustain the illusion of his dominance.

The incident brings back a suppressed unease that smoulders never far from his consciousness. These domestic altercations have been a constant companion to him too. He is no innocent.

Others in the bar are starting to stare and predictably a bouncer is making his way through the crowded bar to eject the pair into the outside world where they will be able to continue the abuse in the privacy of Oslo’s mind-your-business streets. A young girl, out for a drink with her friends, watches with a look of horror at the pair, as though this were somehow not a common sight for this day and age. Although it is an unpleasant distraction in this charming meeting place, Jonas cannot feel that it is not merely part of the proverbial wallpaper. It is charming that this girl still retains the innocence of a sheltered upbringing, but it won’t last long, not here in the city.

Jonas is reminded of something by her expression and delves suddenly into a memory of his first real girlfriend–some twenty years ago now but it still haunts him, as do all his infatuations. A beautiful slip of a girl with the sweetest smile. She had also borne a look of innocence when he had first known her. She had moved away from a home in the ‘districts’, where he country life had been held in check by strict parents with a history of alcoholism and abuse. She had fled to Oslo at the first opportunity to make her fortune, or whatever it is young people imagine. At the very least he had come here to escape the shackles of small town thinking and provincial non-existence. Little did she realize that the city is just more complex. you can hide in it for a while, but sooner or later the same ghosts will find you.

Jonas is forty-five. He was a successful researcher, now head of the Norwegian Research Council project group. Now he is sitting in the bar of his favourite haunt, taking a surreptitious drink after work, and mulling over his precarious life. He has agreed to meet Joe, his long time and close friend, who has been striving over an application for something he feels is crucial to Norway’s future. They never really have time to talk these days. They have things to discuss, some papers to exchange. Joe still likes paper.

They all come to discuss things with Jonas. For some reason his friends see him a paragon of stability, a pillar of strength. Jonas hardly feels like a Hercules or Goliath. Certainly his thinning hair is not the source of any might.

Jonas Lindgren was hired by the council because he was considered to be an efficient and creative manager, with an talent for team building and getting things done. At least, that’s what they said at the time. That’s what you get for being an eco-scientist. He is also a doer.

He always was the one who sorted things out, even as a child. He is the strong silent type, as they say: quiet but supportive. He would bolster his mother’s doubts and resist his father’s belligerence. It is an attribute that people seem to value; they come to him for advice and even just to be with him. He has often been told that he projects a kind of calm that other’s find comforting, but he has never understood it himself. No one who understood the turmoil that he suppresses could ever say such a thing. Sometimes he feels like a priest. No, that was Joseph’s calling.

Jonas had other girlfriends, though none of them ever seemed to measure up to that first experience until Kaja. Women seemed two dimensional to him after that first experience and he kept them at arm’s length. His wife, Kaja, was a surprise. She was no facsimile of his earlier lovers, but she shared many of the usual traits that he is unfortunately and fatefully attracted to. Perhaps it is the control-freak discipline of his personality that draws him to women that he absolutely cannot have any control over. Women with troubled or difficult demeanours seem to flock to him and he falls for them again and again.

Jonas eventually left his wife for seeing other men. She cared for him, but more like a faithful dog than as a lover. So he bought a dog to keep him company for a while. Then the dog left him. It ran off somewhere and was never seen again. He imagines it dognapped and enslaved in an east European brothel, or perhaps in the deep freeze of a Chinese restaurant. No. It isn’t really funny.

It was not the break-up itself that seemed so unbearable to Jonas, but rather the feeling of loneliness: that a part of him was going away and might never come back. That he would be alone again for the rest of his life, while everyone around him was engaged in a perfectly harmonious relationship. He was not stupid enough to believe that, but that did not alter his emotional state at the time. Little did he know that she would remain to haunt him for the rest of his life, forever pushing his buttons and relying on his steadfastness.

Jonas shakes himself out of his dreaming and sips at his beer. The little pub has a nice bar with a high ceiling and huge pieces of art on the walls. He used to come here with the rest of the crew of his little company, but bit by bit he has stopped asking them and has come here to escape. It is important to carve a place for oneself in this world of increasingly pervasive noise. If not a silence then a freedom from the obligation to communicate. It is a restful place but an odd place, he thinks, full of local people from every walk of life. It has a good buzz–a background of white noise that, in spite of the chatter, is so unspecific that it is restful. He often turns off his mobile when he gets here or at least pretends not to notice if someone channels him a message.

A tall black man in threadbare jeans and a scruffy sweater enters the bar and edges his way towards him. Jonas’s friend places a salutory hand on his shoulder.

“Joseph! How are you?” he says turning to greet the tall figure, shaking his hand. “I’ve been saving you a place.” He moves a bag from the bar stool next to him. “What are you having?”

“Good to see you. Jonas. You look tired though man. They been workin’ you too hard?”

“You read me like a book.”

“Hah. What book? Not the Bible, I think. Maybe a tabloid magazine or something.” He laughs. “I’ll have a light beer. It looks like I probably can’t stay long. I’m on duty at the youth centre, last minute notice.” He hands Jonas a folder of papers. “This is for you.”

Jonas smiles and gestures with his upturned hand to Joseph’s clothing. “Ok. You look different. I don’t think I have ever seen you in jeans before.”

Joseph laughs. “Do you like them? I have always wanted to own a pair of jeans. Call it my treat to myself. I am in the mood for a little decadence.”

“It’s very decadent.”

“A little symbol of western capitalism, manufactured in the heart of the communist far east.”

Jonas gestures to the girl at the bar and gets him a beer.

“So you’re still involved in the youth centre?”

Joseph nods. “Not as much as these last years. It’s time for me to move on, but yes, I still play a part. Take watches. You know. It’s good to be around the kids. It keeps them away from the river.”

“You mean away from drugs?”

“Right.”

Jonas shifts his eyebrows. “I’d almost forgotten about that kind of thing. You know I live such a isolated existence these days. I can’t remember the last time I actually walked along the river, or was offered dope.” He smiles. “I should get out more.”

“Good to hear you say that,” his friend chimes. “You might not realize it, but other people have things call lives. If you don’t have one you’re missing out.” He laughs and pats Jonas on the arm amicably. “So anyway, what do you think?” He gestures to his jeans.

Jonas smiles quizzically. “I like it. A new style. What came over you?”

“You mean apart from a little extra money? Ah... here we are... ” His beer arrives and he pulls it from the bar and says, “Skål Jonas!”.

“Skål!”, Jonas chimes, lifting his glass, and they drink to their meeting.

“Ah that’s good, man,” Joe says appreciatively. “What came over me?” He shrugs. “Lots of things have been coming over me lately. I have been thinking a lot about our project with the schools, talking to the other countries participatin’. You know. It’s good.”

“Good?”

“It’s good to get out for me too. I’ve been doing more of it lately. Should have started a long time ago.”

Jonas’s eyes narrow with curiosity. It seems like an unusual thing for his friend to say. Joseph has been becoming a de facto priest for the Catholic church for as long as he can remember. Indeed, Jonas’s scepticism for all kinds of religion was what made them friends to begin with. That and the similarity in their names.

“Looking for a change?”

“Of course. Things have to change.”

“Change is healthy.”

“Change is the world at work, my friend. Everything changes: seasons, birds, bees, morals, hairstyles... ” He smiles. “You have to let things grow. You let the young plant the seeds and then you trust that the universe will unfold as it should. But we older ones can take a while to reflect on what is important.”

“What is that?” Jonas says jokingly. “Tell me, I really wish I knew.”

“A pair of jeans perhaps?”

They laugh.

“Seriously, Jonas. I am looking forward to the new project. I think I can do more there. I am tired of fighting fires in these youth centres. I want to go to the source.” He taps the folder of papers.

Jonas conceals his surprise with no more than a wrinkle of an eyebrow. This is not the Joe he knew in college. That one had learned that you just don’t ask too many questions and you follow the so-called Good Book, or its hypocritical soothsayers.

“I thought you were happy doing what you were doing.”

“Mmmm,” he sounds, gulping at his beer. “Well.”

Jonas snorts, waiting for his completion. This is typical of Joe to say something provocative.

“You can reach – well, let’s say, a dicey plateau of contentment, or you can achieve blissful oblivion or denial. No, man. No sense in trying to hide from the truth.”

“Joe the heretic!”.

“I’m quoting you, Jonas!”

“Oh.” He grins.

“It’s a random walk. Open ourselves up to the truth of our suffering. It’s what life is about. The struggle. It’s not the arriving, but the getting there.”

Jonas grunts.

“You know it, Jonas. I think you have always understood it. But it has taken me longer to see that you were right.”

This is a new Joe, for certain.

Quoting me at me? Did I make such an impression?

Jonas has always been a formidable opponent in discussion. In school people admired him for his incisive criticisms of complacency, and his advocation of what he called critical positivism. It was a half-serious mixture of the philosophies of the scientific method: rational enquiry and hard criticism. It was neither Kant nor Hume nor Popper, but there was an essence of replacing faith with a rational procedure, a procedural algebra. Perhaps that it what made Joe gravitate towards him also later on.

“Religion is just an outmoded form of politics, anyway”, Jonas would grumble. “A way of using fear to control people because you don’t have a decent system of law and order. How easy to preach true morality and have it enforced on penalty of an eternity of suffering.”

Joe laughed, “You know what they are calling the Christians now? Ringbearers. You know the rings they wear now to show that they are saving their virtue for marriage?”

Their conversations were always pointed and far more eloquent than he can remember. In return, Joe would point out to Jonas the flimsiness of his academic foundation. Joseph had the benefit of a French education, a tradition where they still respect intellectual values. He had forced and inspired Jonas to hone his arguments and to read more and so they had enjoyed each other’s conversations and challenges and company. But Joseph was never any priest. He never had the social skills. Jonas would make a better one – people cling to him and do as he says even without him wanting it.

“All right. Actually, I heard that there was a development in the project, a sudden interest from the Americans? I haven’t really had time to follow things. I have been busy with the Fulbright stuff. It was one of the contacts there that leaked it to me.”

“That’s right. You wouldn’t have thought it would you? I guess they are coming around to the idea that this is the only way that they are going to fight crime in the long term. Scrub ‘zero tolerance’, this is deeper again. Trouble is, they want to own it. But they want to buy us out. I’m not sure about it.”

It seems like a flash of good news to him, but his alarm bells are ringing. The noble initiative was a Norwegian idea, from the Peace Institute, but that is no guarantee that it would catch on elsewhere. Every country is the same though: rising petty crime, drug abuse, anti-social tendencies. That was why he pushed the funding of this project. There is no respect for the power of education anymore, except perhaps amongst a rich elite who already have one. People want everything on the cheap now.

So why not perform a little attitude adjustment directly at lower school level, teach kids manners and consideration again, like they used to?

“So is the interest corporate or governmental?” he asks. “Or is it Ringbearers?”

Joseph smile. “What’s the difference?”

“Government can have some controls. If companies are involved, they will use this as an opportunity for targeted advertising. If the church is involved, they could use it for indoctrination.”

“Church is already involved, Jonas. Well, we’ve made mistakes in the past. That’s a long story. Innocent mistakes.”

“Innocence.” He whistles playfully.

He shrugs and swallows some ale.

Jonas recalls the incident. Businesses saw it as an opportunity to use market forces to change minds about basic attitudes. But, they also wanted to profit from the results, so marketing departments dreamt up campaigns that would make the company look good and altruistic. Unfortunately, the marketeers were not that savvy; the cogs turned, and before they knew what had happened, the thing had taken on a mind of its own. They were churning out corporate advertising, trying to sell their products to kids, rather than trying to teach them basic manners. They sort of lost the reins.

“Well. Par for the course. Yee-hah, Doctor Frankenstein. Anyway, I think it’s great. The project has gained some international support now. The French have shown interest in it. It seems that governments are finally understanding the need for education for everyone. There is also growing interest in Asia and the far East.”

“All true. It might actually make a difference. So, did you see our write-up in the paper? They speak well of our achievements here in Oslo.”

“No, which paper?”

“Le Monde.”

“Not my grazing grounds, I’m afraid.”

“I heard that the custodians of the oil fund were pressured by the industrialized nations to put the project into action.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean the government here. Someone had to come up with the money.”

“Well that was me,” Jonas quips. “Though it’s true that we did get a bonus pot for that project. I haven’t heard anything about the reasons. I’ve been a bit too tied up to find out.”

Joe nods. “You look tired, Jonas.”

“No kidding.”

“What’s up? Something with Kaja?”

Jonas takes the name like a shot across his bow. He does not want to enter into a discussion about his private life just now. Joseph will delve if he is given the chance. He flounders slightly and steers the conversation back. “You know, I was talking to this kid the other day. He has just started a masters at the University here. He actually told me that he felt school was a waste of time.”

“Is this so unusual? I mean kids say that all the time, right?”

“Well, more than that. He said that no one had ever demanded anything of him – never stretched him – not even once throughout his entire career. Don’t you think it is a little scary?”

“You are asking someone from Africa about how scary a lack of education is?”

“I think someone predicted something like this in about 2000. I mean, that the world has been getting dumber for some time. They claimed that it is part of the convenience society. There was some research done. I forget where. In the end we are so lazy that we are helpless. It’s one of the Doomsday scenarios.”

Joseph raised his glass. “And the great wheel keeps on turning. I think that’s a cue for a drink. Here’s to our programme!”

They drink.

“By the way,” Jonas recalls. “Do you remember a Professor Egeland? He taught some of the early science courses?”

“Uh huh.”

“He just quit the university after thirty years to become a writer.”

“Good for him.”

“No, he is very bitter about it. Disillusioned by the Department of Education and its budget-rent-a-prof attitude to education. He told me that there is no sense in banging your head against the wall, when all they want is cheap feel-good recipes that they can follow without question.”

“I... ”

“Jonas Lindgren! Is that you?!” Something punches him amicably on the arm. A short stocky man with a fat face appears beside him, closer than Jonas would prefer. “Leif Erik Larsen. We met at the conference on ecological development last April?”

Jonas glances helplessly at Joseph. “How do you do.” He shakes his hand. “Do you come here often?”

“No. not really. You know I have been trying to contact you for several days. You are a hard man to reach.”

“Ugh, yes. I am very busy.” With everything except my job, he thinks.

“Well, this is a lucky coincidence. I don’t mean to interrupt you gents.”

“Well, I ... ”

“I won’t take up much of your time. This is important and I have been calling your number for a while.”

“I’m not very well prepared. It might be better if you called me tomorrow.”

“Oh this won’t take a moment.”

Jonas squirms, looking to Joe for backup, but he is looking restless.

“Look, I have to go, Jonas,” Joe says. “Let’s do this again soon.”

“Eh ... Joe. Look. Never mind. All right. Sorry about this.”

“No, really. I should go anyway.”

The man looks modestly apologetic. “Look, I don’t mean to intrude or break anything up here... ”

“I have to go anyway. Let me know what you think, Jonas.” He gestures to the papers he brought.

Joseph leaves.

“So Mr. Lindgren, you might remember, I am from the ministry of foreign affairs. You know that we’ve been studying the famine in Eastern Africa. We are hoping that you will fund a study that will help our budget commitment to the famine relief.”

Jonas frowns. “Well, you know the budget has been finalized now and the funding assignments have pretty much already been decided.”

“Well, we are hoping that you will make an exception in this crisis.”

It is true, he knows: this is the first major famine in years. The newspapers have been offering their usual stew of inflamed hearsay, hammered to the point of a double edged sword. Pleading eyes and desperate faces, chosen with editorial care, adorn the covers of newspapers and magazines to maximize the world’s guilt for allowing this natural disaster to occur.

“Other nations are making statements of support, and long term commitments to address the climate issues. We feel we should do the same.”

“But surely that is not a matter for a research council?”

“The ministry feels it is: it would send a good signal to be seen to be investing in long term solutions, rather than just direct aid. You can’t just put a plaster on the future!”

Nice slogan. Well, guilt is not an emotion that Jonas has ever felt compelled to exhibit. The eyes of Europe are on this disaster and the cries for help and being answered with nominal budget reallocations.

“I think my job is to fund progress not famine relief.”

This pipsqueak civil servant is asking him to give up his hard won pittance for research to cover another budget with more political feel-good floss? The sums of money he has at his disposition are hardly significant for something like this.

“But you know what they say – no more than four meals from anarchy.”

“Or four extra meals to libertarianism.”

He sends him an uncomprehending stare.

“I feel confident that we can work out an arrangement. This will mean a lot to Norway’s image as a global player. It will make us practically an economic superpower, compared to other countries.”

Jonas hides his reaction by emptying his glass of beer.

“So I’ll come by at the end of the week to make the arrangements then.” It was not a question.

“Well, I am going to be pretty busy with the details of the collaborative research conference. And the Research Open Day is coming up with the Colleges and Universities.”

“We have an obligation to help. I know you’ll come around.”

Something in his tone tells Jonas that the matter has already been decided. Now he will leave and everything will be as he has implied. Jonas feels the relief of a drowning man who knows that it is time to accept his fate.

“I suppose we can look at the budgets again.”

Why couldn’t Joe have stayed put? Christ. He came here to get away from it all. Oslo is too small, he thinks.

What is the point of a pub if you can’t escape from your day job? And how do you get away from the ball and chain that hangs on your wrist? People can’t blow smoke in each others’ faces anymore, but at least they can zone out and pretend to be talking to someone else if they don’t like their company. We’re all sitting here not sure whether we want to meet each other or hide from each other. Everyone has their own story.

So what is mine?

And look at the loser on the end of the long bar. Who is that sad old fuck? He sits in the bar every night and never says a word, drinking his beer, all by himself. Then he staggers home drunk to whatever awaits him. Is it an unhappy home? Or maybe no home at all?

Jonas feels a rhythmical pulsing in the arm of his sweater. Obviously he forgot to switch off his mobile today. He is using his bracelet watch today as his organizer. He glances briefly at it. It is flashing him an E-mail. He ought to ignore it but, like most people, he cannot quite free himself from its charms. There is a message from John, the English intern at the office. They talked about going to the gym together, but Jonas feigned other plans. John is new to Oslo and is finding the adjustment to the Scandinavian society harder than he expected. He has sent a completely unnecessary message to say that he has finished the task he is working on, probably more as a cry for attention than as a progress report.

He forgot his session at the gym on purpose. The thought of yet another personalized session of self-absorbed vanity repulses him today. If he were smart, he would go and find his skis and take the artificially lit trail up into the forest instead, while the weather is fluctuating senselessly between hot and cold. Today he needed to feel in contact with some real people.

He leaves the bar and steps out into the wintery darkness. The time is about 20:00, but you can never quite tell in January. With only a few hours of daylight, and the cloud-cover to provide a roof for the city’s electrical lighting, it is difficult to tell one time from another. He trudges up the narrow street looking as he always does at the buildings along the way: no two of them alike, a variety of architectural styles from the last century that pepper Oslo with the good the bad and the ugly. Cars are parked at every place of both sides of the road of this back street. He squeezes through a gap, climbing over the mound of cleared snow to cross the street where he can get off the more populated main street of Grünerløkka.

Jonas pauses. Snow is falling as he trudges methodically up the slight incline by the old brewery. It is much milder suddenly and the calm that only accompanies falling snow seems to envelop the street. A slight rumble glides past him–a car. He stops to admire its grace in this quiet street. How paradoxical that the archetypal opposite of nature, the car, could move so silently through it, almost respectfully sliding through the flakes with only the slightest crackle from the studded tires. It is a beautiful sight. A silver bullet moving in slow motion through nature’s song of peace.

He continues his meager climb up to the top of the hill, glancing down at the waterfall as he walks on by. It has frozen over in the last day or two. The weather is getting stranger by the year, it seems. Warm. Cold. Warm. Cold. Snow. Rain. Sun. Gone are the days when one knew roughly when winter would start.

Back in the 1950s, John Von Neumann dreamed that we would be able to control the weather, using computers to make accurate predictions, but even he probably realized that there was only a slim chance of being able to describe it accurately enough. Managing it is something else altogether; for that you would need a machine at least as complicated as nature itself, in which case it would just be a storm of its own.

Jonas stops and looks around. Behind him, a few feet away, tree bark shatters into dust, leaving a flaky hole in the side of the old tree. At first he looks away, not realizing what has happened. Then, too incredulous to believe it, he simply stands and stares.

His mobile rings. He taps the control on his watch. “Hello?”

“Jonas, it’s me. Can I come over?”

It’s Kaja.

“Not really, I’m not home.” He moves closer to the tree to look at the place where the shot struck it.

“I need to talk to you,” she says. She sounds miserable, but that is normal; it does not necessarily mean that she is. She is used to getting her way, by indulging her emotions at any cost to those around her.

He sighs. “I’ll call you when I get home,” he lies. “I’m kind of busy right now.”

He hangs up. The mobile rings again. Impatiently, “Yes?”

This time there is no voice, just a few moments of silence and the connection is broken. His mobile signals that a file has been uploaded, but the information about the file is empty. Then the mobile screen goes dark and starts the reboot.

“What the... ?” For a moment there is a temptation to destroy the peaceful falling of the snowflakes. It is a long time since his mobile actually crashed. But he is tired and just stuffs the little device into his pocket.

They drive her and her small suitcase, from the airport, to a spacious, if sterile, flat near the busy centre of an autumnal Oslo. They tell her that it is close to the central police headquarters and to shops and services–to where she will be working. It is close to Little Asia, to familiar food and familiar, cosmopolitan diversity.

They deposit her in a room. The room is warm and dry as a bone. There is something cardboard about it. It is too perfect, too new, too dry, too lifeless. She is in a foreign land. She feels this now, outside the familiar cocoon of Asia. It is almost as though she never left the airport. It has a more immediate sense of dislocation than the VR. She cannot deny its reality, nor adjust its parameters. She is powerless.

They give her a key and a new mobile and tell her not to use the old one, because you never know what someone might have done to such an accessible electronic collar. These days, it is so easy to be followed and traced to source. You don’t want your enemies to be able to track you down without even lifting a finger; you don’t want to fly a flag to show them how to find you.

She is now a floating soul, serving time in a purgatory of greedy gods: gods who are bartering for the bounty of her. The criss-cross lines of planetary cause and effect have intertwined and woven their skein into a noose to hang her by. She must be so careful, so careful. This egg-shell trail is not leading to any Wizard of Oz. No one, at its end is going to fix her wooden heart.

They tell her to that she can feel safe here. She will be looked-after, and her mobile has a panic-button that she can press for emergency assistance. In a world of transnational power-play, you never quite know where you are, or whom you might trust. But you know who your friends are, don’t you; I mean, you trust us, right? We already met in our own Virtual Paradise. We wandered into that place of our own making, that we agreed on, at the same time and place. We made contact with tentative feelers and suggestive expressions, gradually building the confidence to talk about our common interests and fears. Isn’t that proof enough that we are soul-mates? That we needed each other? That we have something to offer one another?

They tell her that she will be working with Interpol and that her knowledge is valuable to many people: too valuable for her to remain in Asia, in the hands of the federated mafia. She wants to know if she can contact people back in Kuala Lumpur. She is worried about them, if they will be all right. They say that it would not be a good idea. It is a dangerous time, a time to keep one’s head down and to survive. No one is certain of whom they can trust, or who is pulling the strings. They tell her that governments are involved, that the forces of international law and order are now fighting for their own independence against the very governments that command them. Who is actually commanding whom?

Questions and more questions; speech transformed into a more material presence, from the whispers of virtual chatter. Conversation reveals odorous humans, not pristine simulations, lurking behind different skins.

She has arrived in a place that she was never expecting to visit; it seems to greet her with an incommensurate enthusiasm. Should she be pleased or disturbed? Come into our parlour...

At first it is frightening, in spite of her resolve to show no fear. She still feels the presence of crumpled paper between her legs, the scrapes and bruises of physical mishandling. She balks at the immediacy of this interrogatory welcome.

“I cannot talk like this,” she says, as Bishop tries to communicate. “It’s too ... ”

Too much, too soon.

Bishop nods.

“Let’s meet in the VR.”

“I understand,” he says. ”We’ll do that. Meet me here.” He flashes her an address. She receives it on her new arm bracelet.

Thus they go, each to their separate, over-dry rooms; they don their mobile accessories and they enter the game, each at their own locations, and seek one another out, as they have done many times before. Dial up the directory of places and times, of levels and scores and select a small, private test program, The developers have set this aside for themselves, for them to talk and discuss. This is not that place, but another place like it.

Preeta checks out the address before simply walking into it. Trust is not easily won, especially not hers. A lifetime of necessary caution has seen to that. Even if she had not avoided physical intimidation by fleeing half way across the planet, her mind could still be at risk. They can still steal her freedom by playing the game of the game: by subtle brainwashing, drawn out stealthily over time. This is a new kind of attack and intimidation that is loose in the world.

She takes the plunge into the half-world of the game. The meeting place they have chosen is a chat room rather than an action board. It presents a futuristic office block, with furniture in the form of twentieth century computer-hardware components.

She materializes slowly, as is the custom in busy areas of the game. It is like walking around a gigantic printed circuit board,: resistor sofas and integrated circuit tables. This is the game developers’ idea of a fun place to work.

The ghosted images of other avatars occupy the space, moving around as they would have in the game developers’ real workplace. She uses a private channel as they always did, so the other shapes remain mere shadows of people. The others are simply there for company, for the magic of it.

Although this is not their usual meeting place, it is an adequate facsimile of it. She should not show herself in that original for the time being, just in case someone is monitoring the area. Someone from the inside. The authenticity of it shows that Bishop knows of the place where she and her contact have been meeting and talking. She has not described, to anyone else, which of the many places the developers have at their disposal for discussing the development of the game. It is a confidence building gesture.

Preeta draws confidence from the familiar shapes; she feels now that she is talking to someone with privileged knowledge of the consortium resources, if nothing else. She has not been lured into an obvious trap. If this is a deception, then these people are very clever.

“You should not use the old identity any more, just in case someone is monitoring us. Someone who shouldn’t be,” Bishop told her.

“Just once,” she replied. “Just one more time, to find out how my colleagues are getting on at home.” When they find that she is gone, someone else will surely be a new target. She should try to lure them away, to protect her co-workers.

“We’ll talk about that later,” he says. “Not now.” It is tempting to simply break away now, to seek out her colleagues. She resists.

She has come here because it seems to be far away from the arm-twisting intimidation of the Russian mobsters and their Asian side-kicks. Here she has a possible future, one that is closer than she could have imagined to her dream of a life of freedom. The aim? To get through this introduction and find her feet.

So close to something so coveted, she responds to the sudden impatience to reach for the previously unattainable. Concentrate, Preeta. All the years of studying, on your own, will pay off, if you only concentrate and do your job.

They greet each other as they always have done in the VR.

“Are you still there?” she asks.

“Where secrets were kept and people wept,” he replies.

What an oddly contrived thing to say, but why should she care? That is it. She is in the hands of the right people. If she has been tricked, it is a far more elaborate ploy than a simple hijack in the back of a van.

They talk about the game and about her work, about how the diagnostic traces that their software in Kuala Lumpur has been able to perform have seen a pattern of behaviour in the game, the same pattern that she has been following for some time, the same pattern that they have been discussing.

“I thought that you were on the inside as a developer,” she tells him.

“In a sense, we are. You have been talking to our team, not just to one person.”

“I thought so. You have a whole team working on this.”

Bishop’s VR representation nods. “Here in Norway, we’re required to investigate any software that is as pervasive as this gaming software is. If any software company wants to sell its game services in Norway, they have to accept our laws and procedures. Society is still quite tightly regulated here. It is one of the advantages we have in this investigation. One of of the reasons why you are here and not in the U.S... ”

“But you have access to the code? Corporate secrets.”

“Yes. We have access because one of the game consortium’s key partners is a big gaming company that is based here in Oslo. As long as they are here and follow our rules, we use the opportunity to use their expertise in analysing the game. The consortium has to agree to it. This is an important market.

“Our contacts in Interpol apply pressure too, in the United States to make that happen. This is really a huge investigation that was prompted by the F.B.I. themselves. They have been watching the corruption of government for some time. So the game consortium really doesn’t have any choice about submitting to these investigations.”

“But are they not trying to conceal the secret features? The bending content? In Malaysia have all had to sign Non-Disclosure Agreements. They say that, if we reveal any of the details of the subliminal content we will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Which means the full extent of corruption.”

“It must be frightening.”

She nods.

“Have you never thought of getting out of this?”

She laughs. “All the time.”

“Well, perhaps we can help you. We have some funds for our core activities. That’s how we brought you here. It can’t be all that difficult to convince someone to give you a long term job.”

They watch for a moment, observing the passing ghosts, banding together in clusters. They are all here, in one place, but not really together: each group in their bubble, their own private channel. So why do they need the illusion of seeing one another, of pretending to be together when they simply cut each other out? Is it security? Is it mandatory policy to prevent overlapping conversations? Are they lonely? Do they know it?

“I thought I was doing the right thing. If western governments want to manipulate their peoples I don’t care. Our company needs to survive. We are used to this kind of thing in our business. As long as it is bringing in earnings, then I am doing the right thing. I mean, this kind of corruption or manipulation or whatever you want to call it, it has been happening throughout history one way of the other, hasn’t it?”

“Yes it has.” Bishop says, impressed by her. “So you reported this problem to your boss and he wasn’t interested? Wouldn’t that be a serious problem for your company?”

She scowls. “My boss is an idiot. He reminds me of my stupid brothers, all bullying and mouth and no brain.”

Her visual presence shows no signs of agitation in the VR. It is one of those little paradoxes with the VR, one of the causative factors of the frequent outbursts of mobile rage amongst kids who spend their time in this body-language inhibited world.

“Bosses can be like that I suppose.”

“Not bosses. Men. Stupid idiotic men. Ninety percent ego and attitude and ten percent intellect, if you’re lucky!”

Bishop laughs. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Oh! I’m sorry,” she realizes. “I didn’t mean to be rude. But you can’t imagine what it is like to grow up in a family like mine.”

“Trust me Preeta, I have been working with the police force for twenty years. I know what men are like. I would like to be able to disagree with you, but I think your characterization is accurate for a large number of men. Especially young men.”

She nods. “Well. It happens all over the world all the time, so I wasn’t worried about that. I was just trying to do what was right for my job. I’ve been trying to save to come to Europe. To work here.”

“Now you are here. Or not.” He laughs at the irony of travelling half way around the planet only to be back in the same simulated place, in a parallel universe. “When you have learned to trust us, you can carry on working and help us at the same time.”

“Do you have any family that you want to contact?”

“Just my colleagues.”

“We’ll do that soon. When you have told me about the incident.”

I was walking down an allé. It was dark and I was joining a group, in my head. I was voting for my government, voting for my self-esteem. I was running from my daemons and flying towards a bright light, where the future was being held hostage by a band of men. I was tired, I was dreaming and my dream was shattered by a screeching of tyres and a hand against my thigh...

Bishop cannot see her trauma, but his sixth sense can sense it.

“I have an idea,” he says. “We should change our appearances now – to match our real ones. It will make it easier for us.”

She nods. It will be strange, like ripping the mask off a knight in shining armour and finding the frog inside.

“I want to show you something,” Bishop says.

He ties their movements together and dials through the locations, back in the real-world sims, the public spaces. They melt from one location into another.

“Here is a place I like to come and watch,” he says.

There are people here. Hundreds of people. It is a shopping mall. They are reading the ads, hearing the hymns, buying the products, wearing the clothes. They are displaying the logos and flying the corporate flags. Each body is a hard-hitting tattoo, a round of of symbolic gunfire.

“Especially after you and I first talked.”

They see the people in their groups, but they are not together. They are marked as ghosts in pairs and in small private groups, just as they are everywhere.

“This is something you will recognize.”

Instantly their picture is transformed, as if they were suddenly observing a camera image in infra-red, or a computer enhanced image, nuclear magnetic resonance–and they are able to see the game’s projected bindings, the attractive forces that are applied through the rules of the game to incite allegiance to the greatest logos of them all. It is like having the veil of ignorance lifted from one’s eyes, and Preeta knows immediately that this is her doing. She has made this possible.

“This is based on what you told me,” he says. “I got one of our programmers to implement the idea you explained to me.”

She allows herself to feel a little pride. In the stream of coloured ribbons, they can see the lines that bind the spectres of this public place in a way that no ordinary participant could fathom; they can see all manner of things: intentions, unexpected relationships, snaking patterns of cause and effect, the beginnings of prediction, and the very glimpses of the future that led her to the inevitable conclusion: that the shallow manipulations of the game were far too simplistic to thwart this kind of complexity. The game was a failure to its hopeful designers.

In Kuala Lumpur, she saw all of that in her head, with a little help from the computer. But here it is, now, all laid out in fantastic Technicolor, for everyone to see. No one can fail to see it now. Will they hang her for passing on company secrets? No. No sense in thinking like that. The idea was hers. No one asked her to come up with it. It was one of her private pleasures, to pass the boredom of her real job. There was no ethical breach in passing it onto the mystery X, even if there was a little bragging involved.

She smiles to herself, behind the privacy of her VR headset and her representation smiles with her, in full public view. She has always had the knack of being a step ahead, but without giving away her full hand... And that sort of brings us up the time you freaked out, she thinks. The time you ran,

“All right,” she says, after a long pause. “I trust you.”

“Good.” He seems to pause in thought. “So then. Tell me everything that has happened.”

She looks out of her dry, cardboard box onto the shiny black world beyond. No one told her that it would be quite this cold and wet! It is not so much the temperature, which hovers around zero, as the festering dampness, which triggers convulsions of shivering in her. There are traces of snow lingering outside. She has not seen snow for years.

Her first impulse on arriving here, on awakening to a new day, was to flee. How could they possibly bring her to this place? It is like a new trap all over again. Is this what life is about? Falling from old trap into new trap?

After these few days, she is growing vaguely accustomed to the strange blue-grey light, of a world that seems to be locked in a perpetual sunrise or dawn. This city, Oslo, seems like a chilly, frozen monument, lifeless in its frigid greys. There is not a hint of the real life here to her eye; every building meets the next, more like soldiers in formation than a family or clique of friends. And this persistent rain removes any lingering colour from the scene, except for the dark shades in a grey sky. It is solid and sturdy, but it is ... alien.

Sleeping with a heavy rug of feathers on top of her has also been a new experience. Douvé. Dyne. How can anyone sleep with such a weight on top of them? The alternative is to switch on a heater and lie naked: not a fan to cool her, but a panel oven to warm the room. But then the air becomes so dry that she has woken now several nights, feeling as though she has been dessicated for sale in a supermarket.

No matter, she will adapt.

A plan for her days has been written for her. That’s okay. It isn’t too demanding. Obviously having brought her here, they would want to get their money’s worth. But she also needs some time to think, to process. That time is now, in the waking hours, while her body’s clock is still confused by the travel and the darkness. Making kulfi out of icicle pricks. Cinnamon thoughts.

Preeta heads out into the morning, wrapping up in her new clothes and braving the outside temperature. In these early hours, she can feel more anonymous and therefore more comfortable as she skulks around. She knows that her position is being monitored, but that is just fine. The clawing uncertainty of her physical security, leaves her nervous of being alone, but somehow she feels more protected in all of these padded garments. It is like a body armour. With a woolly hat on, they can hardly see who she is.

Scattered diamonds on the dark green grasses glisten in this blue light. It seems like another planet. And they say that soon it will be dark most of the time here soon. Only the falling leaves, leaving small yellow-green paw-prints on the pavements, reveal any sign that life has once been here to grace this planet with colour. Even the colourless people shuffle past without life or vigour, making no eye contact, nor offering any fuel to warm the streets.

Preeta walks through the streets, through the centre of town, paying no attention to which way she is going. If she gets lost, she can jump onto a tram. She just wants to see this place. It is strange and exotic in some places, modern and futuristic in others, and oddly unkempt here and there.

People walk in ones, never twos. They are wired up to their eyeballs and ears. Every orifice is distracted from the reality of the moment by a mobile conversation, piped music played through little earphones, visual news summaries projected onto their fashionable spectacles. Why do they need VR simulations, when they hide so effectively from the world right before their eyes?

Shards of squandered privacy open and infect her with other peoples’ affairs.

“I think you should make it fifty. If they go forward with this then... ”

“Anthony, this is not a game you know. You definitely need to get ... ”

Laughter. “It was just so amazing. You have never seen such tits. I mean I thought the lads were going to cream themselves... wait a minute, some stupid bitch is in my way... ”

“Miriam here. I was wondering if you had the figures for January yet?”

At Riverside, there is a tramp with the shell of an old mobile handset. He is pretending to talk to a fictitious mother. There are no electronics in the shell, not even a paper cup and string to carry his voice across the city, but the lure of conformity is a powerful force, stronger than his deadened mind can resist. Not even the humiliation of being caught out in an obvious lie, of having the whole street look and laugh at his expense, is enough to assuage the futile deception.

“Mamma. How are you today? You should keep away from that bottle you know... ”

How lonely it must be not to own a mobile, to find oneself outside of the walls of society, outside of the welfare net. These people define themselves by their communications. The nasal drawl of the substance abusers rivets her attention.

“Fuuucck. They took my dog and deaded it. Fucking police took my fucking dog. Spare some change, lady?”

No one is giving. Too many are asking,

She ends up in a street of shops, where trams roll past and the occasional car crackles along. There are more people here; she likes the activity. It seems that there are so few people in this place.

A painted building catches her attention. An old fashioned, 1930’s style advertisement for chocolate is painted onto a rare space on the side of a building. It adds a much wanted splash of warmth to the street. She greets it as she would a friend or a member of kin.

Someone curses and she feels a thud. She hears a laugh as someone pushes her out of the way. She was looking at the advertisement, she lost her awareness of the people around her, of the distracted stampede. The man who bumped into her is talking to someone with his mobile, not watching where he is going either. She does not feel as though it was her fault, but she feels somehow dislocated.

“You lost?” A chubby African woman, black as the night itself, is standing close by. It is difficult to see her with the bright lights of shop windows lighting her from behind.

She shakes her head.

“You look like you’re new here. Tourist?”

“Just visiting.”

Preeta sees her teeth now, bright and white, contrasting with her dark skip and Negro lips. She seems to be standing in a doorway, waiting for a tram.

“You were looking a bit panicked.”

“I’m new here.”

The Negro woman laughs warmly. “These white men and women are always in a hurry. They can’t wait for a moment to say something. Always stressin, out with the mobile... Everything has to be done now. Interrupt anything for the mobile.” She laughs again. “It’s not like that where I come from.”

“Whereȁ

Slogans

Mark Burgess

SLOGANS

Mark Burgess

Prologue

The Lighthouse and the Sirens’ Song

Good intentions Fraught