It Looks Like You're Writing a Letter
Chapter 1

Above a dog-trimming parlour that wasactually a front for a prolific drug dealer, on the second floor of anondescript brownstone in Tulsa, Oklahama, was a tiny office. The sign on thedoor read 'Henry Thorner - Consultant'.

Henry Thorner was in the business ofreplaceing missing things. Specifically, replaceing missing people. He had been inthis business almost twenty years but trade was dwindling as it became more andmore difficult for someone to disappear. Nowadays, if someone went missing itwas either because they wanted to be missing or they were dead. Or both.

A reasonably long stint working as a bailbondsman had been curtailed by a series of poor decisions made a long time ago.Since then he'd freelanced, taken any job that came up, and kept on making poordecisions. He was 56 years old today. His hair was shot with silvery-grey, andevery year of his life and every worry he'd ever had was etched deeply onto aface you would be kind to describe as 'weathered'.

"Happy birthday, Thorner." Heraised a glass of artificially flavoured liquor to himself and drained it. Rainbattered the window of his cheap, well-hidden office space. A fluorescentbillboard advertising breath mints sporadically lit his cluttered desk.

It had been some months since his last jobhad left him with medical bills significantly larger than his fee. He was stillwalking with a slight limp. It turned out that the rich society brat he wascharged with locating was only lost in a drug-induced stupor in some far-flungwing of the family mansion. Meanwhile, Thorner had traced his target'smovements through hop joints, ladyboy parlours, peep shows and eventually aFederation drugs nest, where he caught a bullet while trying to make an exit.Only a chance phone call to one of the teenager's teachers finally took him tothe prize. The parents didn't seem particularly pleased to get their littletreasure back, but paid him anyway.

Martha used to badger him to advertise, "puthimself out there" she used to say, but even when she was alive he neverhad any real interest in computers. Of course, he'd grown up with theirubiquitous presence, just like everyone else, but there was an old part of hissoul that just didn't gel with the open source society of the new reality.

Some old Sec contacts fed him a lead nowand then. Anything that was either too easy or too difficult for their computerboffins to wrap up on their lunch break generally came his way. Even those hadstarted to dry up as his old colleagues retired or got killed protecting therights of one of the three multi-conglomerates that, to all intents andpurposes, owned the world.

Thorner's office was silent. It was thesort of silent that most people didn't even know anymore. On the rare occasionsa client came up the narrow stairs to sit opposite him in the torn leatherchair he offered, they couldn't fail to notice the oppressive quiet. No fanswhirring, no conductive panels sighing, no notification chirps. No telephone,no Collaborator, no TalkRight.

Thorner wore an old digital watch - a piecefrom earlier in the century for which batteries had to be imported at greatcost - but save that his left forearm was conspicuously naked. When budgetallowed, Thorner made a point of having his left shirt sleeve altered by atailor to be the same dimensions as his right, just like they used to be.

All this meant that if someone wanted totalk to - or hire - Thorner, they had to walk up the two flights of narrow stairs,knock on the door and if granted entry by the dilapidated speaker system, sitin the old chair that was as creased and antiquated as its owner.

Which is exactly what Sue did.

The bark of the speaker made Thorner jump.He couldn't work out if he'd just dropped off to sleep or some facsimile of itprompted by nostalgia. Either way, he suddenly found himself scrambling to hidehis liquor glass, bottle, and old food wrappers, all the while stalling fortime.

"Who is it?"

"Sue. My name is Sue, I was told youcan uh... replace people when the Grid can't?"

"Who told you that?" Thornerasked. He was flustered, darting around the tiny room.

"A friend. He said you used to be goodbut suspected you were dead."

"Is that so? Do I sound dead to you?"

"Huh? Can I come in Mr Thorner?"

BZZZZT. Thorner stabbed the door releasebutton and it opened with an asthmatic wheeze. Sue walked in. She was around19, at a guess. Small with a half-shaved head and a tribal tattoo of a dragonwith a monkey's head snaking around her neck. She was dressed in countlesslayers of black lace and velvet, like a Victorian doll on its way to a funeral.A constellation of studs shone at Thorner from various parts of her anatomy.

"Won't you please have a seat Miss...Sue?"

Sue eyed the place dubiously - somethingthat wasn't lost on Thorner.

"I'm having renovations done."

"This century?"

Thorner gave her a blank stare. He wasn'treally in the mood for sassiness, or for anything really. If the rent wasn'talready four months overdue he probably wouldn't even have opened the door.

"How can I help you, Miss?"

"You replace people, right? You're thatguy?"

"I'm that guy."

"You're not what I was expecting."

Thorner raised an eyebrow and asked aquestion he already knew he was going to regret. "And what, may I ask,were you expecting?"

"Somebody... younger. A computer whizI guess? Shit, it's quiet in here. What is that? I can hear the blood runningthrough my brain!"

"Yes, well. I'm as old as I am throughno fault of my own Miss."

"Yeah, sure OK. Listen can you help meor not?" Sue's arm lit up and began chirping. She made no apology as shetended to it like a needy child. Thorner found himself quietly grinding histeeth as he stared steadily at her, his face getting hotter.

"Miss, I can help you but I must askthat you mute your TalkRight."

"It's not a TalkRight, it's actually aXenius. This year's model if you must know. Well, last year's but you know the8b only got released a month ago and it's pretty much the same." Shegabbled the description, almost as a reflex. He couldn't even pretend to beinterested.

"Either way, I don't want it bleepingand flashing in my office, so if you want to talk, shut it off."

Sue rolled her eyes so hard Thorner wasafraid they might leave her face and end up under his filing cabinet.Nonetheless, she complied with a sullen waft of her hand. The arm piece gloweda muffled blue and was silent.

"It's my brother, Mr Thorner. He'smissing and I'm really worried."

"OK, what can you tell me about him?"

"He's like - a freelance data acquisitionoperative."

"A hacker."

"No. People pay him to get things forthem - just like they pay you to get things for them." She was amusinglyindignant in the way only teenagers can be.

"The difference is, I return things totheir proper place. People like your brother steal for the highest bidder andthe owner never gets their stuff back."

"Whatever, Mr Thorner. I wouldn't havethought someone in your... situation," she looked around disparagingly, "wouldbe in a position to let morals get in the way of a job. I can pay you. I havemoney."

He had to admit she had a point. Herbrother could have been giving corporate secrets to the Federation for all hecared. Nonetheless, he felt compelled to appear aloof.

"Alright, let's get down to specifics.When did you last hear from him?"

"His avatar was last seen in Wichitalate last night. He fuzzed out and never came back. That's not like him. It'sso weird."

"He fuzzed out? What does that mean?"

"Fuzzed - he was using a Fuzzer,probably from his employer, to hide himself while he worked. He's such a pro,best in the business, you've probably heard of him? His name's Tanner Griffen."

Thorner briefly considered bluffing butjust didn't have the energy. "Nope. I don't really run in those circles."Sue looked a little crestfallen.

"So you don't know what he wasstealing while he was fuzzed?" asked Thorner.

"No. He never told me anything aboutwhat he was doing work-wise. He said it was safer for me that way."

"Probably was. Is. Anyway, I'm goingto need a recent photograph, list of known contacts and current address. My feeis 30,000 credits, payable half now, half when I replace him."

Sue's face screwed up into petulant ridges.It wasn't attractive.

"You can get all that - just searchhim on the Grid?"

"Miss, I'm not on the Grid."

Sue could not comprehend this. Thorner sawa million questions shoot across her doll-like face, jostle for priority andcollapse under their own weight.

"But how do you... live?" sheasked incredulously, eyeing him like a sideshow curiosity.

"Miss, I live just fine. Better thanfine, actually. Nobody knows where I am, what I'm doing, who I'm doing it withor why. My thoughts are my own and my space is my own."

Sue shook her head and laughedhumourlessly. "How do you think you're going to replace my brother, a geniushacker and technical mastermind, without the Grid? Do you - do you even have anarm piece? An office computer?"

"No Sue, I don't. And I've beenreplaceing people for twenty years - even before everyone just showed up as alittle smiley photograph stuck on a map. We somehow managed it then and Imanage it now. Do you want to employ me or do you have a friend with a computeryou'd like to ask instead?"

"I already tried that. Of course Ialready tried that. I got Tanner's crew to search every corner of the Grid buthe's not there. No banking, no music, no check-ins, nobody's tagged him. That'swhy I'm so worried. Usually, after a job he's all over the Grid, spending big,bragging, rubbing Sec's nose in it because he knows they can't touch him withouta digital marker. This time it's different."

"OK, alright. I get it."

"Please replace him Mr Thorner."

"I will. Can you get me hard copies ofthe information I need?"

"I'll try. It'll take a few hours - Idon't even know really how you'd get something onto whatever - paper, I guess?"

"Paper will be just fine, thank you."

Sue scurried out, automatically turning herarm piece on before she'd even stood up. Thorner leant back in his chair andstarted to think. People never just disappeared - not really. Their body, theirphysical form, had to reside somewhere in space and time. He counted on this toget paid and so far he'd never been wrong, although there was one job where thesubject's physical form was located in multiple geographical locations at once.

The interesting thing about this job, hethought, was that if the missing kid was such a big shot in his field, whoeverhired him to do the theft must have paid a hefty sum. It wasn't uncommon forlarge-scale buyers of stolen merchandise to 'clean up' after the fact bydisposing of all hired personnel, but this felt different. The girl said thisGriffen was a braggart, and whoever hired him must have already known he waslikely to be a liability. Whether he got caught or not, the theft would befollowed back eventually to the buyer. There just weren't that many players inthis game. It followed that if he'd been murdered, the brains behind it wouldbe traced all too quickly.

Thorner paced his office, which consistedof three steps each way, the second of which required him to dodge theoverflowing wastepaper basket.

He didn't mind waiting - about 90 per centof his job involved waiting and he was good at it. It was an unusual skillthese days. Nobody waited for anything anymore. It usually meant the person whowas prepared to wait the longest would have the upper hand. Patience. A virtue,they used to say.

Sue returned much more quickly than heexpected - huffing and puffing indignantly as she burst back through hisunlocked door.

"This was such a pain in the ass. Doyou know how hard it is to get Grid data onto hard copy these days?"

"Yes. Yes I do. Disappointing, isn'tit? "

"It's completely ludicrous. You'remaking everything so much more difficult Mr Thorner. I hope you're as good asthey say."

"Miss," Thorner started, tryingto contain his growing irritation. "I work a certain way. You don't haveto like it, and you didn't have to hire me. But as you have, I ask only a fewthings from you. If anything is too much of an inconvenience, well I'm surethere are some great on-Grid consultants out there who you could retain withoutever even having to meet them."

"Spare me the high and mighty act MrThorner - I may be young but I'm not an idiot. I don't care how quirky oralternative you might think your choice of lifestyle is, to me you're just anold man who's stuck in his ways. Find my brother." She dumped a thicksheaf of papers on his desk. "I've transferred the credits. Now, how do Ikeep in touch with you? Smoke signals?"

"No Miss Griffen. Kindly give me your emailaddress and cellular ident and I can get in touch with you if necessary."

Sue was about to transmit it from her armpiece but stopped herself. "Do you have a pen or something?"

Thorner passed her a rollerball from hisinside pocket. She eyed it as a Sec trooper would eye a flintlock rifle.Bending over the papers, she awkwardly scrawled some letters and numbers on thetopmost sheet. It struck Thorner that she was not comfortable holding thewriting implement.

"OK, thank you Miss Griffen. I'll bein touch."

Sue flashed Thorner a final frustratedglance and took off down the stairs in a rustle of petticoats. Thorner sighedand closed the door until the deadbolts slammed shut within it.

Sitting back at his desk, he retrieved theshot glass and liquor, poured himself a modest helping and pulled the paperworktowards him.

They were bad quality outputs from the Grid- printed, most likely, at the 24 hour gas station down the street. He knewthey still had some old printing equipment. He sometimes tried to use it forinvoices before giving in to the inevitable and emailing a digital scan from aPayCube. The paper was thin and greasy, unpleasant to the touch. All paper waslike this now, unless you wanted to pay out for expensive hemp paper from anarts shop, but that wouldn't run through any of the antiquated printingmachines still in existence. The Grid kept getting more and more highresolution and reality kept getting cheaper.

The first sheet was a stream of data.Poring through the values between the nodes Thorner recognised it as a dump ofGriffen's social profile information, all voluntarily supplied over the past 22years to a variety of on-Grid services. Of course Griffen was smart enough toonly supply what he thought he wanted others to know and could even have beensmart enough to lie but it was unlikely. Nobody had a problem with tellingeverything to everyone on the understanding that they would reciprocate inkind. This mutual transparency was a given these days. Home address, cellularidents, contact list, last known location, political preferences, groups he wasa member of, affiliations, musical taste - it went on and on. Almost too muchinformation. It was difficult to get to something that looked to Thorner'sexperienced eyes like a clue.

He carried on wading through the sheets. Agritty image of Griffen - gaunt, spiked hair, multiple piercings and a necktattoo of an ethernet cable scrawling up the side of his face and entering histemple. A date stamped list of the last 1,000 check-ins - each automaticallytriggered every time Griffen entered a building. A date stamped list of hislast 1,000 social tags, perhaps the most invasive of all - another automaticconnection made and broadcast every time he was in the vicinity of anothercontact. Many years ago it had been possible to disable this function, untilpressure from the big advertisers eroded the privacy settings until they werepretty much meaningless. By this time the few remaining protesters had beendistracted by some attractive new features and fell predictably silent. It wasjust a fact of life now unless you were one of the few, like Thorner, who neverhad a social profile and remained invisible to the Grid.

Thorner never intended his off-Grid statusto be a statement. He didn't originally subscribe to any of the many socialnetworks that were eventually swallowed by Ora, the network that turned out tobe the largest of them all. The longer he went without it the less it seemed tomatter. It also helped that he'd never really had many close friends in reallife, so peer pressure wasn't an issue.

Over the years, his off-Grid status hadexcluded him further to the point where he could no longer take commercialflights, enter certain gated communities or eat at certain restaurants becausethe only way to access them was to transmit your ident from your arm piece, andhe had neither.

Nobody knew exactly how many people livedlike Thorner. There was no central hub through which they could communicate,and a good number of those who hadn't signed up had done so for militant,anti-establishment reasons so if they were still in contact, nobody on the Gridwould ever know - if they even cared.

You had to be on-Grid to vote, to qualifyfor free healthcare or to own a pet. You had to be on-Grid to adopt children.After Martha passed away it was difficult to meet new people because it wasgenerally considered rude to start a conversation with someone before they knewwho you were by checking their arm piece. Thorner didn't mind particularly, anddidn't remember ever feeling lonely after Martha died. He missed her of course,but he had his work and his collection of old paperback books that he read onrotation and mostly that was enough.

The only benefit to being off-Grid, asThorner saw it, were a vague set of principles he was too stubborn to give up.He knew that when he died it was very unlikely anyone would notice, let alonecare. There was no unmoving avatar and flatlined biometrics to trigger anautomatic alert to the emergency services, and his subsequent removal from thefew databases he appeared on wouldn't cause anyone else's contact count todiminish and therefore flash an urgent warning on their arm. Somehow he was OKwith that.

In exchange he was truly free. His data waspurely his - no advertiser would ever have it, or leverage it into an algorithmto make him buy their brand of whatever crap they were peddling. That data washim: his views, his memories and his preferences. The sad byproduct of thisprotectiveness was an unwillingness to share his thoughts or feelings with thefew people he spoke with face-to-face. Everything he said or did could bepicked up by their on-arm tracking devices and attributed to an anonymousident, which over time would grow to represent him, like a giant, unstoppablefungus. Ora's huge servers had become adept at mapping behaviours and patternsuntil every human in the western world was a series of both.

It seemed that Tanner Griffen was a verycomplete set of behaviours and patterns. Regardless of his technical knowhow,he seemed as much a pawn in the game as the stay-at-home mom who watched thesame soap operas every day because her TV would serve them up almost before sheknew she wanted them. This kid, who thought he was rebelling against the bigcorporations, was really feeding their machines with the thing they wanted most- data.

So that was what Griffen must have beenstealing when he disappeared. Anything else would be trivial; it had to be abig haul of data. But who from, and for whom?

Thorner would have to make his way down thenarrow stairs to the street and start asking questions.