It Looks Like You're Writing a Letter
Chapter 5

Early the following morning, Thorner wassat in a cramped, air-conditioned bus being jostled by teenagers absorbed intheir arm piece games. Knights swung swords at zombies staggering inches fromthe surface of their arms as the teens nimbly moved their hands and fingers tocontrol the carnage. Every arm piece sounded like it was turned up to itsmaximum volume, and the cries and screams of the undead were abrasive andintensely irritating. The old bus smelled of stale sweat and burning electrics.

Thorner used to enjoy reading the newspaperon public transport, back when such things still existed and there was enoughspace to unfold one. These days, as the transport company continually tried toeke out more margin from every ticket sold, it was impossible to even fit intoyour allotted seat. Thorner was of slim build but his hip bones still rubbedpainfully on each side of the bucket-like plastic seat he had grudgingly paid800 credits for. There had been a number of high-profile lawsuits broughtagainst the transport company by the obese, but as OraCorp was both the ownerof the nationwide public transport network and the manufacturer of almost allsnack foods it was caught in a kind of stalemate. Representatives of theOraCorp subsidiaries countered in the media by bringing to light their concernfor the health of the nation, and their intention to double the price of alldesserts, snack foods and soft drinks. The lawsuits were quietly dropped.

Thorner also used to enjoy having time tosit and think. At times he wondered if he spent too much time thinking.Nowadays, everyone was consumed with attending to their Grid persona, polishingtheir profile, enriching their online presence, or communicating digitally withpeople who were often only a few hundred meters away. Because everyone wasdoing the same thing, every update provoked a tidal wave of notificationsacross the Grid and back, a monster feeding itself with its own young.

In a way, he mused, OraCorp was to beadmired. Since its inception as a small search service the company had grown atan alarming rate, scooping up niche businesses along the way. This gave them apractical monopoly on invention, to the point where the military were contentwith getting their cast-off innovations. Sound and energy weapons came from theOraCorp labs long before they were used in international warfare or sold todifferent warring factions across the globe. The technology to monitor andtrack a person's health to the DNA level was originally patented by a smallEnglish research company, but as soon as OraCorp acquired them the commercialimplications soon became clear and OraCorp's vast resources accelerated it intothe mainstream within one financial year. Ever since, owners of sufficientlyhigh specification arm pieces were alerted to diseases decades before theybecame a factor, allowing the individual to embark upon whatever preventativeor palliative treatment was required.

OraCorp did a lot of good for society, evenThorner had to admit that. Healthcare cost a fraction of the price it used toas disease became quickly and accurately detected. The population was stillyounger, globally, as the effects of the influenza pandemic of the 2020s thatobliterated a large proportion of the very old were still being felt. Theresulting reduced strain on the existing governmental healthcare systems hadenabled the cure for both HIV and most cancers to be found. Unsurprisingly,these were all discovered by OraCorp funded university research laboratoriesand the required drugs were subsequently patented and manufactured by thecompany.

Thorner looked out of the window. It was8am and a murky greenish sunrise was blooming over a sea of industrial units.The factories slid by, faceless and lumpen. If Thorner had been wearing an armpiece, a quick map check would display those buildings in plan view, but notext overlay would be present to inform him of their purpose. It was the samein most cities. OraCorp had a wealth of data but would only share what itwanted to. Large corporations would spend their advertising budgets, often inthe billions of credits per year, with the understanding that certain detailsabout their operations would remain hidden from the general public. The generalpublic was confident that battery farming was ancient history and that theirmeat and animal byproducts were organic, pasture-raised and sustainable. Theydidn't need to see a field full of happy cows to confirm this.

Shifting uncomfortably to the otherbuttock, Thorner looked up to check the screen above his head. Estimatedremaining journey time: thirty minutes. It would seem like thirty hours.

He closed the ancient, yellowed paperbackhe had been reading and rubbed his eyes. This particular book was one of hisfavourites. A science-fiction yarn about a spaceman stranded thousands of milesaway from Earth, completely alone. One day, a ship approaches but makes noattempt to rescue him. The spaceman continues to drift, plotting his revenge.

Thorner brought his attention back to thecase. He wouldn't be the only person looking for Griffen, so where were Sec? Hedidn't need an arm piece to detect them. With their spotless blue vehicles andslim-cut suits they were as recognisable as the old police officers on the beatused to be. Maybe that was the point, perhaps their conspicuous presence wasintended to keep the public on the straight and narrow? Whatever the reason hehad no doubt it was a conscious choice, just like their idents having the SECprefix so that on-Grid people could flag them a particular colour or set alertsto ping when they were within a certain proximity.

The idea of a private company ultimatelypolicing the entire country initially provoked riots and consternation when itwas first tabled. But, as with everything these days, the people who did thetalking did a great job in convincing everyone - with the help of the massmedia - that OraCorp had their best interests at heart and were best placed toserve and protect. After all, Ora knew everything, which could only be bad newsfor bad people. If you had nothing to hide, why were you worried?

By the time it dawned on a section of societythat they were ultimately being monitored for advertising gain, a largeproportion of these new enlightened then rationalised it by saying the servicewas free, and seeing a few advertisements was a small price to pay for all thefunctionality they enjoyed. This left a thin sliver of dissenters who continuedto complain and kick up a stink, but would never consider deleting theirprofile or giving up their ident. For them, the stakes were just too high -there was too much to lose by leaving Ora. Thorner at least had the advantagethat he had never signed up, never had an ident and had never used the servicebeyond their non-subscription satellite video and audio calling features. Onthe one hand, he didn't know what he was missing. On the other, the thing thatfrightened him the most - more even than the all-seeing, pervasive intrusioninto every aspect of his life - was that he was missing out on somethingfantastic.

A noise came over the audio system like abell ringing underwater. The whole carriage erupted into motion as passengersunwedged themselves from their seats and scrambled to retrieve their luggagefrom the overhead racks. Thorner remained seated, buffeted by swinging handbagsand suitcases until the vehicle slid to a stop and the doors opened. A streamof humanity bled from the open doors until only Thorner was left in thevehicle.

The journey had left him feeling older thanhis 56 years. He creaked down the central aisle then stepped blinking into thecrisp morning sunshine of Fort Smith's main street.

The station's information board enabled himto scroll around the town in holographic 3D. Thorner quickly located the Churchof the Divine, positioned in the main square of the small town. Zooming in hewas presented with some details and trivia - it was currently owned byCommunityLink, which was a well-known OraCorp subsidiary that had purchasedmost mosques, churches and synagogues across the United States over theprevious decade. Nobody complained, because only OraCorp had the funds to keepthem all maintained in the face of dwindling public support. William Kruke wasdesignated as Pastor and manager of the facility. Beneath some dull squarefootage and fire safety limit information there was a box headed 'PreviousUsages', among which was 'Nuclear Bunker'.

Even though the Cold War was nothing but adistant memory, the increased threat of global terrorism was enough to promptmany institutions and organisations to repurpose bank vaults, basements andother subterranean dwellings as 'nuclear bunkers'. The 'nuclear' part of thename was seen as a quaint throwback. No one was scared of 'the bomb' thesedays. Terrorist groups much preferred more direct methods such as chemical,biological or energy weapons. Nonetheless, families and communities feltreassured knowing they had the option to scurry underground like cockroaches,hoping that this action alone would make them as hard to kill off in the eventof an apocalypse.

Thorner noted the Church of the Divine'sopening hours. He had two hours to kill, so he looked around for options.Across the street from the station was a diner promising hot coffee and perhapssome solids for breakfast.

Fort Smith was a nice little place, if abit featureless. You could say it was frozen in time, were it not for everyonewalking around with a glowing, chirruping forearm and the huge personalised 3Dbillboards covering the sides of buildings just as they did in London, New Yorkor Paris. The roads were poorly maintained but still showed the shining silvertrails required by the driverless cars that ran upon them. Life may well move alittle slower here than in the major towns and cities, but it still moved alongthe same predetermined tracks.

Opening the door of the diner, Thorner wasgreeted by the smell of fresh coffee and the sound of vintage music, mostlikely chosen to conjure an atmosphere of the diners of the 1950s. The musicwas unconvincing, a pastiche. No business could afford the royalty payments forthe original rock n' roll music of that era, it was cheaper for them to buy in 'soundalike'recordings created specifically for shops, elevators, and doctor's waitingrooms. In many cases, OraCorp themselves had synthesised the formula for eachpopular genre of music and could wring hundreds of new compositions from asmall amount of provided data - theme, tempo, key and duration.

Despite the markedly retro intentions, thediner was still fully appointed with the required modern conveniences. All thetables were touch enabled and full-screen holographic, meaning patrons couldorder their food, see it prepared on a live video feed and track its progressfrom the kitchen to their table. Large screens above the counter displayed adeluge of breaking news, sports scores and ranting polemic from spittle-lippedtalking heads. One screen broadcast a raven-haired, deeply tanned man in acrisp white shirt addressing a large crowd.

Thorner wanted conversation, which to hismind had become one of the most valuable and rare commodities of modern life.He deliberately climbed onto a high barstool at the counter. Presently awaitress appeared from the kitchen.

She was perhaps mid-thirties, mousey andpetite. Her features were too blunt and clumsy for her to be considered prettybut she was well groomed, her makeup fastidiously applied. She looked atThorner emotionlessly.

"Welcome to The Hop. What can I getyou?" she said robotically. It was more of a rehearsed line than a genuinequery. Her name badge read 'Amanda'. Her demeanour read 'please sit at aSmarTable so I don't have to interact with you'.

"Hi Amanda, how's it going today?"

Amanda blinked slowly. "Uhh, good Iguess," she said, hesitantly. "Look - there are plenty of windowseats, we're not too busy this early on a morning."

"I'm good just here, thanks. What doyou recommend?"

She sighed. "Coffee is fresh, madefrom real beans too. Waffles are OK, bacon is pretty good and we got eggs."

"You know what? I'll just take acoffee for now. Thanks Amanda."

The waitress almost visibly winced everytime Thorner used her name. It was becoming alien for people to hear their ownnames out loud. They were used to being known as an ident, an avatar or just asactivated pixels on a hi-res, 3D holographic screen. She drifted off to thekitchen. Thorner removed his coat. His grey three-piece suit was once excellentquality, but had been worn a few years too long. He was mildly self-consciousabout it.

When Amanda re-emerged with a white mug ofsteaming coffee and set it down in front of him, Thorner shot in quickly with aquestion before she could turn and retreat.

"So, tell me. What it's like living inFort Smith?"

The waitress appeared frozen, the slimmestvestiges of social acceptance keeping her from ignoring him and walking away.She wasn't technically paid to talk to customers, she was paid to ferry foodfrom kitchen to table, and dishes from table to dishwasher. "What do youmean?" she asked.

"Well, you know - does much go onhere, or is it quiet?"

"Uhh, it's pretty quiet I guess. Notmuch happens usually."

There was something in the way she phrasedthe word 'usually' that made Thorner prick up his ears, like a sixth sense forintonation and inflection. This would have been wholly missed if thisconversation was happening over two arm-pieces in text format - dictated orotherwise. "Usually?" echoed Thorner, "Something happenrecently?"

Amanda had no interest either in keepinginformation from this stranger, or in gossip. This was in Thorner's favour. "Gee,I don't know. A couple days ago there was a real to-do up at the town square.Big white auto-drone landed and this young man falls out - cursing andthreatening folks, and you know we're not used to that kind of thing out here,we're quiet types and keep ourselves to ourselves. Anyway this young fella iscovered in tattoos and whatnot, starts demanding alcohol which of course we can'tgive him as we're a dry town and have been for over thirty years."

"I take it you don't get many visitorslike him?"

"No sir, he shocked a lot of people! Itake it from your clothes and all you're from one of those big cities up theway, but you seem like a decent gentleman. This... young man, he had no placehere at all."

"So where did he go?" askedThorner, warming his hands on the coffee mug.

"Old Bill Kruke took him in - seemedlike he was expecting him if you ask me. Could be part of his community workmaybe? Either way, that was a few days back and nobody's seen the young guysince and we're better for it."

Thorner sipped his coffee, which wasterrible. "Well I can see how that could rustle a few feathers. Doesthis... Kruke?" - Amanda nodded - "does he get visitors like thisoften?"

"Oh I couldn't really say. If he doesthen they don't tend to cause such a ruckus as to be noticed. Bill does goodwork up at the Church, takes in some strays but you never have any trouble oncehe's taken them under his wing."

"I'm here to see Mr Kruke myself."

Amanda's features warmed. "Oh I see!Well that would explain you being here. We don't get many tourists you see."

"Well Amanda, that surprises me - sucha quaint little town you have here."

She smiled for the first time in the wholeexchange. "How is your coffee sir?"

"It's just great Amanda, and call meHenry."

She smiled again. "Well, I hope youenjoy your stay here Henry."

Amanda retreated to the kitchen once more,but with a renewed spring in her step and a realisation that face-to-facecontact was much better than perhaps she imagined it. Back in the kitchen, sheupdated her Ora profile accordingly:

'JST SPK 2 CHRMING OLDR GUY FRND UV BILL KFRGT HW GD IS 2 SPK 2 STRNGRS'.

Three hundred miles away, a dark haired manin an immaculate black suit smiled.

Two hours passed quickly for Thorner. Hewas good at waiting. Back when he was a real police officer, he relishedstakeouts and observation jobs. He often said that the person who's prepared towait the longest, wins. Compared to some cases, two hours was the blink of aneye. He used the time to wander around Fort Smith, which didn't take long, andscrutinise the Church of the Divine from a safe distance.

The Church of the Divine was a fairlynondescript concrete structure dating from around 2014. In keeping with thearchitectural style of the time, it consisted of wide sweeping bows ending inrobust curlicues. No doubt at the time it was designed and built, it attractedcountless complaints and petitions from the local residents calling it ugly andobscene. Now he noted it carried a plaque proudly stating its protected statusas a valuable piece of architectural history. It had most likely been designedspecifically to be a church - the bell tower looked original, although no bellwas present. Part of organised religion's last hurrah. The building stood apartfrom the neighbouring dogs home and pizza restaurant.

For the hour or so that Thorner watched thebuilding, nobody went in and nobody came out. When 11am finally rolled around,the front doors were unbolted and opened from the inside. This meant that atleast one person was resident in the church full-time, most likely. Thebuilding had a fire regulation limit of 150 persons, which would apply to itslargest room. Judging from the size of the building as observed from theoutside, there would be precious little living space above ground. Thornerwondered how many levels were below ground and how far they sprawled.

He waited until 11:30am before saunteringover the road and up the few steps to the heavy wood-effect door. Like mostbuildings of this type, it was oppressively dark as he stepped inside. A younggirl was stood behind a desk, tidying leaflets.

"Good morning Sir, how can we helpyou?" As usual, there was a brief pause before she got to the word 'Sir'while she scanned her arm piece, only to come back blank. This oftenshort-circuited conversations, especially with the younger generation for whomthe idea of an off-Gridder was like something out of a history module.

"And a good morning to you. I'm hereto see Mr Kruke."

The girl's face conveyed nothing. She hadthe glassy optimistic sheen of the converted - but converted to what? "Certainly,let me get him for you."

The receptionist waved imperceptibly overher arm piece and said out loud: "Mr Kruke, there is a gentleman in thelobby to see you," followed by, "he'll be right down."

The church was sparsely but tastefullydecorated. All the trappings of its denomination had long since been removedbut it still retained a religious air. In contrast to the Reverend's setup backhome, this place seemed altogether cleaner and more polished. The clientelehere would be far removed from the drug addicts and derelicts the Reverendwelcomed into his flock. Most likely the regulars here were members of thecommunity using it as a meeting place or central hub of the small town. Large,well equipped buildings such as this were always useful, especially if they hadsome corporate funding behind them.

Thorner became aware of hard soles clackingtowards him. He turned to be confronted with William Kruke, Pastor.

Kruke thrust out his hand. He was in hismid-forties with close-cropped sandy hair, a muscular jaw and impossibly whiteteeth. Although the practice had long since fallen out of favour, Kruke couldnot look more like one of the old-school fire and brimstone televangelists. Hewas dressed head to toe in well-fitted black cotton that had a sheen to it,halfway between the demure cassock of old and a rock star's jumpsuit. Justbeing in his presence made Thorner feel grey, dusty and insubstantial.

"Bill Kruke, a pleasure to meet you myfriend, welcome into my house. Used to be God's house but he upped and left soI took it for myself!" Kruke's voice was a deep, rich southern twang. Heguffawed loudly and pumped Thorner's hand.

"Henry Thorner, good to meet you too -thanks for seeing me."

"Goodness, not at all, my door isalways open. Well, between the hours of 11am - 11pm at any rate!" he addedin a half-joking manner, as if to casually warn Thorner not to try and pushthese boundaries.

Kruke wore a black anodised alloy arm piecemounted on black leather. When the screen was dimmed this gave the impressionhe wasn't wearing one at all. Throughout their conversation he had not glancedat it once, which made Thorner feel like he had his full attention. As Kruketurned his head in the light the reason for this became clear. The pupil of hisleft eye was a perfect square, like a large pixel - he had ocular implants andcould see information from his arm piece in real time as an overlay on hisvision. Thorner knew that Kruke had already drawn a blank on him - although hecouldn't see it, he knew the ocular overlay was currently flashing 'NO IDENTDETECTED'.

This particular mod was expensive butpopular with salesmen and others who wanted to go the extra mile with theirface-to-face connections. It provided all the benefits of the Grid, withouthaving to glance at your arm. Thorner found it unsettling and dishonest. Earlycriticism of this technology was countered with the argument that you had neverknown what people were thinking when you spoke to them, and anyone could takephotographs and record video of you without you knowing. At least this way youknew who was doing the capturing.

"What brings you to my town MrThorner?"

"You, actually."

"Ah Mr Thorner, I am flattered! Now I'mgoing to have to ask you for a little more detail as my services to thisbeautiful community are wide-ranging and I wear a lot of hats, so to speak."Kruke continued to grin like the Cheshire cat and still hadn't relinquishedThorner's hand.

"Is there somewhere we can talk inprivate, Mr Kruke?"

Kruke's smile did not flinch in theslightest. "But of course my man. Daisy, hold my calls please." Theyoung receptionist nodded demurely.

Kruke lead Thorner through a side door andup a short winding stairway to an office on the first floor. It was small but,like the rest of the church, tastefully decorated with minimalist furniture anda few pieces of art which were inoffensive and didn't look expensive. Sunspeared through the room from the small high windows, dust motes dancing inslow motion. Kruke motioned for Thorner to sit in front of a worn-looking deskwhile he sat behind it. Kruke settled into his chair like a big black cat.

"So, Mr Thorner - what brings you tomy church? Have you come to sample the blessings of the almighty Grid?"

"Mr Kruke, I work out of Tulsa as afreelance consultant. I specialise in replaceing missing people," repliedThorner.

Kruke tilted his head in an earnest displayof interest. "Isn't that particularly hard given your... status?" henodded towards Thorner's naked left forearm, his brow furrowed as if he wasaddressing someone with a terminal illness.

Thorner wanted to avoid this line ofconversation. "I get by somehow Mr Kruke. Anyway, yesterday I was employedto locate a young man by the name of Tanner Griffen. He's disappeared from theGrid and Fort Smith was his last known location. I was wondering if you couldhelp me locate him."

Kruke's perma-smile faded. It changed thewhole complexion of his face. For the first time, Thorner detected Kruke'smilitary background in his demeanour. Kruke leant across the desk towardsThorner. His chair creaked slowly as he did so and a shadow fell across hisface, making his expression hard to read.

"I see, Mr Thorner. And I suppose you'vecome to me because of my reputation for taking in the unfortunates of thisworld and helping them turn their lives around due to the blessing of the Gridand all its multifarious connections?"

"Partially, yes. The Reverend at theChurch of Our Lord the Provider in Tulsa told me Griffen had gone to him askingfor your ident."

The mention of a mutual friend didn't thawKruke's newly iced temperament. He was silent as he leant back again, drumminghis fingers thoughtfully on the arm of his chair.

"You know, the problem with beingoff-Grid, Mr Thorner, is that it's very easy for a person to disappear, withoutanyone looking for them. Our young people are all connected up, they're saferthat way, because they can't be lost. Not truly anyway. If you disappeared, forexample, who would know?"

Thorner assumed this was meant as some kindof threat but decided to play dumb to see where the conversation would go. "You'reright Mr Kruke - as you would expect I have few friends and nobody knows I'mhere. Despite that I feel quite safe, rightly or wrongly."

Kruke tilted the corners of his mouthslightly. Thorner got the impression he had passed some kind of test. "MrThorner, even a Sec officer can remove his arm piece. How do I know you are whoyou say you are?"

"You don't. I'm right here in front ofyou, but I'm not on your arm or on your pricey HUD there. That means I'm not onanyone else's radar, and they're not on mine. Sure, I'm easy to lose but I'mharder to track. In my line of work that's a compromise that works."

Kruke's grin returned. He pulled open adrawer and retrieved a wooden case. Thorner's muscles tightened, his stomachchilled.

"Cigar, Mr Thorner?" he offeredthe opened box across the table. Thorner shook his head. Kruke wedged a largecigar in the corner of his mouth and put the box back in the drawer. It seemedcuriously theatrical, well-rehearsed. To Thorner's surprise, Kruke pulled alighter from his pocket and actually lit it. No alarms sounded and the building'santi-fire mechanisms (if they existed) were not triggered. The room soon beganto smell acrid.

"Who hired you to look for Griffen, MrThorner?"

"I'd rather not say at this point."

"Oh come now, if you have things you'drather not say, then you'll never replace out about the things I'd rather not sayand I wonder if maybe you've had a wasted trip out from the big city."

Thorner's eyes had begun to sting. He conceded"Family."

"Can I trust you Mr Thorner?"

This was a difficult question to answer,which is why Kruke asked it. The test continued.

"Mr Kruke, I met you five minutes ago,and you have no idea who I am. If I told you that you could trust me, thatwould be a sure sign that I'm either a liar or an idiot."

Kruke bellowed with laughter again,shattering the tension in the room. He stubbed out the cigar and pulled a face."I hate those things," he confessed, picking fragments of tobaccofrom his tongue. His wide southern accent had suddenly disappeared and wasreplaced with a crisp, cultured tone. It took Thorner by surprise. Kruke'swhole face was now held differently, and he seemed to be what he actually was -an ex-military man in fancy dress.

"For some reason, I trust you Thorner.Griffen is here, after a fashion. Do you really have no idea what we do here?"

"No Mr Kruke - no games. I've got onecase to complete and this is it. I need your help."

Kruke stood up. "Okay Mr Thorner, I'lltake you into my confidence but please heed my previous point which stillstands - you already don't exist, it would be a trivial thing for that tobecome more... final. Do we understand each other?"

Thorner was already more than well aware,but it was almost reassuring to hear Kruke confirm it. "We do and Iappreciate your candour Mr Kruke."

Kruke led Thorner back down the stairs tothe lobby, then into the main church hall. Like the Reverend's church in Tulsathe pews had been replaced with row upon row of PayCubes, although these werein better repair and didn't have the anti-vandalism cases and screens thatthose in Tulsa had by necessity. A handful of people were already using them,video calling quietly or updating their profiles with what they'd eaten theprevious evening and tagging who they had been with. Thorner didn't see anyonenot wearing an arm piece but a majority of the people using the publicterminals were sporting devices with the screens dimmed and a flashing redlight - a sign their subscription had lapsed. When this happened the devicestill collected data and biometrics and stored them on the remote servers, butinformation searching and manual updating were frozen until credits were madeavailable to OraCorp.

Kruke marched to the pulpit, and aftercautiously glancing around, stepped down and into it. Pulling back a thick rughe revealed a heavy steel trapdoor set into the stone of the floor. He tapped afive-digit passcode into his arm piece and the door opened hydraulically andsilently. A ladder lead down into darkness.

"After you, Mr Thorner," saidKruke, cordially.

Thorner placed his foot on the ladder andsmelled hot electronics. He climbed down, followed closely by Kruke, who shutthe trapdoor once he was through.

At the bottom of the ladder was a small tunnel,barely high enough to stand upright in. Kruke motioned silently for Thorner tocarry on, so he made his way down the tunnel towards a dull blue glow comingfrom around a bend. Kruke's voice from behind made him jump.

"It goes without saying, Mr Thorner,that you will not breathe a word of this to anybody."

"Of course," Thorner tried tosound casual, "who would I tell?"

They rounded the corner and Thorner wasconfronted with the source of the blue glow. In a large basement room, therewas a central tower of huge monitors, computers, servers, firewalls, networkswitches and other intricate Grid hardware. Eight operators - each immersed intheir work - were manning it with furious concentration. Around the edges ofthe room were bunk beds, simple eating and cooking facilities and a rudimentaryshower block sectioned off roughly with tarpaulins.

"Well, what do you think?" askedKruke.

"Wow. What is all this?"

"Pretty impressive, isn't it? Come,grab a seat with me over here - can I get you a coffee?"

Thorner shook his head and remainedtransfixed on the computer operators as he was lead across to the corner of theroom where a table and chairs were set up in the half-darkness.

"Do you know where we are now?"

"This used to be a nuclear bunker,"replied Thorner.

"That's right! My, you have done yourhomework. This used to be a nuclear bunker, which means it's insulated withthree foot thick concrete lined with six inches of lead. Meant to protectagainst EMP strikes and energy weapons of certain sorts. Also means that there'sno wireless, no GPS, no long or short wave radio signals. It's a legitimatecold spot. Can you see the advantages of having a space that is invisible tothe Grid, Mr Thorner?"

"Sure I can. I am one."

Kruke's tone turned businesslike. "Butyou're not really invisible are you? Everyone you come into contact with canand will report your presence and your actions on your behalf. You'll be taggedin photographs, mentioned in status updates and tracked geographically as aresult. Have you ever heard of the Strong Anthropic Principle Mr Thorner?"

"Can't say that I have Mr Kruke."

Kruke was getting into his stride, and wasnow in the rhythm of a school headmaster, or a drill sergeant - a million milesaway from the gregarious televangelist character who first shook Thorners hand."The Strong Anthropic Principle, in a nutshell, posits that only in theact of observing a particle or body does it come into existence. Proponents ofthis theory state that the universe is really only as big as that which we'veso far managed to see - which is a hell of a lot with our super powerfulnuclear telescopes and what have you, but still a tiny fragment of what wesuspect is out there. To all intents and purposes, if it can't be seen, it can'tbe said to exist. You obviously exist, Mr Thorner, which means you've been seento exist - do you understand?"

Kruke didn't wait for a response. "Thisbunker and its contents exist because you and I and my little flock here haveseen it - we can't stop that now. But to expand my previous point stillfurther, we all have our own universe and they're all of different sizes. Now,the universe that OraCorp accepts to be true is unspeakably vast, containing asit does everything everyone in the civilised world is doing, thinking andfeeling. So they probably think they've got it pretty stitched up. But they'llnever know how much they don't know. And they don't know about our operationhere."

"Well, how can you be sure they don'tknow about it?"

"Simple! If they did, I'd be dead,"said Kruke, matter of factly.

"I don't think you get the deathpenalty for running a server farm Mr Kruke."

"Hmmm," grunted Kruke, "Idon't think you quite yet understand what we do here. This is remiss of me, Idigressed. Come, look at this monitor with me."

Kruke gestured to a nearby screen. It wasan old, 2D model but seemed fit for purpose, which apparently was trackingpoints on a global map. They all seemed quite static apart from a few that werecrawling lazily across oceans.

"We provide a very specialist servicehere. Now, we can't remove things from OraCorp's universe once they've observedit, by which I mean people. Once you've signed up and got your ident and yourarm piece, you're a container for data and you're tagged and tracked until you'recold in the ground."

Thorner interrupted. "Excuse me MrKruke, but I make a decent living from replaceing people who have been lost, orwho have disappeared. It is possible to slip through the cracks and becomeuntraceable, even if you once were."

"And in most cases, what is theoutcome may I ask?"

"In most cases, I'm sorry to say, thesubjects of my investigations turn out to be dead."

"That's exactly what I'm saying. Youcould say death is the only true way to leave the Grid. It's like a fairgroundride that never stops, and the only way to get off the ride is to throwyourself from it and be dashed on the ground below."

"So - you kill people who want toleave the Grid? A euthanasia deal?"

Kruke laughed with surprising warmth. "Nono no, nothing that macabre. We do something much more... positive. Have youever heard of reprofiling?"

Thorner shook his head.

"Everybody on the Grid is really justa big data file, as you know. This data file contains your personal details,the mundane stuff like name, date of birth, blood type, bank details and whathave you. But it also contains all your opinions, your affiliations, yourtastes, your contacts, and it ties all that together with physical locationdata, biometrics and all that good sticky stuff. In a more existential mannerof speaking, to OraCorp this is you and you are it. We call this a 'profile', I'mnot sure what they call it. Doesn't matter. Anyway, what we do - for a price -is manufacture these data profiles, like works of fiction, and that's what mytrusty crew are doing right now."

Thorner looked around at the overworked,scruffy computer operators. Their hands were dancing over input devices andtouch screens. Maps and streaming notifications bathed their faces in a sicklypallor.

"Do you remember the witnessprotection programme the police used to have, back in the day?" continuedKruke, "I like to think of this as my own updated version. I furnish myclients with brand new, clean profiles. New names, new patterns, new contacts.They go on with their new life, reborn if you will. Provided they keep theirnoses clean, they're free to walk the streets as if nothing had happened."

"And they don't get recognised by theSec forces?"

"Come now Mr Thorner, don't be naive.Nobody recognises faces anymore - not even Sec. You're known as an avatar, anident or a plain old flashing blue dot. Indeed, as far as OraCorp is concernedyou're not even that - you're a block of data. A new haircut, a change ofclothes and I guarantee anyone can walk out of my church, get on the next busout of here and go wherever they want. Provided they never overlap with theirprevious profile, there's nothing to connect this life with the one they had."

Thorner raised his eyebrows and ran a handthrough his salt and pepper hair. "And this works?"

"Flawlessly. I've processed maybefifty reprofiles in the last three years. I'm proud to say nobody has ever beenidentified to the best of my knowledge."

"So, what happens to your client's oldprofiles?" asked Thorner.

"Good question!" said Kruke, noddinghis head as a mark of respect. "That's the other service we provide. Ifnecessary, we can keep the old profile up to date from right here, and send Secon a wild goose chase in the opposite direction. Martin over here is currentlybackpacking across Goa. Michael is living in a one-room apartment in Hollywood,trying to break into the movie industry. All their updates, check-ins,connections, conversations are all entered manually from this facility. They,and my other loyal crew members, decided not to leave, but to stay here andhelp me."

"What about Griffen, is he gettingreprofiled or is he staying to work for you?"

Kruke chuckled crisply and motioned to thebunks at the other side of the room. "Why don't you ask him yourself?"

Tanner Griffen was sprawled on a lowerbunk, dressed in ripped leather trousers, a filthy T-shirt, a biker jacket andhuge leather military boots. Cigarette butts littered the ground around thebunk. He stank.

Thorner kicked the nearest boot. When noresponse was forthcoming he kicked it harder and said loudly "TannerGriffen, can I speak with you?"

Griffen snorted and opened one eye to peerat Kruke and Thorner. He propped himself up on his elbows and squinted at them.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"Mr Griffen, my name is Henry Thorner.Your sister Sue hired me to replace you."

"Congratulations mate, it looks likeyou're a winner."

Griffen slumped back down and rubbed hiseyes. Thorner noticed the knuckles of his right hand were tattooed with theletters H-A-C-K and the left with S-H-I-T. What a charming individual, hethought. Kruke found the exchange amusing and smirked behind Thorner. Griffenrealised that the two older men were not going away and sat up with anotherloud snort, wiping his nose on his jacket sleeve.

"Alright, you found me. Nice one. Nowwhat?"

"I've been talking to Mr Kruke hereabout why you came to this place. I was wondering what your intentions were."

"Well, I ain't working in his littlefucking rabbit hutch for the rest of my life, know what I mean? I want a nice freshnew profile and as soon as it's ready I'm out of here."

Thorner nodded. "OK, that's fine. Iwas speaking to the Reverend in Tulsa yesterday, he told me you went to see himto get the details of this place."

"Ah yeah, the Rev, how is he?"Griffen seemed to visibly warm at the mention of the old clergyman.

"He's doing well. Was worried aboutyou."

"Yeah well, nobody has to worry aboutme. I'm Tanner fucking Griffen aren't I? Untouchable."

"Except not this time. You've pulledall kinds of stunts and never gone to ground. How is this one different?"

"Huh. High stakes play my friend."He tapped the bridge of his nose conspiratorially.

"It was the data smash and grab atWichita, right?"

Griffen looked suspiciously at Thorner. "Howdo you know that? You don't look like Sec?"

"No Tanner, I'm a consultant."

Griffen instinctively checked his armpiece. The screen was blank, a message flashed 'NO CONNECTION'.

"Listen, Billy boy - how come yourhamsters have got a nice fast connection but I don't?"

"Hard piped. Through two thousandproxies coming out of an onionskin network."

Griffen grunted. "It's like having mybloody eyes poked out."

Kruke mollified him. "Only temporary.You'll be back up top soon enough."

"Alright," he turned hisattention back to Thorner. "I don't know you from Adam, old-timer. Youcould still be Sec. How do I know I can trust you?"

"You don't. And you won't replace me onthat thing even when you do get your connection back."

Griffen rolled his eyes and slumped back onthe bunk. "Fuck me, not an off-Gridder. This is insulting. I've pulled offloads of derring-do and never got caught. I get myself into a nuclear bunkerand some granddad with a sense of curiosity tracks me down. I must be losing mytouch."

"I'll take that as a compliment. I'mhere to help you Tanner. If you leave here with a new profile you'll never beable to see your family again, but I can. I need to know you get out safely soI can report back to your sister - my client - and close this case."

"And get paid."

"Yes, that too. Tell me about Wichita."

Griffen sighed. "Like you say, prettystandard smash and grab. Bunch of memory cards, got short changed on the numberof rows. Smoked a couple of rentacops, right laugh. Got to the roof, got thefuck out of dodge, came here, end of story."

"So where's the data?"

"Gave it to 'em didn't I. In the car,transfer mat."

"Who is 'them'?"

"Eh?"

"Who hired you to steal the data?"

"I don't know, man."

"You don't know?"

"Nah, who cares right? I got paid."

"So how did you get the job?"

"Anonymous direct message on the sub.That's how I get most of my work, whether it's hacking, kidnap, protection,stealing, whatever. I don't ask questions, know what I mean?"

"So who paid your fee?"

"Don't know - anonymous transfer."

Thorner exhaled deeply. "Who arrangedthe extraction?"

"Employer did."

"And you told them to bring youstraight here?"

"Yeah. Well, they suggested it but Ihad to make contact myself, they wouldn't do it."

He turned to Kruke. "This true?"

"Yes. Griffen got in touch throughencrypted channels on the sub-Grid. I'd already heard of him by reputation. Tobe honest I knew it was only a matter of time before he ended up on mydoorstep. You can't do as much high-profile crime as he does without eventuallyupsetting someone important."

"Yeah, I'll say." Thorner lookedat Griffen. "You know who you stole that data from right?"

Griffen grinned. His teeth were yellowedand quite a few were broken. "Yeah. Big Momma."

"OraCorp. Not very clever."

"I don't know gramps, I'm alive, gotpaid, and I'm about to start my new life as a fucking librarian or something, Ithink I'm doing OK."

"How long before his new profile isready?" Thorner asked Kruke.

"We plan to brief Griffen thisafternoon, tomorrow he'll wake up a new man. Literally."

"Can I stay here until he's ready togo?"

"Sure, you're more than welcome."

"Sleepover!" shouted Griffen,then rolled around laughing hysterically at his own joke.

All Kruke's reprofiles were different,depending on the personality he was moving from and to. He considered it an art,and he approached the process like an artist. He had moved up the ranks of theSecurity Armed Forces quickly, coming from a military family going all the wayback to the seventeenth century. For William Kruke there was never going to beany other career option; like his ancestors before him, he was efficient andruthless in equal measure.

War in Kruke's lifetime bore littleresemblance to the war of his forebears. Remote drones were flown by computeralgorithms, and the higher echelons of the military industrial complex were nowmore akin to the middle and upper management of a bank or retail chain. Krukewatched monitors, saw gritty video streams of factories getting closer andcloser before they whited out in a sacrificial explosion over and over again.All targets were tactical. Human casualties were always kept to an absoluteminimum by all sides in any conflict by way of some unspoken gentleman'sagreement. War, then, had become a battle of infrastructure, and the West hadOraCorp funding, technologies and knowhow.

The advent of energy weapons and highlytargeted electro-magnetic pulses made incapacitating large communicationfacilities as prosaic as performing a few gestures over a touch screen. Thewestern Security Forces could disable an entire region in an hour, essentiallysending them back to the dark ages - no power, no heating, no lighting.

Guerrilla tactics were ineffectual in thenew, modern age. Scanning for bombs, chemicals, even certain types of metalshad become so advanced that no successful terrorist attacks against the Westhad been reported for decades. Ora algorithms scanned individuals and if thepattern of non-organic matter on the body was out of the ordinary, this was alltoo easy to report on the screens of airport or border security.

All this meant that Kruke was a militaryofficer without a concrete job to do. Strategic decisions were taken out of hishands and trusted to the Ora algorithms designed specifically for thesuccessful deployment of resources and tactics. They couldn't be bettered,because they were always correct. They weren't fashioned on intuition, orknowledge of human nature - they consisted of pure, cold science. Incomingmissiles could be auto-hacked in seconds to send them off target, bombs couldbe defused before they were planted. It was computer versus computer, and thedefensive party always won, because they were always responding to a scenarioprovided to them with full information.

Kruke had for some time been workingclosely with the most elite Ora programming teams, developing new methodologiesfor tracking sensitive individuals across continents. In the back of his mindhe was having treasonous thoughts. He couldn't pinpoint exactly the moment whenhe turned from gamekeeper to poacher, but there was a sense of justiceinvolved. An old-fashioned notion that the playing field needed to be levelled.It was about time the individual took some power back.

He quietly observed the way Ora dealt withprofiles, the strict rules that governed the possible actions of an ident.Knowing what it could and couldn't do was crucial. He noted that if a profilewas populated completely enough it was indistinguishable from a living,breathing person. With enough information, he could reverse-engineer apersonality.

Kruke was inspired by the old stories of 'WitnessProtection' he would read about in case studies from the last century. Backthen an individual was given a new name and location and left to fend forthemselves. Of course, in the modern era this simply wouldn't work without alot more data, so he followed it to its logical conclusion. The new profilecould no longer just be a mask that the individual would wear. It would be afully whole new person. The trouble with this approach was that the recipientof the new profile would have to adapt to it completely. It wasn't enough forthem to call themselves by a new name and move across the country. Thetransparency of modern living precluded this easy escape route. Every movement,every word uttered and typed had to be in keeping with the new identity. Krukewould have to literally create new people.

When he finally left the military,honourably discharged and with a spotless record, Kruke came back to the townof his birth and bought the deserted church that his mother and father had beenmarried in. He knew the bunker underneath the building would make a suitablebase for operations.

At first, his clientele were low-levelcriminals and petty thieves wanting to leave their current lives behind andstart afresh. They claimed to go straight, but whether they did or not didn'treally concern him. Humans could be trained to act like someone else, but humannature was a constant he couldn't override. Over the years the jobs got hotterbut the process remained the same. He was proud of his process and he had noethical qualms about giving people a second chance in exchange for hardcredits. He was thumbing his nose at OraCorp, his ex-employer and proving tohimself and his clients that Ora wasn't quite infallible yet. He was winninghis own little war, using the tools his father and his father before him hadbrought to bear against seemingly insurmountable odds. The nice profit on theside kept him afloat financially and the evangelist preacher character he usedin public kept prying eyes away from the church basement.

Everyone thought they could handle thereprofiling process - the corrupt bankers, whistleblowers, tough guys and thecareer criminals. But they weren't prepared for the utter annihilation of theirpersonality that was required for this process to be successful. Tanner Griffenwould be no different.

Griffen's briefing was thorough albeitpunctuated by childish outbursts and tantrums from the man himself. Krukeexplained patiently that while all the information Griffen would need would beon his arm piece it was important that his behaviour from dawn the next day wascongruent with his new profile. Sec technology employees had bots set up toscan the Grid for out of place behaviour. Historically, this had led to quite afew unnecessarily broken down doors and more than a few extra-marital affairsending with a fatal shooting.

If Griffen hated the classroom-likeenvironment of the reprofiling briefing, he loathed what came next. Krukeexplained that, while it was less likely that he would be identified by sight,Griffen could avoid drawing additional attention to himself by changing hisappearance. He protested in vain. Griffen's head was shaved, facial piercingsremoved and neck and face tattoos quickly but painfully erased by portablelaser. Save for the pockmarks and holes left by the piercings in every flap ofskin, he looked almost respectable.

"Shower," ordered Kruke, armsfolded like a hospital matron.

"How the fuck do Sec replace me by smell?"

"Oh this is purely for our benefit.Shower."

Griffen was shoved naked behind one of thetarps, emitting howls as the water was turned on. "It's fucking freezingman!"

"Soap's on the shelf."

The last part of his transformation wasGriffen's clothes. His leather trousers, when finally peeled from his legs,were so fetid that they practically fell to pieces. The leather jacket, theback of which was adorned by a crude cartoon of a man having his head smashedin below the words 'SHOVEL BASTARD' was deemed too provocative and was incinerated.In their place, brown cotton trousers, white espadrilles, a white oxford shirtand a navy Harrington jacket.

"Very dapper my man!" chuckledThorner.

"Fuck off. I feel like a fuckingdweeb."

"Better than feeling dead,"quipped Kruke, grimly.

"Why do I have to dress like a tool?Could have got some more leathers couldn't I?"

"Ah yes, black leather. The uniform ofthe hacker, the disaffected youth, the social outcast. You see, Griffen -reprofiling is not just about logging into your arm piece with a new ident. It'sabout becoming a new person - it's a rebirth, if you like." Thorner gotthe impression Kruke had given this speech numerous times. "It's hard atfirst, but if this is going to work, and we're not going to waste your moneyand my time, you have to commit fully to your new personality."

Griffen sat despondently on a rusty chair. "Idon't know if the job was worth it. I thought you'd just buy me some time. Youknow, I'd go on the run and come back when the heat had come off."

"Oh, I think you're way past thatpoint Griffen. I'm aware of your past exploits," said Kruke. "Everythingyou've done, every crime you've committed, every rule you've broken, all of ithas led you to this point. You've used up the Tanner Griffen profile, no livesleft. No credits. Noone could continue in the way you have been, Griffen. Notin this day and age, when Ora knows everything and OraCorp own the cops. Maybeif you'd been smarter in the past - more secretive, rather than rubbing theirnose in it, the stakes wouldn't have got this high, so fast."

"Alright, I don't need a lecture. Andjust for your data, I'm still proud of everything I've done. Big Momma don'town me. Nobody does. Tanner Griffen is his own man, know what I mean?"

"You won't be after tomorrow,"said Kruke.

"Are you proud of killing those twoSec guards in Wichita?" Thorner asked, pointedly.

"Who rattled your cage gramps? Yeah, Iam - fuck 'em. They knew what they were signing up for. If they weren't so fatand full of donuts they might have been able to get out of the way when Ispiked 'em."

Thorner shook his head. Somehow he'dacquired the responsibility of keeping this kid alive, but for how long? Hefigured if he could get him away from this facility, see him set up somewhere,he could go back home and report to Sue. Tell her Griffen was gone, but notreally. To all intents and purposes she will have lost her brother just assurely as if he'd been killed by Sec anyway. He was filled with a sense offutility. He shook it off, based on the knowledge that if he wasn't working, hewasn't sure what he'd be doing instead.

Kruke got back on track. "Right, we'regood. Any questions, Griffen?"

"Will I ever be able to get this identback?"

Kruke paused. He sat down opposite Griffenat one of the scruffy tables. Thorner continued to hover a few paces away. "No,is the short answer. This isn't a game, Griffen. It's not a prank, or a hack.We're pulling the plug on Tanner Griffen for good."

Griffen looked down at the floor. With hisfreshly shorn head and crisp clothes he looked vulnerable, like a newborn. Hewas about to become a newborn, in every way that mattered. They remained insilence for a few moments, until Kruke clapped his hands loudly.

"Right! I want you to meet someone.This is Jeopardy."

A shiny black shape emerged from theshadows in the corner of the room. Thorner had no idea how long she'd beenthere. Dressed from head to toe in tight leather, buffed to a high sheen tomatch her razor-sharp inky black bob, she strode towards the men on impossiblyuncomfortable looking heels. As she came into the light, Thorner was surprisedby her youth - she looked only in her early twenties. Her eyes were the sort ofpiercing blue that only came from expensive optical implants, and her lips werea scarlet slash across her face.

"Nice to meet you, gentlemen,"her voice was like fine crystal.

"Jeopardy here comes as part of thepackage. Mr Thorner, I understand you will be accompanying Mr Griffen for atleast part of his journey to his new life. I do insist that one of my operativesis on hand in case Mr Griffen here starts to forget who he really is andreverts to old patterns. She will keep you safe, she will ensure you get to thedrop point, which is the epicentre of the new profile's social radius, and mostimportantly she will report back to me at all times. Jeopardy is an excellentemployee. You can have full confidence in her abilities."

Thorner said nothing. Griffen openly leeredat her, which she dealt with by throwing him a withering look.

Kruke leaned across and said in a lowvoice: "Don't even think about it, Griffen. She'd eat you for breakfast."

"I propose we get an early night,"Jeopardy announced, "tomorrow is going to be pretty fucking awful."