SLOGANS: The End of Sympathy, The Art of Control

PROLOGUE: Three Wretched Bedfellows (A Steeple Chase)

Poverty, suspicion and then violence: three wretched bedfellows waiting to split society open, like an axe to the skull. Damn the politicians for their incompetence!

Old Arne stands in the church entrance watching a tram rumble past the park along the cobbled street. It's getting to be that time of the evening. Somehow, he knows what's going to happen.

The sound of tourists partying from a pub just down the street disturbs the quiet serenity of the park. Behind him, the Birkelunden steeple thrusts up into the night sky, reaching for a realm of higher grace--one that's immune to these stains on civic decency.

He's been following two down and outs, pushing a shopping trolley filled with bags and bottles, bickering with each other like a couple of kids. They are Norwegians, dammit. An embarrassment. Skin pale and grey. Drugs. The woman is trying to take a big ring of keys from the man, but he shakes her off. They're his keys.

What did they steal? What's in those bags? They disgust him--despoiling the proper beauty of the park, the bandstand, the fountains. A garden symbolic of Man's civilization. These two are drop outs by choice. In Europe, no one has to live like that unless they choose it. Or so he believes.

Seeing their commotion, a dark skinned immigrant who lives nearby, probably of Pakistani origin, approaches the couple. He's well dressed, in a suit at least.

"Hey chief", he calls out to them. "What you got in there?"

At first they ignore him, each pulling on the ring of keys, but he doesn't give up. He edges closer, a bit nervously.

"Hey - you some kind of security chief? What you got those keys for?"

"What's it to you?" the scruffy man snarls. "They're just keys..."

But he continues. "What does someone like you need so many keys for?" His tone is accusing now. Then he snaps suddenly. "If you come anywhere near my basement, I'll bloody kill you! I'm not afraid of you!"

Arne nods to himself in agreement. All the break ins, broken locks and rummaging in storage units. Hardly a weekend without trouble. The police do nothing.

The two down and outs shuffle into the shadows, trying not to cause a scene, but it's too late. The woman shouts at him. "Can't you just leave us alone?" As he continues his accusations, and from the pub across the street, a group of skinheaded men have noticed them. "You see that?" Arne hears.

In that moment, diabolical intervention lashes its tail. The group of men at the pub drop their beer glasses and start walking purposefully towards the dark skinned man with malice in their eyes. Nothing good is about to happen, Arne thinks.

Torn jeans, sewn up and with colourful pub beer towels, and the football scarves. They're wearing tribal markings. They start to run at the suited man and without warning smash a beer bottle over his head.

Arne would never repeat the racial profanities and curses they hurl. A chill passes through him from the base of the spine. The dark skinned man falls to the ground, bleeding, but they keep kicking him. Arne is agape, frozen in place. What's happening to this district?

All he holds dear! He's surrounded by gangs and drug addicts. An enemy from within, that threatens society itself.

He should call the police, someone, anyone--but it's too late, and it's really none of his business. Instead, crystallising in his panic, he steels himself coldly, with a bitter fear, edging his way back into the church entrance.

Without interfering, without helping or speaking up, without so much as a cry of protest for a better world, he backs away into shadowy denial, and his emotions turn to hate.

2. Stuff Gets In Your Eyes

Coooold mountain valley air ... flakes of ice.

Sara Vibeke Stensrud, known to her friends mainly as Vibe, steps off the train with a heavy backpack weighing down on her slim but sporty frame. She's suited and booted for a long walk up the mountain.

She pulls her cap around, threads her long ponytail through the back, and turns into the icy wind and bright sun, they hit her head on and her eyes fill with water. This is what happens when one finally exits the safety of virtual chatrooms. Elements to shock her into the real world.

The train station is idyllic, situated in a green valley at the foothills of Jotunheimen. Very cool indeed. Like being in the VR, only things are still going on even when you're not there to see them. Also stuff gets in your eyes.

She texts "arrived" on her sleeve pad to her friend Bea, back in Oslo. Someone should know where she is. She never was good at checking in.

She's not here for fun. She has a thesis to save. She heads off into the village. There's a mission to attend to. Time to interact with the characters in this game.

She removes her glasses and wipes the droplets from them---it's a little vanity that she enjoys: flirting with eye-wear in public places. Not much use for them on the mountain though. She wipes her eyes dry and her mobile beeps a message back at her. It's from Bea. It just says ``Duh!'' and has a smile!

Vibe pulls up a local map on her wristband and checks directions. She'll probably have to get a taxi from here to the mountain path. She's been on the path before, when she was small, but it's been a while. 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 interface with her thumb and dials the team leader she's meeting. 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 later or tomorrow. I'll see you at the cabin.''

No response comes.

She pulls her backpack straps tighter and extricates her mousy ponytail from the rigging. Off we go then.

Vibe heads out of the station, and walks towards a kiosk where a couple of cars are waiting to charge. An uptight police woman is talking to a man and when her eyes aren't shifting nervously about, they're looking into the back of his car, as if doing a deal.

She grabs some snacks from the kiosk shelves without stopping to browse. 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 and smiles with her teeth, enjoying the effect it has on him. He shouldn't be looking, but this one deserves to think about her later on, when he's alone.

Outside again, she sees the town from the opposing viewpoint. The towering mountains in the background, reveal it to be a depressing oasis of concrete stonewall, colourless against the powerful rock-faces and forested ascents. Better to get up there before she changes her mind.

Her mobile flinches again and that car with the police light pulls up as she approaches the crossing. The second car has gone, or is out of sight. The uptight woman, dressed up in a badly fitting uniform gets out and approaches her. Her stoney face is pointy and thin; a bit too darkly tanned as if she got pranked at the tanning salon, and her hair is pulled back too tightly in a Do-It-Yourself face-lift.

She saw me watching her running her little car boot operation, Vibe smirks. Doing a little alcohol trade on the side are we?! She knows I saw her.

She sees a child seat in the back of the car. Who would do that?

Where are you going? Not up the mountain right? she barks coldly. No one's allowed now. There's fighting.

"What? Me? Uhm... Hey, is that your kid? He's so cute."

She eyes her without solace."Check in at the information centre and wait for further instructions. Mind your business. Don't get in any trouble."

Is it that obvious I'm not a local? She flashes an innocent smile. Best not to get on her wrong side just yet.

Facelift nods and gets back into her car. It is not even a real police car, just some single mother bang wagon with a stupid light on top.

Vibe backs away smiling, and heads for the information centre. Better try to behave.

3. Interlude: Virreality: The Cat Is Out of the Bag

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 no one is even wrinkling their whiskers.

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

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

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

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

Virreality. When the world thinks it's asleep, it's always wide awake. From a gentle miaowing to a the lion's roar, this cat creeps in and out of everybody's door. Oil and gas with power galore.

Virreality, the unstoppable cat.

4. CARRY ON UP THE MOUNTAIN

The mountain information cabin is a pokey wooden bungalow with small windows close to the ceiling, predictable cream fibreglass wallpaper and a grey linoleum floor that tapers towards a plastic drain in the middle of the floor, like a cheap bathroom---almost as though they are expecting someone to take a shower right there in the middle of the room.

Vibe sees a skinny stick-boy and a red faced bulbous woman, squeezed way too tightly into her blouse. Headline, lady: button fatigue causes fat explosion. Danger of deep-frying village.

She approaches the desk. They see her, but no-one comes to her aid. She shakes her hair loose to make an impression.

Hello? ...hello hello... Echoes repeating. . .

Finally, Can I help you?

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

``The trail is closed. Police operation. A disturbance.''

``What kind of disturbance?''

She pauses for too long. ``Usual kind. Gangs paintballing. There's a guest house down the road if you need to stay."

Succumbing to an urge to flee this little time warp, Vibe heads out into the sunshine to make the most of the day. She isn't about to wait. She has no intention of spending a night in this ghost town. I am a spoiled child, she thinks. That gives me certain rights.

She dials a car to carry her backpack the couple of kilometres to the end of the main street and just beyond, where there's a trail up to the cabin. She needs to get started, or it'll be getting dark. It's a trip of three or four hours.

The car drops her and she starts her walk into light forest, along a muddy trail into some farmland. The red T-markers say the mountain trail starts up ahead. She's already trampling through the dry mud and fallen leaves that are strewn like scattered autumnal handprints in a multitude of colours. If she's lucky, no one will pay attention to her.

She browses her messages as she walks. There are already four from her supervisor. He has issues with her robots. Thinks she should be working in the game space instead. Well, at least the French team is on her side.

She passes through a farm at the end of the trail. There's no-one around. Her mobile takes the opportunity to vibrate her with a police warning. Mountain closed. No time for that. Her doctorate hangs in the balance. She climbs over a stile and heads along a fast rushing river. It's getting wet in the mud now. Lucky, she wore proper boots. She's prepared.

As she reaches a narrow log bridge across the water, a man calls out to her from a barn, off in the distance. She turns and squints to look at him. The sound of his voice echoes around the farmyard a little, and is otherwise swallowed in the void. It doesn't take much to guess what he's saying, but she doesn't care much for his tone.

The mountain looks down on her with silent contemplation. So little girl, you think you're ready? She isn't ready, but what else can she do?

Obviously he is reminding her that she should follow the path. Except that now he's running to his tractor.

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

The mountain. Looming above her through the trees. A little creeps in. fear An omen of the future. The impossible climb. You can't see it yet. But she knows it's there. She knows its coming. One foot in front of the other.

Meanwhile, half a planet away, another thread of this game is unfolding along the Mexican border in San Diego, not far from where the VR game was first imagined. A conference about virtual reality and its effects on society is kicking off, and one of its unlikely contributors is getting some unexpected attention.

Cogs are turning. The game is being played.

5. THE BISHOP OF BACCHUS

Oslo October 4th , 13:34 CET

It's been an hour since Dermot McGuire's boss at FunPlanetGames sent him off to meet someone he doesn't even know--who his boss hardly knows, but someone associated with online police that he's never met. You'd better get over there and find out what this is all about. It sounded important. A voice out of nowhere. What did that mean?

Dermot shivers as he watches cold rain pouring from the gutter that protects him from an autumn deluge. He's been waiting for almost half an hour; the chill wind, combined with the dampness, has penetrated to his bones. He looks grumpily at his smartwatch. A tram rumbles past the cloister mall, grinding a metallic chime on the tracks as it takes the corner.

A voice startles him. ``You're Dermot?''. Must have crept up on him from behind. Dermot nods.

That's me, he replies with his Irish lilt.

Bishop is supposed to be American. He doesn't look too American though. He has those wide Scandinavian eyes, at full alert, that seem fearful and mistrusting. Yet, something about the size of this man lends him authority. He has the feel of military.

``All right. Let's get inside. You look cold. Should we get a cup of coffee? I hear they have good cake here.'' His accent sounds American at least.

They walk up the few steps to the Bacchus cafe, an old wooden interior, almost Irish in design. Tea-room'' hangs a sign, ``Please look after your belongings. Thieves operate in this area.''.

It's quiet, maybe due to the weather.

``What about this table in the corner?''

He edges past the round wooden tables to a window view of the cloisters, through rose-patterned iron-mongery. A wrought iron staircase corkscrews up to a second level. Amongst the rafters of this old building; a sign hangs there: ``Stairway to Heaven''.

``So---what do they have to eat here?''

``I dunno. We can get a menu.''

``Let's do that.'' He turns around in his seat, looking for someone to ask.

``They'll come.''

"You asked to see me?" Dermot prompts.

``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. 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 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 ... oh...."

The waiter interrupts them with a smile and presents them with a tablet. Scan this code and choose. No need to talk. This older man, Bishop, or whatever his name is, grunts and says, ``Oh, just bring me a coffee and a piece of cake. Dermot, what do you want?''

``What kind of cake would you like? We have cheesecake, carrot cake, choc. . .''

``Chocolate sounds perfect,'' he says, smiling at her.

You can just place your order here, and I'll be back in a sec.

Dermot takes the tablet and enters the information for both of them. Bishop frowns.

"The push button economy. We can have anything at the push of a button, and yet don't realise that there are complex supply chains involved, that rely on actual interpersonal relationships. We think it all comes out of a replicator."

"Ï hadn't thought about it", Dermot mumbles.

"But the world can't be run just by machines. People need to talk to people. The entire fabric of society would break down long before that happened. It's gone about as far as it can."

"Is that what this is about? My boss didn't tell me too much about what this is about."

"Yes and no." Bishop suddenly looks serious. "You're a programmer. I'm told a good one. You engineer the game rules based on data from the game, but you help out on the behavioural side, rather than the creative input. Am I right?

"It's not just one game. There are hundreds of games. people just call it the game in the media", Dermot corrects, looking frustrated as if he doesn't know where to start. "You could maybe say that there's one gaming framework that's become more important than others, but really everyone is a part of those connected worlds. It's one of the few things that still unifies across countries. And it's not about rules."

"And that's why we in global enforcement are interested in it. Unless the majority of people are engaged in some kind of consuming work, the brain seeks out something to entertain it--that's usually; criminal. There's a huge uptick in lawlessness."

"Haven't people been saying that for decades? And it's always been refuted."

Is this old man a little crazy? he wonders. He's probably not smart like a software engineer. What am I doing here?

Bishop shakes his head. "It's controversial only because there's profit in it. But now we don't want to ban it, we want to use it. People learn more from gaming than from books these days. Have you heard of the Wilkinson-van Dyke report?''

Dermot searches his memory for something, staring into the dark wood-grain of their little table. ``Wasn't it something to do with online policing in the coming decade? I think I saw a vid 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. The rest of it is a rather insightful analysis of our social condition and the breakdown of law and order.''

Dermots eyes roam around the cafe. He's 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.

Bishop keeps going. ``Police forces around the world are worried that they might be losing their grip. It's getting harder to control the network. And society is fragmenting because people are giving priority to their friend lists, rather than to the people around them. You see, before we had all of these devices for modern electronic telepathy, people used to self-regulate. Now we know there are just too many of us and our virtual worlds are cutting us off from people we don't know.''

Dermot isn't sure he agrees with the man. Don't people meet more strangers in the games than they would in some local neighbourhoods? It's naturally set up to be social. And this is Scandinavia. Everyone is hiding. We're naturally tribal. But he keeps his thoughts to himself.

"Most of us live in a bubble," Bishop continues. "If you study anthropology, you find that humans are wired for social groups that are about thirty strong.'' Again, he pauses, looking at Dermot to see if he is following.

"I think I read something like that."

People are isolated. They don't get to vent their fears and anger anymore. They metastasize and turn to hate. When was the last time you really talked to someone? And I don't mean chat..

Dermot wanted to push back angrily, but in truth he was out of practice, so he simply swallowed the accusation.

The young, the old, the introverts -- people are isolated by their very communications devices.

If he'd been in a chat room, Dermot would have dropped some emoji , but at this moment he didn't know how to respond.

You see? The chat's got your tongue?

So what are you saying..? he manages.

That's where you come in. You see, your game is about meeting each other. It's one of the few places where people's minds still meet new minds. And that has been weaponized for good as much as for bad. But today, it's out of balance. So we are going to create our own counterweapon. "

He taps his tablet. "You know what these things are? They're soap. If you drop soap into your frying pan at home, it breaks up the fat floating on the water and sends it flying off, repelled by the point of contact. These things - the phones - they do that to society and to its law and order."

Dermot shrugs. ``I don't get it.''

Bishop becomes suddenly stern. ``Society is breaking up, Dermot. The world over. It's no joke.

Dermot laughs. Before he can say any more Bishop waves a hand to silence him and launches into a speech.

"Look. Once upon a time we were taught that we live in happy families, that we go to work 9-5 and live lives to pay bills and obey the local sheriff. You have a drink at the bar or pub on Sundays and have kids and grow old to a pension provided by your benign government. If that was ever true, it's not true anymore. In actual truth, the world is a chaotic mixture of bullies and gangs with an almost total disregard for the law. People ignore the cops and disdain rules as if they were vermin. Often the cops are the criminals. Civic life is only a dream, and that thin veneer of civilization that we had for thirty years after the big war is dissolving before our very smartphones."

He sees Dermot's blank look of disbelief.

"It's probably worst in Moscow, Yangon, in the U.S., in London – slightly better here, in China and Japan, but we see it happening there too. 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 governance--whether democracy or not.''

Dermot shifts uncomfortably now. ``I joined the game's crime team because I was interested in the security of commercial services in the game. I am not sure what you're telling me now. It sounds kind of like disaster science fiction."

"That it is. Getting rid of the corruption that sustains it is harder than curing cancer. So what would you do to rein it in?".

Dermot's confused by the question, but then it comes to him. "Society has to agree on a common operating system.. 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 guess that's a fair analogy. You're the computer expert. That's why I need you.''

"Why me?"

"There are others. I'm forming a group, a tiger team. There's a young girl who wrote a thesis on robotics, now working with a French research group. I've been trying to reach her, but I haven't made contact yet. And then we have intelligence operatives in the far east, inside the dark web ...I need you to help design the weapon."

Dermot's mind races. Even he knows that the cultural design challenges are enormous. In Asia they use cartoon figures and teddy bears to teach people how to behave. Don't mess with Asian cuteness. In America they have a superhero complex. Respect strength and violence and despise weakness, Teach people to respect fighters. This is all game design 101.

"The biggest benefactors of information technology are cartels and criminal gangs. They're here and in the far East, mostly directed by the Russian infocosmos. We've got ties in Bulgaria and Malaysia. We know where the flashpoints are, but there's still a question of hard strategy to win hearts and minds. It's a dangerous business. Corruption breeds corruption from gangs to law enforcement-- it spreads. It's in politics and we're no longer ruled by good anymore."

"I'm as open minded as the next guy", Dermot comes out boldly enough to surprise himself. "But ... this is beyond me..."

"In your game, you can get into a shoot out and lose points, or even money. Here in the real world, that people sometimes forget exists, you can literally be abducted, killed or worse. Police investigators have been buried alive by gangs. If the drug isn't pharma, it's a game."

Dermot's mind flicks into a defensive problem solving mode, and he forgets his insecurities. ``So it seems to me that you have two choices.''

``Go on.''

``Either you split up society into small distributed pieces, with local autonomy and weak cooperation with a few ties, or you fight to win back integration with centralized management. Maybe the days of big state are over.''

``Yes.'' Bishop seems pleased. ``We can make every little group into its own virtual country, with its own laws and customs. That's fine in the virtual world, but we can't forget about the good old-fashioned physical world. 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.''

``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 come from an unusual source. But we need someone who knows the gaming platform from the inside out.''

Dermot lifts his eyebrows.

``Advertising?''

"I'm not sure that I...."

Bishop holds up his hand to cut him off.

This is how you can help."

7. Pawn To Dean's Knight 4 What?

Sunday morning.

Sunshine through his windscreen. Wind and waves just outside the window.

London Marketing Strategist Den Morris drives away from his La Jolla hotel towards the Mexican border, with one hand on the wheel of his chevy. He's been pulled away following a well-received conference talk in Los Angeles by an urgent message from a government client. From commerce to politics in a heartbeat. Twas ever thus.

San Diego's flimsy houses roll past him. Southern California is a surprise. These residential areas are just like cardboard shanty towns, houses scarcely strong enough to withstand a sea breeze let alone an earthquake. Do they get earthquakes down here? It's not that far from LA, after all. It is the merest veneer of order on top of the barren desert. He thinks of the brick and mortar 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 some hippy commune, haphazardly hooked over poles that look like shaven cacti. This is not like the slick malls and corporate cathedrals he is used to.

What am I doing out here?

All seems calm, but he's aware that below the sunny veneer there is urgent politics behind his summons. Something's up.

. . .

He drives out of the town, where singles and dads are gathering at the coffee houses for their morning fix. Sunday--once a day when people went to Church. Then it was for washing your car and family brunch. Now Sunday is queuing up for coffee or bubble tea with your cellphone. If it's not one drug, it's another.

Wait a sec..

As he enters the freeway, he sees a commotion ahead. A group of activists have taken over a huge advertising billboard. It's not showing its video properly anymore. The display is breaking up. It seems to be showing a political advertisement for the upcoming election. The image on the board is to be getting stuck in certain frames. The traffic moving slowly around the obstruction.

Some of these billboards can break into the car sound system as they pass. 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. Well, you don't have to like it to make it.

As the images flick past 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. WEISSKOPF PRETENDS TO BE AN INTELLECTUAL. And so it seems to repeat.

Some kind of subliminal smear campaign. It doesn't take much to sew the seeds of doubt. A single "me too" finger pointed and a suggestion planted grows on its own to yield growing yields of doubt. This is Den's speciality. His specialty!

All you do is rub two ideas together and people can't unsee it. Instantly impune someone as a misogynist or a rapist .. it takes so little and the suggestion, the doubt will remain long after the facts have been established. He makes a mental note to find out who designed it. It's cheap and libellous but effective. Well, it's all just another day in paradise.

He puts his foot down and accelerates past it, up into the hills. He can't get involved. Even he has to admit that there's just too much information in play right now. If people ever looked up from their phones or left the game to see what's going on in their actual communities, they might even feel scared of the reality they'd find. All these fears make people easy to exploit.

His car sails through the winding roads, with the infamous border wall visible far away in the distance. This is hardly the centre of the universe and yet it has become a symbol of the unrest that the game represents. The cocooning, the drugs. If it gives his London office work, even for the next couple of years, it will be worth it.

Sweeping brown landscape takes him into the foothills of the desert, so barren compared to the sights and smells of the English countryside–and once part of the great Aztec civilization's sphere of influence. Now mostly empty land. A reminder that every great civilization can collapse into nothing.

After a while, the drive circles into the grounds of an extensive manor-like building, somewhere between a mansion and a bungalow hotel. Inside there is a conference space, away from prying eyes and ears .

8. Knights Exemplar at a Round Table

Den pulls into the gravel parking lot. It's hard to believe this nothing-out-of-the-ordinary calm Sunday brunch hotel holds a planning session about perhaps the greatest existential threat to humanity this century. He walks past supercars to the bungalow entrance and checks in.

In the lobby, he's scanned and badged and he slips into a buffet restaurant space surrounded by windows overlooking the desert valleys. There are people here already. Some in military uniform, most looking like business or government .

It doesn't take long for him to be spotted. ``Mr. Morris? The man of the hour!'' says a voice. Alfred Cooney, a government man. He organized much of the conference where Den was speaking yesterday. ``I would like you to meet someone special.''

He leads Den through the quaint floral hotel trimmings into a side room with a view of the foothills. It contains some tens of people, obviously of international origin. They're standing around in small groups discussing. He knows a few of them, but they probably know him from his work.

"Now, where did she go?" He looks around for someone. "Come this way and I'll try to find her."

Den passes several conversations, some hushed, some in a strident know-it-all tone.

A serious looking man is gossiping, ``We've been getting `interventions' from government. It feels coercive. You know, moral parameter changes and forced facial reactions to certain phrases in the games ...''

An asian man admiring the hotel. "Back home, service is a matter of honour. Here they are service-minded for money. But Europe is terrible, take it or leave it sucker, you're lucky to have what I'm offering you and good luck finding somewhere else."

They come to a halt at a tight knit group that look like tech workers. A man sees him, and raises his eyebrows in greeting. His host Cooney looks confused. "I seem to have lost the Contessa," he jokes. "Let me make a round – see if I can find her. perhaps you'd wait here a moment, Mr Morris."

The group eyes him sideways. "Hey, I know you. I heard your talk at the convention. You were good."

Den nods in thanks. You were there--?

Only in VR. This business of using games to engage people. What was it you said? Something about getting kids engaged in social conscience by adding message context to the games. You make it almost sound educational.''

Can be.

A blue haired woman next to him sneers. ``The art of manipulation. Hypnosis. The subliminal signals and implicit cues, direction placed into the imagery.''

``What makes you think there are subliminal signals?'' Den winks.

"What indeed?" Her eyes widen sardonically. She eyes him suspiciously, and the other man continues.

"What you said about influence was important. You know we just need some celebrity to post about people's good or bad habits and they're toast. Gossip works.

"Woman furious because at sister for not giving seat to an elderly woman! Cancelled by community!"

An older man nods. He seems to be another Brit. "That stuff works slowly but surely, but inciting judgement isn't enough by itself to reprogram society. What do you think, Mr Morris?"

He doesn't get a chance to reply. "American advertising is basically authoritarian," blue says. It's all just a mish mash of clumsy slogans to provoke fear, uncertainty and doubt. Other countries use humour and inspiration ."

"Oh we can do that..." the other apes, "Does your pet miss Jesus christ? Sad pets are telling you what they need. Save your pet's soul today with the Ronco pet moraliser. Just add water and stir for a perfect result every time!"

"In my day our ads were like lessons: be careful crossing the road, wear your seat belt, don't smoke and drop litter...no pissing on in public, pass your cycling proficiency test, learn to swim. Now you can't do that without infringing on personal freedoms or some other damned thing."

She snarls, looking away as if talking to herself. "Americans despise weakness, and feed off shows of strength. Dominate, dominate, dominate! That's always the strategy."

Out of the corner of his eye, Den spots a stunning figure in a red dress. A tall woman dressed in an uncharacteristically elegant attire, with heels. She has a latin feel about her.

"Who is that?" Den asks.

Another man in the little group, silent until now, pipes up. That, he says with the reverence of an admirer, is Catalin Constanca Alexandra Cortina. I suspect that is who your host wanted you to meet.

But before he could ask further, a young man with a military aura about him appears next to Den. Sorry to interrupt Mr Morris, would you mind coming with me? He pulls Den away from the group, without a chance to excuse himself or to ask further about the alluring woman in red. They walk to a side area and along a long carpeted corridor that smells a bit mouldy. It's all a bit of a blur. These are not only tech people, he thinks. The tech moguls still run most of the show. But governments now focus openly on keeping their adversaries in check. Meddling in the aspirations of other countries to keep wealth flowing to the top.

They arrive at an anonymous meeting room at the end of a secluded corridor. Inside is a large roundtable meeting room. Secret service opens the door and Den is pushed inside. Around the table are sweaty men with sleeves rolled up, military men, Washington people. It looks more like a speakeasy poker game than an above board meeting, Den thinks.

Why does he have the sense that he's been ambushed?

"Den Morris," someone says. "Welcome. Take a seat."

10. GOOD VIBRATIONS: Shallow Brook, Mountain High

An hour on, the forest gives way to beams of light firing aimlessly at the trail through the tree line, and Vibe emerges into open territory. She's probably up to a thousand metres by now.

She stops for some chocolate and looks up. A single drop of October rain lands on her face, from out nowhere.

The backpack is feeling heavier than she imagined. This will either kill her or do wonders for her body contours. There are still a couple of hours to go to reach the cabin.

She texts another message to Bea sighs, bored with her own habit and pulls the sleeve down over her wristband to keep warm.

Stupid invention, she thinks. So stupid, so necessary.

She wonders if the farmer called the police on her. Will they be coming after her? Probably not. It's too far for a drone to follow her, and too difficult through the forest leg. But a satellite could pick up her heat sig. The local cops probably can't afford that.

She passes through grassland, scattered corpses of lemmings, as rocky outcrops seem to pop up out of nowhere. The grass thins and she can see snowfields up on the mountains now.

As she clambers over more rocky ground, she senses a sound like a broken radio from somewhere. As she clambers up some boulders it grows in definition, coming from up ahead. Suddenly, there is a channel through the rocky outcrops and she arrives at brook of fast running water. She stops to fill a flask with water and drinks well to cool down.

Sweat is itching underneath her wristband. She stops to take it off and get some air on her skin. It's a couple of hours since she left the trail and evaded the nanny state. All quiet on the vertical front. As she clambers up onto a high rock to rest, the land flattens out for several kilometres ahead. It even sinks a little, which means more climbing later.

She can see the cabin where she'll spend the night now, far off in the distance, but the light is already getting dim. It's not exactly civilisation, but its hopefully a warm bunk and something to eat. She frets a little that she still hasn't heard from the French team. They'd better be waiting for her after coming all this way.

She begins to sense something more problematic might have happened. Something doesn't feel right.

Whatever.

Last leg. She heads for the cabin.

11. THE GOLDEN GIRL

Two hours later, Dermot stumbles out into the rain in a state of shock. In the space of minutes, in a quiet cafe in downtown Oslo, his world view has been turned upside down. This was some serious spy level bullshit. 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 computer nerd. . .

He crosses the street and paces solemnly back towards the tram station, his mind spinning and over-full.

Bishop had stared him down impatiently every time he'd tried to question the sense of what he was hearing. It was clear he was in a hurry to pull this together. Dermot is still a bit riled by the nonsense he was spouting.

You haven't noticed these issues until now because you and I live in a bubble of well being, he'd said. We're the privileged, in wealthy safe countries. Why would we notice that it's just a few percent of people who actually have that life. When you work in law enforcement, you get a quick lesson in all the dirt under the sheets. Law and order were always the fanciful utopia of the wealthy.

Suddenly, something else commands his attention. A skinny freckled girl with shoulder trimmed blonde dyed hair is standing at the tram stop. He's supposed to say woman. Whatever. She has a slim black skirt and a smart jacket, a mousy timid look. She glances at him and looks away. Her lean features are neither old nor young. He guesses that she must be twenty something, but who knows? She smiles shily without looking 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. His mind is suddenly empty.

He recalls the ease with which Bishop had struck up a conversation with the waitress. 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?''

He fumbles his wristband. ``Ahh Sorry--..it's almost three.''

She smiles barely.

He finds himself suffused by a hopeless melancholy as his eyes are drawn to the girl's slight figure. She seems more important to him than anything at this moment... the most beautiful girl he's ever seen.

A rumbling 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 people outwards and sideways, like a space capsule. they get on but there is only one double seat left. He sits down at the window and the girl sits next to him. He can't help scanning her skinny legs, black tights, slim skirt. Damn. She's perfect.

The tram rumbles through the town, shoving them from side to side, as it's clumsily guided by the bumps and imperfections in the track. sensible thoughts abandon him. All he can see now is her blond hair and small hands as they fumble with an old mobile handset.

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 yelps, eyes full of terror. She knows that he has been looking at her. She must be quite sure that he is a creep. He feels like an idiot, but better keep going.

``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, a question out of nowhere. Is it that obvious?

He fumbles in his pocket and pulls out a paper card with his name and position on it: a gimmick from his old company. No one uses cards anymore. She takes it as though it's 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. 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 his stop and he moves to go. ``Well, anyway. Nice to meet you.''

The girl smiles without looking his way and says nothing.

Flustered, 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.

12. Virreality: Wazwaan 2 Nasi Lemak

Virreality, virreality....

The mischievous cat is prowling...from The Black Sea to Bangkok, to Penang, to Kuala Lumpur-- Follow the money. Follow the mischief. Across continents and thirty degrees of inhuman warmth, the scene shifts to a business district under the Kuala Lumpur skyline, held in a glove of mist, where the next piece of our puzzle is brewing....

Preeta Dhawan, thirtyish dark skinned, long black hair, She stares through her reflection in the window of the 20th floor office block and feels the spectre of the chase creeping up on her again. If you stare into that rainy mist, with its occasional flashes, you begin to see yourself in it. You realise that is you. Your fears, your intentions, your values -- or what's left of them.

After fleeing Srinagar from one impossible situation, she finds herself in another of her own making. Danger is in the forefront of her mind, even after all this time. Her whole life has become one lie to escape another-- a journey from shame and dishonour to ...more shame and dishonour.

From the office tower, the city smoulders. Steam rising. People hiding in plain sight.

13. A Little Bird Whispers To Preeta

It's quiet. If anyone's talking, they are in sound isolation booths.

She needs to be careful around the call operations centre. The sky has become her mood. The storm her anger.

Warily, she lifts herself from the office chair to peer over her cubicle partition. Rows of programmers and callers beyond. Seeing no one she walks quickly but modestly to the washroom nearby to splash some water onto her face. She can't show that she's weary of the work. She doesn't want any trouble.

And her work is ...what? Identity theft, impersonation with intent to extort, investing money through intergame currency, siphoning and laundering it, taxing the players in play rooms with incentives: any kind of temptation. Anything addictive is a gangland tool. It's a shady business, but it pays as long as she does what she's told. She reminds herself that she's lucky to be here and not a few hundred kilometres to the North, across more dangerous borders.

So she keeps her head down waiting for an opportunity to flee to a better life far away, where she might redeem herself. For now, she's basically a donkey in a coal mine.

She takes a moment to savour the brighter light level in the washroom, relieves herself and then she slips out of the washroom into the hallway, to return to her terminal.

``Wait!'' A voice from down the hall stops her and she feels a javelin of dread pierce her centre. 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. Mota. Fat boy.

``Getting there,'' she replies as congenially as she can.

``Our numbers are down.''

``Almost there. It's late," she dares, "Tomorrow I'll approach it with a fresh mind.''

``You will do as you are told, girl, isn't it! Now get back to your station!''

She hurries back, and pretends to scan through the code where she left off, adding tracers and planting fake metrics so that she can persuade the watchers to let her leave for the day. No one knows better how to fake her work and cover her tracks than she does.

She eyes the clock. Not too long to go. It's her turn to repatch the billboards. That earns her a trip out into the city.

Suddenly a faint thump from her bracelet, signalling a private message. Her heart jumps. Finally. She's been waiting for it for days.

Through that secret doorway, she's been exchanging messages with a mystery X for weeks, even months, passing on her findings. It's taken a long time to reach a level of mutual trust, but all her tests indicate this entity is real. It could so easily have been part of the gang surveillance. The Russians are smart but cruel. But over time she's come to view it as a lifeline.

It's risky with people watching, but she can't wait to read the message. She chooses the game silent mode as always and steels herself to show no facial response despite the excitement. She routes the visual to her glasses. No one should suspect that she is not still working.

She finds herself in a sideroom of a game that looks like a scenic waterfront. A visitor appears as a bird, a simple background avatar in case she is interrupted.

``It has been a while,'' the bird signals. ``I thought you had gone away.''

Had to lie low for a while, she responds, checking the identity signatures for authenticity. But I've done what you asked. Do you have news? I can't hold on much longer...

``Why now?''

``You know why-- if they catch me--''

There is a long wait. Are they sizing her up, is her counterpart actually a computer program?

``You still want a new life? Beautiful women?''

She smiles. This person, if it is one, doesn't know that she's a woman, not that she would mind beautiful women. Naturally she appears as a man in VR. A slight thrill runs down her spine. How can she even be entertaining this idea?

``Sure. Beautiful women. :)''

There is another pause.

``You've planted access to the backdoor as we agreed?''

``I've been ready for months. Foot down, Thelma'' she risks.

The avatar jumps in surprise. After a pause. ``You're female?''

She nods.

``You are human?''

"All the ailments."

She hears Mota close by, and her pulse races -- she backgrounds the connection quickly. Her avatar will have to continue the conversation for a while without her.

Her head is spinning again -- and when we're certain of trouble in store, why do we always arrange for more?

14. Reasoning by abduction: chapati-77 To Go

Maybe an hour later, Preeta steps out of the chill of the air conditioning into the hot soupy moisture of the evening. As usual, she's been allowed out to reprogram billboards, T-shirts and flyers. They seem like a bizarre anachronism in this day and age, yet they are still popular here and effective at ensnaring a few gamblers. She could take a cab around the city, but she needs some air. She seemed a little too eager today, they might be suspicious. They'll be watching her somehow. She doesn't know how.

She slips away from the tower block, and traverses the stone pavement towards the central reservation of the main road ahead, taking care that she is not being followed. She crosses to Jalan Ram and her pulse settles. The cold ache of air conditioned joints gradually melts into the sweaty glow of Kuala Lumpur's true air condition: a humid bath of odours.

This past hour she could barely contain her excitement to hear the remainder of the conversation with the bird. Almost forgetting to make sure she is not followed, she rolls up her sleeve and reconnects to the room. Her avatar has arranged a meeting--an actual physical meeting! It's hard to believe that there would be anyone close by. But this part of the world is known for its spies. Her pulse steps up a level. As she logs in, the meeting is rescheduled based on her position.

Her eyes widen a little as she inspects the map. She feels dizzy. Is she ready for this? After all this time? The white arches of the Mosque gape at her as she crosses the busy road, reminding her of a distant past. Her head spins with thoughts and fears, excitement and uncertainty. The ShangriLa.

She wends her way through the street stalls, thankful that at least they haven't been forced out of the town like most shops that aren't selling virtual experiences.

After a time, Preeta reaches the lobby of the hotel just before 22:00. The splendour of the refurbished hotel is far beyond her means. She feels instantly underdressed compared to the sleek attire of the hotel clerks and guests. The space-age curves and expensive looking art are as dizzying as what she is contemplating.

She finds a place to stand in the lobby, not even daring to sit. Inside her glasses, she is still one foot inside the game, waiting for a bird or some other character to reappear. She sends a message, "I've arrived" and waits nervously. Suddenly she begins to question her entire chain of reasoning. What does she really know about the person on the other end of this connection? Maybe there is no one coming. Or worse... She must have been mad. It was probably all just a test. She knows what happens to people who try to betray the gangs.

Her resolve begins to wane, and in a flash of panic she turns and walks quickly out of the lobby and walks back towards the road, looking through the active game room connection in her glasses.

As she reaches the hotel entrance, there's a disturbance. A van skids to a halt right in front of her, the back doors fly open and two men jump out and run towards her. Her body freezes involuntarily wondering what is going to happen. Her world seems to slow to a treacle of dazed speculation as she watches them jump out; their feet hit the tarmac in slow motion, legs bend and absorb the shock

From behind, someone throws something dark over her head and the dream is shattered by the reality of sudden physical contact. She feels a jolt and a suffocating proximity. Hands overwhelm her. She finds herself bundled forcibly into the rear of the van, unable to see. Who? What? She tries to scream or cry out, but she has never screamed before and it hardly seems to be in her nature; the feeblest hint of protestation emanates from her. Of course, she was being tracked.

Voices around her sound Russian maybe. She can no longer remember the face. Her brain is drowning in white adrenalin. She feels the van take off at high speed and swerve around several bends.

Next, they are 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. Then 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 ankles apart and start pulling at her clothing, her wristband, hands everywhere as if looking for something.

Allah the merciful, please no!

But then unexpectedly, the van screeches to an abrupt halt, as suddenly as it had appeared, and there is shouting up front. For what seems like an eternity she is floating in panic. Then, she feels the doors fly open and the men slide her along and throw her out of the van. She lands badly on the hard road surface, twisting a wrist, hitting her head, still blindfolded by the garment over her. She hears it accelerate away without 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.

What just happened? Something interrupted.

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 through the fading rush of the tide.

She hears the sound of people around her. As it slowly sinks in it brings some comfort.

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.''

Then she hears American and Cantonese voices.

``chapati77? Preeta?''

Someone pulls the hood from her, and light blinds her.

"You just take your time. It's going to be all right now."

All she can think of is: They know my name.

16. The STREETS OF LONDON

The view of green fields materialising through the clouds is a welcome sight. Flying over London's long spinal housing terraces, like some giant dinosaur fossil, brings Den a weird feeling of disorientation after the past week in an alternate Californian reality. The greensleeves, the wildlife, wind and weather--you'd never know that behind this sparkling autumn city could be a place where gangland killing is only a scratch below the surface from schools to pubs.

His flight touches down at Heathrow and he walks gratefully through arrivals feeling his muscles work once again. Exhausted by the trip, he considers going to his High Wyckham home, but the meeting with the Senator and his group has been bothering him for the whole flight.

For the first time, it feels as if Den has caught a glimpse of their real client and what they are trying to do. It's not going to make anyone friends, he thinks, but the implications are big. This is where marketing ends and social engineering begins.

He orders a car straight to the office in central London. As it winds through roundabouts towards the motorway, he texts his team to set up an impromptu standup meeting in the company common area. Kylie calls him immediately. "Have you seen the news?"

"What news?"

"There is a rumour on the subchannels about Senator Dean. You just met him, right?"

"Hmmm. He was fishing and had an agenda of his own. Trying to suss me out. I wasn't sure I was going to make it out of there."

Well According to the news he just suffered a major heart-attack.

"What? Is he okay? he did look a bit peaky."

"It doesnae sound good. taken to hospital in a critical condition."

``I wonder...."

"What are you thinking? Is there foul play?"

"I'm thinking our anonymous client has bigger ambitions than we've realized up to now. Something about my presentation in LA struck a nerve. They're going after the extremists. The tools we've developed to study these social networks have got us connections and important clues.''

"The team's a wee bit edgy.."

"If he's out of the picture, would it change the whole thing? He's been trying to shut down the education and oversight project. Also, there's something going on in Spain I don't understand yet. An educational connection. If that is true, it could mean that the game consortium can be opened up to public inspection. The house is just waiting for a chance to bypass him. he's been a thorn in their side for a while...''

``So ...''

``We need to make sure he's really dead.''

``Give me a gun, I'll take care of it.''.

"heh..."

``All right. Change of plans,'' he announces. ``Assemble the team. We have new information.''

Den nods slowly to himself.

"Get everyone together. I think I know what to do."

17. Reboot and diagnostics

Reboot.

Morning in the cabin greets Vibe with the smell of damp earth and troubled skies. Cloud and swirling fog. In the mountains, weather changes in a heartbeat.

The night's blessing has left wet snow on the higher ground and the rank smell of rotting vegetation and sewage hangs around the cabin.

Diagnostics? Felt better. Could use a day to recuperate from the climb 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.

But... time is pressing. She won't be able to defy the mountain police for long.

She made it to the cabin the night before, by moonlight just as her legs were giving in. She tussled with the keeper at the reception for a small room. The manager scolded her for even being there -- given what was going on. He insisted that he report her position to the mountain police. Luckily, it's end of season, so there aren't many guests here. He wasn't unhappy to get paid.

They'll be closing any day now for the winter, she thinks.

More importantly, the French team she was supposed to meet are not here either. Apparently they checked out in a hurry earlier in the day and took off in a buggy. She doesn't know where the heck they are. Now she's worried that she made a big mistake. They've always been trustworthy. What was it that was so urgent to bring her here all the way from Oslo only to bow out at the last minute?

Self-test. She lifts a leg out from under the duvet and winces as neglected musculature screams at her. Legs swing stiffly off the bunk and meet with the icy cold floor. A shorter trip today. I am not going very far.

Interface. Picking up her wrist console from a pile of clothes on the floor, she performs a quick scan of the surroundings. She is picking up a stray signal now. It looks like one of her VeiVek robots not too far away, but the reception isn't good. They should be patrolling in this area. 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 for her. It's from the mountain rescue service. It says the mountain is still off limits, and tells her to call in immediately. She considers the request but she doesn't want to talk to them before finding out what is happening to her babies. If they really want to, they can track her phone.

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. Damn the French team! She wouldn't even be here...

There's another message too from someone called Edward Bishop, but she's in no mood to break her concentration. It can wait.

All right, she'll call in. But not yet. She has an appointment to keep first. Still no word from her supervisor at the research council or the French. Fine then, just abandon me in my time of need.

She stows Sara's private insecurities, and dons her Vibe-armour for the new day.

She grabs breakfast in the common room. Packed and fed, she starts up to the mountain face in the direction of the trail. It looms over her with impossible size, and the longer she gazes at it, the more the picture-postcard idyll transforms into a merciless and defiant threat.

But there's No time to fear. 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. And try to keep away from the sports idiots and their stupid guns.

18. YOU, ROBOT!

She takes a stone path that follows a shallow waterfall next to the cabin. There are trees here now, at least for a while. She's going up again. Clouds are gathering.

Trail navigation is working more or less on her wristmap and she can tell that she's getting closer to the signal from the veiveks. It's on a longer wavelength than normal for range, probably due to the weather .. but she can see there's some odd behaviour. Her robots are adapting to some peculiar pattern. Probably, this is due to the gang disturbance.

She sees a message on the board, maybe left from the French team but it's quite large and will take some time to download at least until she gets closer.

The VeiVek project is about collaborative space engineering. Rugged terrain exploration and mission maintenance. For Mar or Titan. They are also useful here on the tourist trails. Her work has been about getting them to work together.

She climbs to the top of the pass, and the valley opens into a plateau at the edge of the treelike.

A Martian moonscape, re-touched in soggy grey green and white. Only the largest maintenance-bots could cross this, with their gear, but they can follow the walking trails to paint their tourist T's and scrub off graffiti. That would have been unthinkable when she came here as a child.

The message from the French team finally finishes downloading into her phone on a better signal. She stops to catch her breath and swig her water, and pulls it up on her wrist band. It starts to rain lightly.

The message is long but there's not much text. It seems they left in a hurry. there's a lot of data, which they couldn't send over the regular network.

It reads: Sara, look at what's happening with the central core...It seems almost as if they think these gaming gangs are part of their own network that have gone rogue. They're trying to corral them as part of their own group I think. You need to see this. The way they interact... and when it rains! Look! You really did something special here..."

There are pages of graphs and diagnostics to wade through, but she doesn't have a chance to read before a whoosh and then a crack echoes through the damp air, reflecting off the nearby rocks. A feint fragment of a voice wisps in the wind. It could be the gangs here already. She flips to the end of the message.

Nicolas has been hurt–need to get him to a hospital. Don't know if you're coming. Can't stay in this situation. Catch with you later. New development in Spain. Later. End.

Great. Spain? What's that about?

There's a crack and a high pitched laugh. She looks around and sees a splash of yellow paint nearby. And there... one of her babies. She hurries over to it. The larger VeiVek that she is standing over perks into life as its ocular sensor detects the flagrant colour change. 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 plant distillation stations.

The rain will probably do it eventually. The paintball colouring is most likely water based. She makes a note to alter their programming later.

Then she sees it.

Another one, not far away, has been hit by a splash of the same paint. Probably sent a distress signal and this other one has been on its way to assist. Now the other is reevaluating its priorities. The rain of paintballs 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 faster than makes sense. The timescales matter dammit.

Shouting somewhere nearby. 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. What a mess. She can't carry it. A drone can come and pick it up later.

One thing she has learned is that these robots are always 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. That was always the idea–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 was against the idea, telling her that it was too uncertain. They wanted a military-style centralization. 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 male but girlish laughter now. Stupid male Neanderthal jerks. She can't stay here. Are they shooting at her or at the robots? Gotta go.

19. THE WILDCARD DIVERSION

It's still raining. Dermot contemplates the single box of belongings that he will take with him to the new office, with all the enthusiasm of the weather's dark heart. In the two years this has been his office, he hasn't added anything to his surroundings to personalise the space. Nothing to "make it his own", as they say on the X factor. Did he even make any real friends here? Mostly he's been working with people and bots in far away countries to work out the details of game rules for the large multiplayer roles.

He disappoints himself. Am I that shallow? All he's collected from this time is one of those handout T shirts that changes colour and image like an advertising screen.

The box, together with his laptop and custom keyboard is all he has. Even his flat is quite bare. He spends all his time in the VR.

His phone rings suddenly, startling him. No one but scammers and insurance salesmen still call the voiceline. He goes to swipe it away, but something stops him. The number isn't flagged as spam, and it seems as though ... On instinct, or leap of faith perhaps, he accepts the call.

"Hello?"

There's a pause and then a small flat voice says, "Hi." Before he can ask, it continues. "This is Christina, we met on the tram the other day."

Dermot's pulse suddenly races. "Chr ......Christina?" He remembers the girl only too well, but how can she possibly be calling him?

"You told me to call." She says

He remembers the card he gave her, but he hadn't truly believed that she would call. Suddenly his mind is somewhere else entirely and his spirits lift. Then panic! "Uh how did you .... uhm.... what can I do for you?" Is that what he should say? It seems so lame.

Yet she seems oddly more confident than he remembers – than he is now, despite her mousy appearance, she is in control. "Can you help me with something? Could you come by my place tonight? I need help with something."

Dermot is paralysed. What is this? He can't believe that it could be so easy to meet this girl. He didn't even ... He doesn't .... sigh. This is more important than that old American.

"I .. guess I could ...maybe .. later....where are you?" Is that too easy? Should he decline?

Her voice lightens ever so subtly, as if she's pleased. "I'll send you the address. But you should ring the bell several times in case I don't hear it. I don't always hear it."

Without further ado, she cuts the connection, leaving Dermot's with his mouth hanging open. He's supposed to be -- Argh, who cares? How important could Bishop be today?

Did he just make a terrible mistake? What exactly just happened? Every European's worst fear -- that someone will expect something of them. Now he suddenly feels obliged, and wishes he'd said no, even though he can't think of anything he wants more than to know this girl.

He stares out of the window -- at the rain. Now what's he going to do?

20. IN THE THE CAT'S CLAWS

Now who is that up there? Up on the old snowslope? Something's not right, Vibe thinks. Someone has been following her, she's sure of it.

After perhaps an hour of reading off the broken VeiVek, during which she had to pick up the broken robot and move it somewhere safer, as the rain soaked both of them, she was done. What the robots were doing was pretty amazing. They were sort of edging the gangs away from the trail and by tricking them with sounds and signals. The police are somewhere nearby, trying to catch the gamers but undermanned. The rain has turned to snow, making it even more difficult for everyone to move around and play their respective games.

It's fascinating but she realized she couldn't stay here. So she downloaded what she needed from the network. Nothing more to do there, as long as the Frenchies are gone. She needed to get back to civilization.

She thought of going back down the way she came, but it didn't seem feasible now that she's in the firing line. She'd have to cross to the next cabin across a snow field.

She set off at an eager pace, watching her footing, before the snow closed her into a dangerous cocoon.

She's been trudging for hours in a direction that should lead to the next cabin, where she can make her escape back to civilization.

At least the snowrain has stopped and the sky has cleared.

She strains to see into the sun without sunglasses. Snow covers half the mountain here, even now. The remaining snow fields are a great way to get down. Foggy clouds blow in and out, revealing hints of the landscape. She's hot from walking but her fingers are cold. Behind her, a snowy slope hangs under the bluest of skies, punctuated by rocky outcrops, where the melting has done its work. Ahead, there are black clouds moving away. She is nearing the valley and trees.

Running off into the distance she sees her own footprints, muddied near the snow-line, and fading into shadows as they lead away. The pink tinges of bacterial growth stain the melting snow. And there, in the distance, someone else, coming down behind her. Who could it be?

Whoever it is, he or she seems to be carrying no sack, no provisions. Why has she not seen them before?

She winces at the pain in her heels. She is no longer sure whether the squidging sensation is the blisters on her feet or the battery charging gel-packs in her soles.

Well whoever it is, they are both going to have to find somewhere to shelter soon. It is getting late again after a day of trudging across countryside, downhill. It will be getting even colder very soon. Then they will be sorry they didn't follow the mountain code.

She checks for messages. Have they sent someone after her? She has only one message. A pink heart. It contains only one simple string, from Bea: Jason slept with Silje last night!!!!:) Her face widens to marvel at the concept, before discarding the message. No time for that now.

A sharp crack sounds somewhere in the distance. She turns to look. Her companion is still up there. Whoever it is, he is running too now. That's not a great idea given the terrain. Why would anyone. . .

A chill floods her aching soma. There are several possibilities. None of them seem very promising. It could be one of the stray gang members. And all she wants is to rest.

Suddenly she feels alone.

She texts Bea: You there?

Spooked either by the sound or by her own ruminations. She tries to jump down from her present position to a large boulder, lodged at the root of the next tree. The boulder is not as solid as it appears. It rocks and tumbles out of its muddy socket, taking her with it. She falls on her side, pulled by the backpack, and scraping her hip beneath her trouser leg, and slides down the wet earth.

As she slides, out of control. She sees the edge of the world approaching, but her body is too taught to react. Time slows, with increasing burden of passage; her mind accelerates to focus on every detail of her undoing. She manages to grab a branch to arrest her motion. The braking rips the branch through her cold fingers with a searing pain, but drags her onto her side and she stops, teetering on an unknown brink.

Hanging, half over the edge of something she cannot see, from her lying position, with just her upper body on the muddy stone ledge, she groans. The backpack is too heavy for her to roll onto her stomach easily, and she needs both hands to hang onto the branch. If she wriggles, the branch could tear and she would fall for certain, but lying like this on her side, she can't find purchase with her legs. She is trapped in this position, and she will remain like this until her hands tire, or the branch breaks.

``Help,'' she whispers.

21.INTERLUDE: Virreality, The God's Eye View

Time is bending. Past and future mingling in the game. Shards of history take their stab at the balance that has sustained the world for the better part of a century.

Characters are in motion. Influence is spreading. Civic pacts are being undone. Riches are accumulating and poverty is once again rising. The tides of past and present wash up with the plastic bottles and the oil spills of a crumbling century.

A boy knifed in school by a group of girls. A girl stripped and humiliated for trying to keep out of the tribe. The gangs breed their mental and physical violence in virtual worlds acted out in reality.

Virtual Macavity's reality's depravity.,

WOMAN WANDERS INTO STREET.. face in the world on her screen. Carried along by the current of people, narrowly she avoids being hit by a car, driver staring into another screen. Startled, she drops her classic screen in the street and it smashes, breaking her connection to the VR. She stoops down to pick it up and is knocked over. No one is looking at her. Unable to function, unsure what to do. First time aware of people around her. What to do? Help me, her face unsure what to think. But there is no hand to help her up. She's scum now. She's just a deadbeat, down and out. She's digitally homeless. The screams of bodysnatchers that recognise her as no longer one of them - faces that see her empty analogue husk without compassion.

22. HELICOPTER PARENTING

Darkness has fallen already. The noise of beating air is deafening, but she's exhausted--mentally and physically. Spiral air lifts her into the sky.

Vibe remembers hanging on to the tree and first hearing a helicopter in the distance. She remembers the pain of her freezing fingers, cut and torn by branches, then tentatively finding a foothold on rocks just below she halted her descent. Someone shouted to her and she was surrounded by drones. The man who had been following her was calling to her. He was summoning help.

So he wasn't part of the gangs after all. Well thank Nemi for that ...

Vibe's foot caught a rocky ledge at a lucky angle, where the snow cushioned a short fall and left her stable. Luckily, with hindsight, someone was tracking her. The rescue helicopter was a welcome sight, even if it did mean she was going to be in trouble.

The loudhailer calls out to her as it hovers nearby. Ms Stensrud, stay where you are.

A man on a string dangles into her and pulls her up. After winching her to a place of safety, they wrap her in a warm blanket and fit her with headphones to talk. Then they picked up the man following her. Some kind of agent.

As the copter rises, they see the football idiots running down the hill with coloured sprays and flashlights. Firing at the helicopter.

She catches herself and mentally slaps her own wrist. She almost lost it back there, it wasn't like her. Lessons would be learned.

"Are you mountain rescue?" she shouts.

The wincher doesn't blink. "Air force." The man who was following adds, "You have friends in high places."

She squints. Air force?

23. Confessions and Obligations

They fly her down to the nearby town where there's an operations van parked at the train station. Warmed up, she feels safe again. No more mountain.

In the operations cabin, she's met by an avatar. It's an unmanned station, but she enters a virtual room where she meets a man or maybe a bot. But he seems real, not an avatar.

My name is Ed Bishop. I've been looking for you for a while.

Are you with the French team? she asks.

No, he replies. I'm not related to your work. Not yet,

I don't know you.

Ah, but I have come to know about you.

How?

In the age of information, we don't need to meet to know one another.

She stares back at him. Of course, that's true, but it's not something people say. What's this about?

I'm here to offer you a job.

A job? I haven't finished my PhD yet

You will. All in good time. For now, there's something more urgent. We need people like you. And in particular, we need you. You fit the profile I've been searching for. The others are more random. But you are the key.

She feels very confused, and still shaken up. It's like she's slipped into a trap in the VR.

I've spoken to the university administration. Let's not talk about it now. Just get yourself back to Oslo, and we'll talk in a couple of days. The rest of the team are en route and I'll brief you then.

I -- what about the local police? She's worried about being in trouble with the locals here.

That's taken care of, as long as you help me out, I'll see to it that's not an issue. Count it as part of your training.

My training?

All will be explained! You promise to come to a meeting first thing tomorrow morning, all will be fine," he says. I'll send you the coordinates.

Exhausted, and faintly humiliated, she nods. She can only nod. "Yokai."

He nods back and cuts the link, leaving her in the grey. Her mobile receives something. It's a train ticket, first class to oslo, train leaving in 30 minutes. And an address.

It is an unlikely turn of events. What was this whole trip if not to --.? She's in no position to object. She's caught in his trap. Sara Vibeke Stensrud may be unbalanced, but she is intact.

She texts Bea. "Snakes and ladders. Coming home. You'll never guess what just happened."

And so that is that, a helicopter and a train ride later, Vibe finds herself back in Oslo with an unexpected story to tell.

At Oslo S 21:00 hours she takes a car directly to her flat to feed and detox. After a hot shower, some stretching exercises and some hot food delivery, her mind finds a new calm and she feels her warrior instinct returning.

She flicks through a list on her mobile and invites a boy to peel. He obliges her, as any half-sane male would. Then she sends him on his way and settles into her cocoon to consider everything that happened. Text to Bea. ``Back in black, babe. Just male-nutrished. Wanna come and sleep over?''

EPILOGUE TO PART 1: Loading Program

In the evening darkness, Ed Bishop is sipping at a single malt whiskey and talking to his hand. "It's okay, we got her, now. Found her out in the field. Got a tip off listening to the local channels. One of the surveillance bots picked up police chatter in local law enforcement running some cross-border moonshine operation through Årdal. It's her. Lucky for us, someone took a dislike to her and wanted to get her into trouble. I put a man in the area....and yes .... yes ... All right, watch this space. Bye."

He leans back into a contemplative position, absorbing the news that Senator Dean has left the stage more suddenly than expected, and that Preeta Dharwan is on her way to London. With Dermot McGuire close to the dotted line and now Sara Stensrud, he has a core of anonymity that no one will ever suspect. The others are all to be a part of the implementation. But now, with her finally tracked down, there is also a way out. At least, so everyone believes. So all the simulations predict. She is the one.

The game, he thinks, is all about getting people to do what you want them to do, without them knowing it. Now he has the perfect vaccine against social decay with all the ingredients heading for the centrifuge. And they have no idea what their true role is. There's still a lot of work to do to even get started, and on a scale never before imagined. It's slightly overwhelming to think about. This is not a war anyone can afford to lose.

Bishop stares into the oceanic future in his screen, looking at the latest data fluctuating up and down like the very financial markets that rule and are ruled by policy. Fluctuating threads, a tapestry of intent. Today, the cold adversary is within us. We have met the enemy, and he IS us. At least for now.

Alrighty then. The incentives and the threads are in place. The team is assembled. Now the real work begins.

Let's just hope it's not too late.

(END)

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