Collapse

by A. Wendeberg

  Inah and Markus: squatters, ex-academics, and our audio wizards. We pulled them into our closest circle only yesterday. We should have done it earlier. They’ve needed a purpose ever since the day their kid jumped off a bridge.

  My eyes touch on every one of them, and I feel myself growing calm. Their murmured conversations spread a warmth in me few would understand. I need my people. I trust them. Without them, this crazy plan would never stand a chance. Life without them would be…

  I smile at myself. There was a life before the Providers. Only what, five, six years ago? How did it happen that they picked me as their leader? Is this even leading? I doubt it. It’s more like being the central knot to many nerve endings.

  Chris taps my knee and jerks his head at the crowd. I stand, rub my cold butt, and wait for everyone to fall silent. ‘Welcome.’

  Hands go up in a quick greeting. Some people smile or nod. Tension grows.

  ‘It’s good news, but it does feel like going to war, doesn’t it?’ I ask, and get a few chuckles in return.

  ‘You’ve heard that Horst found Lange’s office and that we’ve acquired the plans for the building. But before I go on, I want to make sure we’re all on the same page. Inah, Markus, this is your first meeting. You probably have questions.’

  ‘Yes. How do we communicate?’

  This puzzles me. Wasn’t he briefed? Markus lifts a finger, and adds, ‘We did go through behavioural training, hence the question. How do we transmit the recordings? How do we communicate with headquarters? We can’t use email or any electronic communication, with all that…’ He lifts his arms and makes a sweeping gesture.

  I give him a nod and squat on the floor. ‘I found it hard to believe the first time Horst told me about it. But then again, PHATE is the logical consequence of decades of technological advancements.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ Floh says.

  All heads turn to her.

  ‘It’s warfare,’ she continues softly. In this concrete cell, her voice sounds unnaturally hollow. ‘You need a warlord to take all these small bits, the billions of cell phone locations, online purchases, communication key phrases, patterns, and patterns, and more patterns, and use them like a nuclear bomb against your own people. No,’ she shakes her head as she stands, ‘It’s more like the ultimate…’

  Her eyes are intense, raking over every face. ‘History tells us that every dictator creates his own enemy — the one man or woman who will kill him. But this one.’ She pokes her finger at the print Horst holds in his lap. The photo of Lange in his office. ‘This man is entirely different. He can predict who that man or woman might be. Imagine a world in which a single man has the military police in his right hand, and all the money and political power in his left, and his eyes and ears know every single breath you take. You all grew up with cell phones, internet, credit cards, apps, social media, and all that crap. And you all know it’s tracked and recorded, and you all think it’s normal, it’s okay, happens to everyone. And then one day…’ Floh flicks a sideways glance at me. ‘One day your brother is taken away.’

  The hairs on my neck rise. ‘Floh,’ I squeeze through my teeth.

  She sits down, frowning. ‘And a few months later, he returns a zombie.’

  ‘Floh!’ I feel the anger rising. My mouth tastes of copper.

  ‘Well, then.’ Horst claps his hands together. ‘To explain it to the newbies, here’s an oversimplified example of how PHATE works: Let’s say, good old Petey downloads “The Management of Savagery” or “Guerrilla Warfare” and then chats online with his pal Billie, who bought powdered aluminium two years before, and who has a cousin, fifth removed or something, who was reported to have stored a bag of ammonium nitrate in his outhouse. PHATE records all this and determines that Petey, Billie and Billie’s cousin have exceeded their risk levels. So it initiates “hell” — that’s what the crackheads who wrote the program called that particular command: InitHell. Hell is when military police make Petey, Billie, and cousin disappear. It doesn’t matter that good old Petey had no idea what Billie and his moron of a cousin were doing, and that all Petey and Billie talked about was kitten videos. They were planning to make Tannerite. They wanted to blow people up, and kitten video talk is their code for mayhem. They’re terrorists. And that’s what Petey, Billie, and the cousin will actually believe once they are released, if they ever are released.’

  Horst spits in the corner.

  ‘This is Alex’s home, not yours.’ Chris growls at Horst.

  ‘Oh? Sorry, m’boy. Your home? Really?’

  ‘Just for… Never mind.’ Horst doesn’t need to know how long or short I’m staying.

  I exhale to release tension. ‘Even the most outdated tracking programs use contact chaining to target anyone within four hops of a suspect. The problem is that you can connect any person to any other person on an average of four hops. Which basically means we all are connected to any serial killer or terrorist of your choice. We all are suspects the moment we are born. There are no innocents. So.’ I clap my hands to my knees, stand, and address Inah and Markus. ‘You two know about the hard drives we found a few years back, right?’

  ‘We heard rumours.’ Inah shrugs.

  ‘I was among the ones who evaluated the files, and—’

  Horst cuts me off again, ‘To make a long story short: what they found proved that Lange has been financing every significant policy change for the past two decades, and that he has been sitting on every board of all the Top10 corporations. Worldwide, of course. And then he simply disappeared.’

  Someone snorts. ‘Sorry, dude. But Lange is all over the news.’

  ‘Yes, smartshit,’ Horst replies acidly. ‘And that’s all you can see of him. Media appearances. Try to find anything about him in the databases: tax statements, email correspondence, cell phone location, bank statements, information on investments or divestments, or even such simple shit like where the fuck his fucking office or his home is located! The last trace you’ll find is of him initiating, financing, and helping to develop and install PHATE. After that: total blackout.’

  Horst’s face is red and his beard bristles. He makes me think of a cross between a tomato and a hedgehog.

  I grin at my boots, then look up and wait until all eyes are back on me. ‘Horst spoke of proof, but what we have is evidence at best, with the exception of Lange’s board memberships — information that is publicly available. However, the evidence we did find hints that Lange is trying to control, or is already controlling, large parts of the population, by controlling not only policy makers, commerce, and the media, but also by predicting the behaviour of groups and individuals. It is actually not that complicated. People lead public lives. All one needs to do is track their activities — purchases, who they visit, what they say on the phone and online, what programs they watch, their news subscriptions. These data have been recorded and analysed for decades. Horst explained it already. It’s how these data are used that’s…a bit out of proportion, to put it mildly. We all know that governments wage cyberwar against one another, but PHATE is a weapon that targets civilians. Lange is at the root of all this, and it’s time he gets a taste of his own medicine.’

  People nod, ball their fists, and lift their chins.

  ‘Alex?’ Horst’s eyebrows are drawn up.

  ‘Horst?’ I reply, and smirk at him. ‘Ladies first.’

  He rakes back his unruly hair. ‘As I said, this guy is not in the habit of leaving a digital trace. This is the first time we’ll get a chance to listen to what he’s doing. We have to know what he’s up to, who and where his partners are, where he lives, how many women he fucks, what his family is doing, and where he keeps his fucking computer!’ Horst holds up the image of Lange’s office. ‘Nothing. No phone, no tablet, no nothing. He has to have a computer in there, somewhere. Once we know that, we set our hackers on him, me included. Tomorrow night we begin with phase one: eavesdropping on all conversations in his office. Floh, Chris, and Alex fire a microwave beam at
his office. Unfortunately, because of the height of the building and the angles, there’s no fixed point…um. Never mind. A drone has to carry the receiver. As long as we fly it at a distance from West Bank Tower, of, say, four or five hundred metres, it will be high up and out of sight. We’ll be splendid.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I nod at Horst, and continue. ‘Inah and Marcus, you’ll move your equipment to Horst’s farm. Cathrina,’ I nod at the strawberry blonde to Horst’s side, ‘is our drone pilot. She and her husband… Where is he, by the way?’

  ‘Watching the kids.’

  I keep forgetting that she has a pair of highly energetic three-year-olds. ‘Cathrina, you will operate from headquarters. Make three copies of each six-hour recording, and send one to Horst’s farm via pigeon, leave one at headquarters, and bring one here. Inah and Markus, should no messenger pigeon with the data arrive, use a burner phone to call headquarters. If you can’t reach anyone, pack up and leave at once. Understood?’

  The two give me a sharp nod.

  ‘I’m talking to you, too, Horst.’

  ‘I’ll blow up that farm before I leave it to the suits.’

  ‘Okay. It’s your farm.’ I turn my attention to the five men at the very back of the room. ‘Mark, tell me that way into WholeGreen is still safe.’

  He flashes his white teeth at me.

  ***

  Stretched out and limp, Floh lies beneath me. I’m straddling her thighs as my hands knead her lower back, slowly working toward her shoulders. She purrs like a cat.

  ‘I’ll do the first shift tomorrow,’ she says.

  ‘Give yourself another day.’

  ‘So you’re telling me what to do now? You needin’ some daddy treatment? Let me know ‘cause then…’ She lifts her butt and wiggles it at me.

  ‘Chris and I have talked it through,’ I say gruffly. Whenever I don’t give her what she wants, she tries to distract me with kinky stuff. ‘He and I go in together, check it out, then he leaves and I stay.’

  ‘Honey, I’m my old self. All’s good and new. Trust me?’

  ‘Who said I don’t trust you?’ I lean forward and push my thumbs beneath the edges of her shoulder blades. She groans and I’m not sure it’s because of my hands on her, or because I’m not giving in. ‘Was that really necessary?’

  ‘What are you…oh. Your brother. Yeah. I mean, no, it wasn’t. I’m sorry. I got carried away.’

  ‘Try to not get carried away when it comes to my private life, Floh.’

  ‘They know about him, what the police did to him, they way he was when he…returned. Everybody’s heard the story.’

  ‘The real story or just the rumours?’ I whisper.

  She shrugs and turns her head, trying to catch my eye. ‘Rumours,’ she answers.

  ‘Then leave it at that.’

  A small nod. ‘Sorry, hon.’

  I run my thumbs up along the sides of her spine. The ripple of her vertebrae feels like large beads on a string. Sometimes, she makes me think of porcelain. Pretty to look at. Hard and cold, but easy to break if she’s handled the wrong way. Floh has what’s needed to kill in an instant. She never talks about who and what made her that way.

  ‘So…about tomorrow night,’ she begins.

  ‘Chris and I go.’

  ‘Come on, Alex. I can’t let you touch that gun all by yourself.’

  I can hear the grin in her voice. ‘Don’t worry,’ I whisper into her ear. ‘I’ll think of you while touching the gun and myself. That sound alright?’

  She bucks, whips around, and grabs my face. With mock seriousness, she kisses my mouth, then places my hand on her tit. ‘My front needs your magic treatment, Mister. Now.’

  ‘At your service, m’lady.’

  I nip at her and kiss my way down her midriff. That’s what makes me feel alive — the sex we have. Wild and noisy and without restrictions.

  Up until the moment she calls me Horst.

  — FOUR —

  Alex

  ‘So what’s the deal?’ Chris asks and takes my elbow.

  I shake him off and keep on walking, my mouth clamped shut. I don’t want to think about it a moment longer, let alone talk about it. Horst of all men! And “just his face between my legs” and “I was just curious about the oral sex.” My imagination is doing disgusting things to me right now. I retched when she told me. I actually retched. My tongue still tastes bitter. And the rage, man. The rage!

  Chris touches my arm again. ‘You look tired, bro. Floh told me this morning you broke it off. Did you sleep in the park? Was it…I mean…because of her and me?’

  ‘No.’ I stop and give his shoulder a squeeze. ‘You and I, we’re good. I just couldn’t take all her other crap any longer.’

  He frowns and nods, thinking I mean her ups and downs. Those are hard to stomach, but nothing compared to…

  Shaking my head, I push the thought aside, and all the images my mind conjures up. I limp faster. Street names, buildings, people — all brush past my vision. The microwave gun is strapped to my left leg and covered by my pants and a plastic cast, my left arm leans on a crutch. The closer we get to WholeGreen Tower, the more the impediment bugs me. It’s like a bear trap. I can’t run with it.

  Chris helps me down a set of stairs to a small park not far from our target. We find a bench, sit and catch our breath. ‘Half past ten,’ he says, and pulls a bottle of water from his ruck. We share it, wait until the violet of the clouds fades to a blue-and-black. It’s never really dark in the city.

  We relax for a few moments, take a leak, and watch the park gradually empty. Then I loosen the straps on my leg while Chris takes a look around to make sure no one is watching. I cough, to signal I’m done. Now, there’s only one strap — high up on my thigh, one I can undo in half a second — that holds the gun and cast to my leg.

  I stand and wait for Chris to join me. Up the stairs again, cautiously, so I don’t drop the gun. Only a few metres now, and I spot our point of entry: a small hatch to the ventilation system of the WholeGreen parking garage. A broken beer bottle stands on the hatch — Mark’s signal that it’s not locked.

  ***

  Kay

  I read the text message once more. “See you at ten?” My phone tells me it’s 11:16 pm, but Dad’s office door tells me he’s still not available. I shut my eyes and tap the back of my head against the wall. Some stupid pop song plays up and down in my mind, and I can’t get rid of it. The usual crap. Oh baby I love you whatever lalaaalaaa.

  I try hard to replace it with another song, but all I can come up with are Christmas carols, and those are even worse than pop.

  Shit. I feel stupid for agreeing to this meeting. As usual, he keeps me waiting for ages. This is how it always goes: he asks me, do you have time for a chat I haven’t seen you in days. I say, yeah sure great when. I’ll text you I have to check my calendar to make sure you know how it is.

  There’s no text for hours. And then comes some cryptic line that might or might not mean we meet at home. And then another text that says he’s still in his office. Couldn’t I hop over quickly? And then another text that tells me to wait. Sorry, I’m running late.

  I’m about to leave when the door opens and a gaggle of suits walks out. They say hello Miss Lange how are you tonight its quite late already but maybe you two can join us at the bar in a bit.

  I mutter the noncommittal stuff one’s supposed to spew for the sake of politeness.

  Dad waves me in, offers me tea, coffee, leftovers from a small buffet. I spot caviar and smoked salmon, and decline.

  ‘So, how’s business?’ I plop into a chair opposite from him, and that’s when I really see him for the first time in days. He looks tired, but there’s something in his eyes that flicks my caution switch.

  ‘Have you decided?’ He folds his hands on the table.

  Oh, damn. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Kay.’ A warning. He knows I’m shitting him.

  ‘The problem is that I have to decide on one thing
only.’ I sigh, cross my arms over my chest, and put on my most serious face. ‘My grades are too poor for medicine or law, but okay for literature and philosophy. But I find that…limiting.’

  There’s a knock at the door. ‘Come in,’ Dad says, and one of his secretaries enters. Long legs, long hair, perfect nose and mouth. One of those. I keep forgetting their names.

  She hands him a folded note. He opens it, reads it quickly, and thanks her.

  Once she’s gone, he regards me sharply. ‘Where did you park your car?’

  His tone is stone cold, and it takes me a second to process the swift change of topic. ‘Um…here of course. Second level.’

  He seems relieved. Then I remember I didn’t park here, but at WholeGreen.

  Before I can correct myself, he says, ‘So you don’t find your options…agreeable.’ Slowly, he nods as if he’s bought my concern. ‘What now?’

  I shrug. That’s the worst you can do: be indecisive in the presence of my father.

  He groans and gazes up at the ceiling. ‘You are nineteen years old, Kay. You’ll be twenty in a few days. At your age, I knew precisely what I wanted to do. I had strong ideals and three jobs. Why is it that you have none of that?’ He latches his gaze onto my face.

  ‘I grew up with an alcoholic mother and a father who’s more imaginary than actually there.’

  ‘I grew up with an abusive father and without a mother. Don’t blame others for your failures.’

  ‘Failures? So it’s a failure now to not be like you?’ I’m getting really pissed now and make sure he notices.

  His expression softens. ‘No, it’s not. I just wish you had career plans, no matter how small or unambitious.’

  ‘What do I even need a career for? Why is it always a career, lots of money, houses, cars, children, safety? Aren’t you bored out of your mind with your life?’