by Roy C. Booth
On the drive home, his anxiety comes creeping back. He wonders, and hopes, that last night's uncommon event is not just a very vivid pipe dream. That something, anything is fighting against this steel-reinforced glass prison.
tremendous terror rule
all-seeing intent view
glaze(d) gate grille
enormous creeping gruel
panoptic potent stew
vaulted-ville
ubik-link hysteria
limbo-inc. inertia
I did, I didn't know
I wish, I could go, go!
[Fragment of From Orchestrated Sequences to Nothingface.]
Three days later, Pogolas is back into his new life's habits, a routine all but lifeless. The weekends are the worst: Cultural life so devoid of anything truly controversial or even mildly thought-provoking that he's actually looking forward to work. He's even considered working through the weekend, several times, but that seems too much like giving in to the new order.
So it's another weekend of the new old, old new. Theater performances either so focused on sex, love, and skewed relationships that even the newest summit of vulgarity merely makes him yawn; or they're so steeped in l'art pour l'art and involved with the inner self as to make a navel-gazer in a cul-de-sac seem like a world traveler. It's not so much that everything was ever so subtly censored; it's more that all really engaged artists have long since left the country. Also, not coincidentally, any foreign piece—no matter how critically acclaimed abroad—never plays in brand new England if it's halfway politically engaged.
He can go to the pub, but most of the low-caloric, alcohol-poor, no-taste stuff they're serving isn't worth the name beer, and after his second pint of Guinness the local ubik-link will be pestering him about liver disease, Alzheimer's, increased health insurance premiums, and all those other things he's trying to forget there in the first place.
Surfing the web has lost all its luster, as well. Non-Panoptical links are better shielded off than the crown jewels in Buckingham Palace, and cruising the net in the hope of finding a breach or a slip in the security is dangerous in another way too: So many carefully targeted ads are launched at you in the meantime that avoiding another shopping spree is like saying no to steroids when your name's Arnold Schwarzenegger.
A local court in Manchester ruled on June 29 that an Internet provider that had copied and read customers' emails was not breaking the law. [...] The operator of the service had installed software to intercept emails from the online retailer Amazon to help his own book-dealing business. [...] But two out of the three judges ruled that there had been no violation, saying that the act does not apply to “communications in electronic storage”.
[Fragment of The Writing of the Wall.]
Ever since the Panopticon has closed its event horizon over us, my life's become so routine, so predictable, Pogolas thinks, I need to do something strange, something so way out of the ordinary it'll surprise even myself. He considers, very shortly, starting an underground magazine—White Noise in the Black Static—but finding both contributors and readers, let alone distribute it unnoticed, seems impossible.
No, this time not something he loves, but rather something he hates. But what? He decides to take a walk in the warming spring’s drizzle while pondering it. Unfortunately, thinking freely requires a lot of concentration, walking through any urban center, these days.
Apart from subconsciously hypnotic, electronic billboards and signs (randomly triggering, polarized lenses that can block most of those ads fetch a mean price) and the subtle pheromone scents micro-jetted from each shop entrance, you have focused hypersound beams whispering sales pitches straight into your head. To be alone with your thoughts requires mirror shades, nose, and earplugs, and a steadfast state of mind.
Peace, Pogolas think as he walks past the Anchor, is only in the grave. Or maybe on the bottom of the river Cam. Then—through the unmistakable scent, sound, and sight of a pint filling with Extra Cold—it hits him: Why not go for a punt? He hates that with a vengeance, so normally it'll be the last thing he'll do. There's the slightest chance of more serenity on the middle of the river, too. Almost to his own surprise, he finds himself hiring a boat.
“Hello, sir, do you mind if I joined you for this punt?” an Asian-looking woman asks.
Pogolas can't believe his eyes: She's a stunner. He hasn't been approached by a woman in ages, and that this chestnut-colored, stylish Asian beauty breaks his dry spell is quite unbelievable. Can he say no to such inviting eyes, set in a high cheek-boned face? Can he refuse that iridescent smile, that elegant posture?
“Be my guest,” he says, “but I'm not exactly this town's best punter. We might get hopelessly stuck.“
“Well, at least that's different.” her voice sounds warm.
“Different,” Pogolas says, “as in 'romantic?'”
“Well, more like funny.” the slender hand she puts before her mouth fails to camouflage an ear-to-ear smile, and the gleam in her eyes melts his heart.
“Who can resist a woman with a sense of humor?”
“Who can humor a man with a sense of resistance?”
That catches Pogolas off-guard. “What did you just say?”
“Nothing,“ she says, “just a failed attempt at wit. Forget it, Mr...?”
“Pogolas. But please call me Nero.”
“Nice to meet you, Nero. I'm Tara.”
“Pleased to meet you, Tara. Shall we punt?”
Fifteen minutes later, Pogolas is sweating profusely. Punting's much harder than he expected. At least they haven't barged into somebody else, or run aground, albeit barely. Never mind, her amused smile almost makes it worthwhile. He's already forgetting why he started this punting madness, anyway.
“Fancy a drink after this?” he manages to ask between labored breaths.
“Better make that lunch, because you'll need it.” again with that irresistible, naughty gleam in her eyes.
“Well, I told you I wasn't any good at this,“ while he keeps his tone friendly, “this is actually the first time for me.“
“A virgin? Let me show you how to do it.” She gets up and moves next to him.
“You can't be serious.”
“Don't moan, and give me that pole.”
To Pogolas's astonishment, she begins punting with an almost effortless grace.
“Your technique is wrong,” she says, hardly breathing harder, “take over, and I'll tell you how to do it.”
Following her instructions, Pogolas finds it can be much easier. I could almost enjoy this, he thinks, No, not without her. Now that he's using his strength more economically, he can start a normal conversation.
“How do you know?” he asks.
“You just told me you were born here,” she counters, “and you don't know about the female punting clubs?”
“Up until a good hour ago I actively hated punting.”
“And now?”
“Mwah, it's not too bad. Do you always pick up weak, unsuspecting men?”
“Can't tell you, really. By the way, do you know you look quite charming when you try to hide your distress?”
She laughs out loud as Pogolas moves his gaze skyward. As his look returns to Earth, he can't help but take in her alluring cleavage as she bends forward, heaving with laughter. So that's why so many guys like to play the clown, he thinks, struggling not to fall overboard, and if she keeps laughing like this, I may actually need that cold shower.
However, in spite of her unintended distractions, Pogolas manages to berth the punt safely at Scudamores, and Henson—later on she tells him her full name is Tara B. Henson—offers to pay for their lunch at The Anchor.
Before he knows it, he's dating her. Candlelight dinners in obscure restaurants that he thought didn't exist anymore, where through the removal of electricity there are no commercial intrusions. Noisy gigs in sweaty basements where advertisements are drowned in a cacophonous overkill. Covert screenings of foreign cult movies in shie
lded apartments.
While her knowledge of the underground is state-of-the-art, her approach to their love affair is decidedly old-fashioned: He has to wait a few months before she lets him steal his first kiss. It happens on a spot where he'd never find himself before: Picnicking with her on the bank of the River Cam after a bout of punting, on one of those rare days when it's not raining.
The treats from her picnic basket have their origin from all over the old Commonwealth: poppadoms with chicken tikka, BLT sandwiches with Canadian bacon, and a cold couscous stew. But it's the Australian sticky date pudding that does the trick: Licking the clinging caramel sauce off each other's fingers, they find each other in their cleaned arms, tongues entangled, oblivious to the world.
Her kisses taste of nutmeg and honey, sweet and spicy, like an impossible mix between a premature dessert and an overdue starter. Whatever the main course was, he feels giddy just thinking about it.
In the meantime, he's making actual progress with his work. It's slow, admittedly, but the first time in years that he feels he's treading new ground. It seems that his falling in love somehow frees his mind from his preoccupation with the Panopticon Singularity. Nevertheless, he takes care to keep his new ideas solely in his head.
Next Friday, Pogolas experiences a breakthrough of a different kind: After a particular fine day of punting, picnicking, and a very stimulating movie, Henson invites him into her apartment for a cup of coffee. She never makes it to the coffee maker, as they end up making love on the couch instead.
He stays the night and may even have slept the odd moment. The next morning, he can hardly believe it: He's holding the smartest and prettiest woman he ever met, and the sex has been almost incredible. Just thinking about it makes him ready for the next round: He didn't know he had it in him. She stirs, begins to wake and soon has exactly the same idea: It's too good to be true.
The consummation of their affair wreaks havoc with his sense of time: Moments of bliss that seem to last forever, lingering anticipation that's timed almost right, but when he gets in his car Monday morning the weekend suddenly is much too short.
The turn his life has taken has the strange effect of making him accept his lot: The direct manifestations of the Panopticon Singularity bother him less and less. As his mind is floating in higher spheres, he's figuratively put back with both feet on the ground in the middle of the River Cam.
“Haven't you noticed how there's no commercials at all invading your privacy when we're punting?”
“Now you mention it, yeah. Before I was just too—well—distracted by you.”
“Right now the technology to project hypersound across larger distances is prohibitively expensive, but it won't last.”
“Meaning we should enjoy these moments of privacy while we can?”
“Exactly. I need to tell you a few things.”
A fresh breeze blows over the River Cam, and Henson surreptitiously releases a small handful of barely visible powder into the cool draught.
Radio Frequency ID chips are used for tagging commercial produce. Unlike today's simple anti-shoplifting tags in books and CD's, the next generation will be cheap (costing one or two cents each), tiny (sand-grain sized), and smart enough to uniquely identify any individual manufactured product, by serial number as well as type and vendor. They can be embedded in plastic, wood, food, or fabric, and by remotely interrogating the RFID chips in your clothing or possessions the Panopticon Society's agencies can tell a lot about you—like, what you're reading, what you just ate, and maybe where you've been if they get cheap enough to scatter like dust. More insidiously, because each copy of a manufactured item will be uniquely identifiable, they'll be able to tell not only what you're reading, but where you bought it. RFID chips are injectable, too, so you won't be able to misplace your identity by accident.
[From The Panopticon Singularity, an essayby Charlie Stross, originally commissioned for Whole Earth Review. Now published on the author's website at http://www.antipope.org/charlie/rant/panopticon-essay.html. Used with permission.]
After waiting a minute for the radio-interfering microdrones to disperse, she says, “Do you remember the strange message you received in the middle of the night?”
“About the genesis of a counter movement? But that was months ago.”
“We've been targeting you well before that.” she says almost matter-of-factly.
“Sheesh,” he says, thinking back, “so our meeting near The Anchor—”
“—was prearranged. We put the suggestion in your subconscious.”
“And I thought only the Panopticon did such things!”
“Fighting fire with fire. All for a good cause.”
“But why would your...organization want me?”
“You are one of the key scientists in the research for nuclear fusion. If your research succeeds, the Panopticon Singularity has an almost unlimited energy source.”
“We're still quite a way from that, believe me. And this is an international project: ITER's test reactor is in France.”
“Yeah, but while the UK is still under the Panopticon's spell, you should not even go in the right direction: The less it knows, the better.”
This is something Pogolas needs to let sink in as it runs right against his scientific nature.
“Tara, asking a scientist not to research is like...” he can't quite find the right analogue.
“...telling a bunch of rabbits not to procreate.”
“Exactly. It goes completely against my nature.”
“Enough for the moment, Nero. Think about it. And I need to tell you something more, but later.”
“Later? But—”
“Later: These shielded talks should be as short as possible. I'll have to wait for the next right moment.”
“The next right moment?”
“Yeah. Come on: Let's talk dirty. And mean it.” With a smile that has celibacy vows for breakfast.
“If everything would be so easy,” Pogolas says and shifts his mind into a different gear.
post-singularity
freewill-atrophy
hypnotic double-bind
resourceful rewind
panoptic control state
despotic Orwell fate
fixed DRAM
illusive freewill shout
proactive frantic clout
re-programmed
who knows what
which goes where?
when is that
soon it's there
do we know
where we go
now
brother state out...
[Fragment of From Orchestrated Sequences to Nothingface.]
The next right moment is when Pogolas feels more like drifting off, right after a moment that already feels absolutely right. They have just made love, with a passion that keeps astonishing him. It's supposed to wear off after the initial fire, right? As far as he can tell it hasn't: It even seems to get better, deeper.
Henson—seemingly content in his arms—disturbs his happy trance with a whisper in his ear that was anything but sweet nothings: “Wanna divulge some industrial secrets?”
That catches him with his mental pants down: “To you? Why?”
“Not to me. You're leaving the country next month.”
“Yeah, but you said you couldn't come along.”
“I will be joining you, but via a completely separate route. Then I'll introduce you to some fellow scientists.”
His mind kicks into high gear now: “Need cash? I stashed some just for something unexpected like that.”
She kisses him softly on his cheek, and he can feel her sardonic smile. “Nero, you're a superb scientist but sometimes a little naïve in other matters, especially as to the true extent of the Panopticon Singularity.”
That remark hurts, Pogolas considers himself a paragon of paranoia. His peeved look urges Henson to elaborate: “RFID tags have been miniaturized and applied much more intensely than everybody is led to belie
ve. For one thing: Why did you think a new series of pound notes was introduced two years ago?”
“Well, the usual: to make them safer against counterfeiters?”
“That indeed, and more: Each note has an RFID tag embedded. All cash movements—didn't you notice how fast the old currency was taken out of circulation?—are tracked.”
“Jesus.”
In the near term, RFID tags [...] may eventually be embedded in paper currency to inhibit counterfeiters and enable governments to track the movement of cash. Hitachi in Japan recently announced that it has developed tags minute enough for this application.
[From The Writing of the Wall.]
“But then how?” is all he can mutter.
“We have our ways. We've taken biometric samples of the people in this neighborhood, in combination with their spending patterns, hacked from Tesco's Crucible database. So when we need to buy a certain item, I have our people check to whom this purchase matches best, do the purchase with faked biometrics, make a copy of the RFID tags in the product, burn out the product's RFID tag and attach an exact copy of the tag to something else in order to set a false trail.”
“Christ.”
“Just so you realize how deep our new England really is encapsulated in this Panoptical web. Also to show how incredibly difficult it is to keep our movement underground, out of sight. We have to be at least one step ahead all of the time. Fortunately, we have outside help. And it does seem to be getting less hard, of late.”
“But: burn them out? I thought they were tamper-proof.”
“They can't be: They have no power source, so the high-frequency signals that locate and identify them also power them. If you know the frequency on which they operate, you can disable them by sending a short, high-powered EMP burst: This burns out the tag's IC.”
“But isn't the disappearance of certain tags a trail in itself?”
