The Shadow Maker

by Robert Sims

  The self-gratification of elites. In contrast, the consumer society breaks down class barriers and political divisions because it wants access for all. It’s global. It’s egalitarian. It’s a democracy of pleasure.

  It’s also the fast track to the future - and all of us here tonight are helping to shape it.’

  The audience leapt to its feet, clapping wildly, each one a believer

  - all, that is, except Marita Van Hassel. She didn’t applaud, but simply observed an almost dangerous enthusiasm. There was no doubting Barbie’s ability as a communicator. However she was equally convinced that his message subverted the very notion of civilised values. It left her cold.

  Rita walked out of the reception venue by the way she’d come in, leaving in her wake the sort of hero worship that troubled her deeply. When anyone was treated as an idol, her response was to look for feet of clay. It was partly because of her vocation - the deconstructive process involved in profiling - and partly because of her instinctive dislike of mass behaviour. What also bugged her was the self-indulgence of the idol himself.

  She’d seen and heard enough for tonight. Her brief observation of Barbie in action had reinforced her decision to find out more about Xanthus, and with no other pressing line of inquiry open to her, she’d start in the morning.

  For now, it was time to go home and catch up on some sleep.

  For a while after his speech Martin Barbie basked in the admiring warmth of his audience, accepting the handshakes and backslapping from the men, and the appreciation in women’s eyes. It all served to reinforce his status as a social hero, and that was good for business. It didn’t bother Barbie that his heroic posture was a fiction choreographed by the media. In fact it was commercially satisfying.

  After all, his business was nothing less than the cynical manipulation of mass culture. The adulation of others simply confirmed he was good at it.

  As people resumed their seats and the presentation of awards began, he lost interest. A long and repetitive ceremony lay ahead, and he had urgent chores to attend to. As soon as he could he slipped out of the hall, made his way to his car, and drove to where the inner city development merged with the suburbs. He pulled off the highway and nosed the car into the concrete driveway of his small computer company, Xanthus Software.

  It was a low smoked-glass building with nothing noteworthy about it, apart from the vaguely sinister look of the chain-link fence fringed with razor wire and studded with security cameras.

  A uniformed guard sat in a cabin beside the tubular steel gates, which he opened promptly as he recognised the company boss sitting behind the wheel of his Lamborghini. Barbie drove onto the narrow forecourt as the gates closed behind him. Getting out, he strode through reception and climbed the stairs to his office on the first floor.

  Two of his software developers were still at work, despite the late hour. Barbie expected nothing less. He was paying them huge 2/3/07 11:08:58 AM

  2/3/07 11:08:58 AM

  salaries to deliver a virtual reality games package in time for a meeting with Japanese executives, and the deadline was approaching. As he checked his email he could hear them arguing. Their nerdish banter irritated him.

  ‘It’s important.’

  ‘No it’s not.’

  ‘How do you know until I’ve explained?’

  ‘Just shut up.’

  ‘But I’ve been reading about brains. Human brains.’

  ‘I haven’t got time for this.’

  ‘We’ve got some spooky stuff in there. Hippocampus, hypothalamus, limbic system.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘And modern humans still have reptile brains inside their skulls.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘I’m serious, Flynn. It’s a biological fact. The structures in our heads evolved over millions of years, from the brain stem upwards.

  And they’re still in there - still functioning. Producing the same thoughts as a snake or crocodile.’

  ‘You’re weird, Maynard.’

  ‘I’m just making a point.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Brain chemistry.’

  ‘That’s not a point, you dork. That’s a meaningless statement.’

  ‘All I’m saying is we’re playing around with it, and we don’t know the consequences. We’re stimulating people’s brains electronically without knowing what the neurological effects are.’

  ‘You’re not making sense. Who’s this “we”?’

  ‘You and me. With this software. Plugging into people’s brains through stereoscopic images and synchronised sound.’

  ‘It’s a game, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘No, it’s a computer-generated environment in which people are immersed.’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Barbie, interrupting them as he strode into the room. ‘And it’ll make a fortune for whoever markets it.’ Tokyo had emailed the schedule. ‘Will the software be ready in time?’ he snapped, then stared ominously at the two of them - Bruce Maynard, lanky and sullen; Eddy Flynn, wiry and volatile. Both dysfunctional human beings, but technically the best in their field.

  Flynn and Maynard looked at each other, then spoke simul-taneously.

  ‘Probably.’

  Barbie pursed his lips. Was this a wind-up, or was a multi-million-dollar deal really in jeopardy?

  ‘You don’t need reminding how important this project is to me.’

  He took a deep breath. ‘So failure’s not an option. Nor are smart-arse comments.’

  They slouched on their swivel chairs and gazed up at him with bland expressions - a pair of unresponsive geeks surrounded by their clutter of screens and keyboards and processors and tech toys.

  ‘We’re working our bums off for you,’ said Flynn. ‘For the past ten hours I’ve been chasing a paper trail because of a bug the test team failed to unearth. I haven’t had time to fart.’

  Barbie leant over him, unimpressed.

  ‘Listen to me carefully. Timing is everything. Programming directors and software managers arrive from Tokyo this month. It’s my window of opportunity to sell this package while it’s still hot

  - before anyone else fills the gap in the market. So I don’t want excuses. It’s got to be ready on time. Complete. Bug-free. Best-of-breed.’

  ‘Or what?’ said Flynn.

  ‘Or I’ll have your balls surgically removed and pickled.’

  ‘But there’s still an endless amount of diagnostics to do,’ protested Maynard. ‘Source code testing. Integration testing.’

  ‘Project artefacts,’ added Flynn.

  ‘Regression tests. Performance tests.’

  ‘Function point analysis.’

  ‘Code metrics.’

  They were playing a game with him and he knew it.

  ‘Unless you want us to ignore the usual benchmarks and quality gates.’

  Barbie stood up straight and smiled coldly. ‘I want you to get the job done without acting like a couple of propeller heads. Which reminds me - there are supposed to be three of you working tonight.

  Where’s Josh?’

  They exchanged a look.

  ‘Well, where is he?’ Barbie demanded.

  ‘Out getting pizzas.’

  ‘I’m not paying him to do pizza runs! He’s the number one troubleshooter on this software so the game succeeds or fails on his level of input. Next time get the fucking pizzas delivered!’ shouted Barbie, adjusting his bow tie. ‘And when Josh gets back, pass on my message. Up and running on time - or balls in a jar.’ He threw them a look as he walked out the door. ‘Code metrics, my arse.’

  Barbie had been gone less than ten minutes when Josh Barrett returned, juggling a stack of pizza boxes, chocolate fudge cake and coleslaw tubs. He was greeted with looks of despondency.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

  ‘Barbie wants to castrate us,’ said Flynn. ‘And Maynard’s got a reptile’s brain.’

  ‘That’s not what I said.’

  ‘And the game we�
��re designing will boil people’s heads.’

  Josh dumped the food on a desktop among strands of cable.

  ‘Interesting sales pitch.’

  ‘He twists everything,’ Maynard complained.

  ‘You’re the one who’s twisted, arsehole. If anyone’s got the brain chemistry of a snake -‘ said Flynn.

  ‘I was just trying to make the point -‘ started Maynard.

  ‘The point is you’re weird. If you didn’t know how to point and click no one would even communicate with you. No wonder you frighten women.’

  ‘Go fuck yourself.’

  With a scowl, Maynard picked up his pizza and went to the far side of the room where he could eat in peace and watch the highway traffic through the window.

  ‘See what I mean?’ said Flynn. ‘No social grace.’

  ‘And what about Barbie?’ said Josh as they helped themselves to the food. ‘What’s his problem?’

  ‘Shitting himself about the deadline.’

  ‘Did you tell him it’s sorted?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. Let’s keep him guessing.’

  Flynn swallowed a mouthful of pizza and frowned. ‘You can be a smug bastard at times. Don’t forget I’m the system administrator on this. It’s down to me if it isn’t clear of bugs.’

  Josh took a swig of Coke. ‘It’ll never be clear of bugs.’

  ‘Are you trying to piss me off ?’

  ‘I’m trying to get you to loosen up.’

  ‘But the test team …’

  ‘A bunch of tossers. The bugs they’ve found are minor. They can be fixed with patches.’ Josh licked his fingers and picked up another slice. ‘There’s only one important thing the test team’s come up with.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s not a technical problem, but in a way Maynard’s right. The level of input from the eyephones is too high. You should go easy on wearing them.’

  ‘Sometimes I think you’re as nuts as he is. What the fuck are you talking about?’

  ‘The game’s addictive. Gives you a physical buzz.’

  Flynn stared at him dubiously. ‘That’s priceless from someone hooked on dope.’

  Josh shrugged and took a bite of cake. ‘You don’t have to believe me - but what a selling point. Makes your bugs irrelevant.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Maynard, coming back from the window, spilling bits of pepperoni in his wake. ‘I believe you.’

  ‘Big deal,’ Flynn sneered. ‘You believe in aliens and the Easter Bunny.’

  ‘I’ve got proof,’ said Maynard, then realised he’d said too much.

  ‘What proof ?’

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘No.’ This time it was Josh. ‘Tell us.’

  Maynard shook his head.

  ‘Maynard!’ Josh insisted. ‘Tell us what you’ve found out.’

  He sighed. ‘I went to see Huxley. He did some tests.’

  Flynn gave a groan. ‘You dipstick.’

  But Josh was curious. ‘Isn’t he the guy you both studied under?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Maynard brightly. ‘Professor Byron Huxley. Computer science. Monash University.’

  ‘And he did tests?’ asked Josh. ‘What sort?’

  ‘Scans. Brain scans.’

  ‘While you were wearing eyephones?’

  ‘Yeah. Goggles and gloves. Me, and a few undergraduate guinea pigs.’

  ‘Jesus,’ muttered Flynn. ‘If Barbie finds out, you’re dead.’

  ‘Sod Barbie,’ said Josh. ‘The scans. What’d they show?’

  ‘Something weird. The wrong areas lit up. The game stimulates the limbic system - bits like that. Like I was trying to say earlier.’

  ‘You didn’t make sense then,’ said Flynn, ‘and you’re not making sense now. I’m surprised Huxley could find any brain at all.’

  ‘Get stuffed.’

  ‘The scans,’ Josh insisted. ‘What do they mean?’

  ‘They explain why we get such hardons when we play. It’s not just the images - it’s the software itself. It stimulates the sex centres of the brain.’

  Josh nodded to himself. ‘And that’s why it’s addictive.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Maynard. ‘And that’s why I was talking about the reptile brain in our heads. This game turns it on - literally.’

  ‘Maybe that’s why it’s so hot,’ said Josh. ‘Maybe that’s the real selling point - but Barbie hasn’t bothered to tell us.’

  He finished eating, stood up and pulled on his leather jacket.

  Flynn looked at him suspiciously. ‘Where are you going now?’

  ‘Out and about.’

  ‘With Barbie on the warpath?’

  ‘Bollocks to him.’

  Flynn shook his head. ‘Your crazy streak will stuff you up one day.’

  Josh gave him a careless smile.

  As usual, he was saying nothing, but still managed to exude a hint of something illicit. It fitted in with what they knew about him, which wasn’t much. Josh had come back to Australia suddenly and under doubtful circumstances after a two-year visit to England - something to do with activities in the cybertech underworld. At first they thought he’d learnt his tradecraft as a hacker until it became obvious he was a fully qualified computer scientist. It turned out he’d once worked for the Defence Department in Canberra. They assumed he’d left in a huff or been fired, probably because of his attitude, maybe as a security risk. Too much of the bad boy in him.

  He drank vodka, lots of it, got chased by women because he was good-looking and irresponsible, and he did deals on the side in hot computer gear. Beyond that, his background was a mystery.

  But Flynn was curious. ‘Will you be back tonight?’

  ‘Don’t count on it.’

  ‘Just where do you go when you’re on the prowl?’

  ‘The only place worth being at night.’ Josh jiggled his car keys.

  ‘The wrong side of town.’

  Barbie drove back to the casino complex beset by nagging worries about the software deal. Though he’d sunk millions of dollars into the project, he’d known from the start it was a calculated risk, and each passing day took another sizeable bite out of his diminishing finances. Despite his assets and his image, he was short of ready cash and delving deeper into the pockets of his bankers. Another showdown with the bank in Sydney was looming but he’d handle that when the time came. As he brushed that prospect aside he tried to convince himself there was nothing to worry about. Any doubts about the deadline were nothing more than the nerdish antics of his design team. They were trying it on, that was all, and would deliver the software package on time. He would sell it to the Japanese, forget money hassles forever and become a high stakes player in new media.

  With that comforting thought in mind he got back to the awards ceremony in time to present the top honour of the night to the Advertiser of the Year. ‘Excellent work. Maximum impact,’ he said into the microphone. ‘Well done.’

  He led the applause as the audience rose to their feet below him in a wave of acclamation. These men and women were all sharp and glamorous operators whose profession was to invent and reinvent glamour. And this was a night when they reaffirmed their role of convincing people about all the things lacking in their lives - such as beauty, health and happiness - so they’d go out and buy them. They stood clapping with enthusiasm and glossy faces above a sea of tables bristling with silver champagne buckets, glasses and the remains of steak dinners, as a team of waiters began clearing away the plates.

  A few cheers and whistles rang out with the applause and echoed overhead among the glittering artificial stars that laced the ceiling.

  Yes, this was what he was good at. This was where he belonged.

  Afterwards, champagne glass in hand, he mingled with the guests.

  The conversation was smart and the laughter boisterous. He drifted around the tables, networking with the executives, absorbing the gossip. But it was mostly the women, with their tight dresses and over-bright smiles, who gravit
ated around him. With each inviting look and each fresh mouthful of champagne, the night became less formal and his animal urges more imperative.

  Doing a final sweep of the hall, he decided there was no woman he could take to bed discreetly so he said his goodnights and rode the elevator up to his private suite. There he threw off his tuxedo, loosened his tie and, phone in hand, stood gazing through the window over the dark expanse of the bay. He took a deep breath and dialled a number.

  A woman answered, her voice silky. ‘Hello. Can I help you?’

  Barbie cleared his throat. ‘Yes. Tell me who’s available tonight.’

  Rita’s day began with three bronze-coloured masks lined up across her desk, and O’Keefe’s thick, hairy finger pointing to one after the other.

  ‘Toy shop, games shop, costume shop,’ he indicated. ‘Only one’s metallic, the other two are plastic, but they all look Greek to me.’

  ‘Yes,’ Rita agreed. ‘And there’s no way of knowing which type the offender was wearing. Emma Schultz can’t tell us, that’s for sure.’

  ‘So they’re not much help, except for ex’s,’ said O’Keefe, who as well as being a prize-winning swimmer - his achievements were proudly reported in the police magazine, although photos of him grinning above a hairy torso coated with grease were a distinct turn-off - was a champion at claiming expenses. ‘I’ve kept the receipts.’

  ‘They’re no good as a lead but they help with the profile,’ she reasoned. ‘It means the man we’re after isn’t into simple bondage, he’s also acting a part. That’s why he used the term “role-playing” .

  It wasn’t a euphemism, he meant it literally.’

  ‘But for the investigation, the mask’s another dead end?’ asked O’Keefe.