EXILE

Talk. Close by Stein’s cell, people were talking - the quartermaster’s voice, and one other, disturbingly familiar. Still half asleep, barely woken by the intrusion, Stein lay on his bunk, listening, private behind his cell curtains, half hanging, half floating in the artificial, yet low gravity of the cell unit. The cell next to Stein was open, the familiar stranger being installed. The cell door slid shut, and the quartermaster moved away, whistling. The light footsteps retreated with the whistle, to be cut off by the secure-door that led into the axial shaft. The neighbour hummed quietly to himself. Stein was now fully awake, listening intently. Outside, a shadow passed across the window, cast by the counter-rotating unit that was next in the platform row. A set of meal tubes lay in the collection tray, lately despatched from the unit’s galley-prep unit. Tasty goo, three times a day in vacuum packs, straws included, delivered by blow-tube express.

Stein rolled lazily off his bunk. The past several days in his cell had comfortably accustomed him to the diminished gravity. He was mildly excited to have a neighbour. For so long now he had been starved of conversation. The two weeks in solitary CSA remand had been the hardest, but for the last several days he had been able to see and hear others, but never close enough to talk. With only himself, he had spent much time meditating, the remainder of his waking time spent studying the ever-changing view outside. He was one of the lucky few to have a window, and he wasn’t about to waste it. Still, he didn’t want to pounce on the newboy next door. The shuttle had only just arrived with its new cargo of human chattel, and it was not likely that the unit’s new inmates would feel much like talking. Stein hadn’t when he had first arrived, no reason why the newboys would be any different. While he waited, Stein took the first food-tube and bit off the soft nozzle-end. Spitting it artfully into the waste-slot, he squeezed the tube, pushing the brownish pureed lasagne out like toothpaste into his mouth. At least the meals here tasted like something identifiable, not like the bland protein sludge that was dished up to prisoners back on Earth.

Privately, Stein was thankful for his deportation. The expansive Earth population, now at seven billion, was starving the planet’s ability to feed the teeming masses. Biotechnology had provided the populist answer, with protein forms culturing vast volumes of uni-cellular organisms that had been engineered into genetic passivity, unable to do anything but reproduce, needing nothing but air, water and raw sewage. Harvested and processed as a paste or as dry biscuit, protein sludge fed the millions who could not afford anything that resembled the traditional concept of food.

The problem was, the protein sludge, for some unknown reason, could not be cultured in space. It needed maximum gravity, as the least requirement. As a result, the lunar and orbital bases fed themselves using advanced hydroponic technology. With the comparatively minuscule populations concerned, the logistics were practical, unlike Earth, which did not have the luxury of waiting for vegetables to gain enough mass to feed any number of people. Not only was Stein’s prison food made from genuine vegetables, but the dietitians actually made it nice to eat.

Standing in his cell, rolling a ball of lasagne paste around in his mouth, Stein listened to the activity next door. He heard moaning, of the self-pitying kind, not the in-pain variety. Not a jot of sympathy passed before Stein’s conscience. After all, this was hardly the place nor the time for sympathy. Fed up with the pathetic drama, he pushed aside his cell curtain. Lying on the bunk in the next cell was a small man, from all appearances severely underfed. Stein was not certain whether that was the fault of the CSA or the man himself. His hair was a ragged black mass, rapidly receding at the front, increasing the available skin between the hairline and the pair of heavy, black-rimmed glasses that lay across the bridge of the man’s nose.

Apart from the inescapably quiet eating sounds, Stein was silent, and it was a couple of minutes before the newcomer opened his eyes and saw Stein for the first time. Blinking, he turned to face Stein, and propped himself up with his elbow. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t realise that you were there.”

“Been here all day.” He took another slug from the tube. Impassive.

“Uh, uh, no. I mean, I mean to say that I didn’t hear you. I saw the light change.” He was as insecure as his body language said, perhaps more so. The sort of person who has low, or no self-esteem, inadequate socially. To have landed up here he must have some talent, to be able to do something much better than most other people. Stein continued thinking, swirling lasagne around in his mouth. he looked at the tube - empty. Reaching over to the slot, he took the other tube, again biting the nozzle off. Without looking at it, he squirted a slug into his mouth - semolina pudding. Again. Platform special.

If the newboy had such a talent, it was likely that he earned his living from it, seeking to capitalise on it. Something that was in demand, but had minimal social interaction, at least face to face. Computers. Of course, he thought. How bleeding obvious. The world at your fingertips, good income, and never having to talk, let alone see any other person. If operating from a home office, there would be no need to even leave home at all. Order groceries, pay bills without leaving his seat. Looking at him with a critical eye, Stein silently confirmed his opinion. The man had no real physique to speak of. But what was he here for?

“How often did you hack into CSA central?”

“Routine. I gave myself a passcode when those agents were killed.”

“Which agents?” Paydirt. A typical, generic professional computer nerd. Could be useful, almost worth befriending him for.

“Oh, ah, you know. One of them was clubbed with some frozen meat. I started to use him after the first Doe’s family asked for all CSA links to be scrubbed.”

“You work for yourself, then?”

“Uh, yeah, sort of.”

“Sort of? Pay yourself, then?”

“After a fashion. I had access to a dozen banking systems.”

“Embezzlement?”

“What? Uh, to get here? No.” He was warming up. Stein was surprised at how easy this one was.

“What, then?”

“What I call, uh, a public service.” He looked at Stein full on. For the first time, Stein got a good, full-on look at his eyes. Wild. A second after the first shock, it hit him that his new neighbour, as brilliant a computer jock as he may turn out to be, was not a typical, balanced personality. He had the sort of jittery, wild and energetic look that was a cliche’ appearance of the criminally insane. For the first time, Stein felt thankful that he was safe behind bars, and that it was not platform policy for inmates to share cells.

“Really? How?” Lead him on.

“I started to erase criminal records, schedule lifers for early release. Basically, I rehashed the judiciary.”

“How long were you doing that for?”

“A few weeks. I would only ever do a few at a time. I got bored, I suppose. It wasn’t even my idea.” Stein was alerted by this.

“Whose idea was it, then? A friend?” He knew that that was extremely unlikely, as this guy obviously had no friends. If he had regular access to the CSA and bank systems, he would have been recruited. And he had a good idea who by.

“Nah. Not really. Some guy, called himself Williamson.”

“What did he look like?”

“Tall guy. Real tall, y’know? Like, NBA material. But skinny as. And he had this weird hair, cut short and loaded with grease. Came from nowhere, disappeared afterwards like he never was.”

Stein listened intently, knowing full well that this wormy hacker had been spotted and recruited by George Antunovich. A few pieces of the Freedom Movement jigsaw puzzle began to move closer together. Although Stein knew, more intimately than most, the policies, plans and strategies of the Movement, for termination projects only George knew the details. His specific brief was to put in place the necessary parts, so that should the decision be made to activate the final phases of the downfall of the global government, George would have the mechanics ready to roll. Stein knew that, somehow, part of the Antunovich puzzle was on the other side of the bars from him. If for no other reason, it would give him some insight into how George had put together the final sequence, that which had probably already been started seven days ago, after his pre-trial meeting with George.

“Excuse me for asking, but I’ve been a little starved of conversation, recently.”

“S’alright. Don’t normally find anyone interested in what I do, anyway.”

“No? I find it quite fascinating, really.” Stein was in.

“Funny. Most people don’t.”

“Well, I’m not most people,” Stein replied. “When were you arrested? By the way, I’m Stein.”

“Russell. Scott Russell. Three days ago.”

“What?! And up here already?”

“Caught red-handed, you might say. And no-one to meet bail. No family, y’know, and I don’t meet anyone personally in my work. It’s all through the ’net.”

“But remand?”

“Cancelled. The CSA doggy-bagged the evidence, most of which was downloaded by them before my arrest. They traced me back from their headquarters, had the case already prepared against me, down to my name. They only hauled me in when everyone was briefed.”

“What about your defence?”

“Already assigned and briefed before they nicked me.”

Stein reflected on this. “I thought that you net-jocks were above the finger, that you could access a system, poke around and get out without being detected.”

“Normally, yes. You could say that this was a suicide mission.”

“How so?” Stein already had a good idea how, he just needed details.

“Well, the system that I accessed, it was the heart of the CSA, the central linkage with the Global Defence system. It’s well known, in the trade, anyway, that if you can get in, you get tagged, and you can’t shake it.”

“Tagged?”

“Yeah. An eight-bit blip, keyed to fit onto your line. When you pull out, the tag sticks, and leaves a trail all the way back to your home system. It’s really just a modified virus that doesn’t damage anything, just leaves a day-glo trail of your travels in the ’net. When it sticks to you, you’re dead meat, so your foray into CSA space had better be worth it.”

“And yours was?” Stein tried to appear incredulous. “How could wiping a few records be worth deportation?”

“Well, it wasn’t. It was what else I did. I spent more time than they can account for, but they have no idea what else I did while in their system. They figured that whatever it was, it must be serious, you know, in exchange for the obvious risk to myself. So, they reasoned that I was a menace to society, and should be removed. In a hurry.”

“A screaming hurry, more like. You must have the record for arrest-deportation time lag. What else did you do?”

“Can’t say. If it works, you’ll find out soon enough. Actually, I asked for deportation.”

“What? You’re mad.” Stein noticed that as Scott talked, he gained confidence, losing his stammer.

“Uh, no. I know what’s best for me, at any rate. Besides, the Earth’s such a shit-hole now, the moon seems to be the place to be. Fresh food, clean air.”

Stein was observing Russell the whole time. As he warmed up, he underwent a minor transformation, from an insecure, awkward nerd into someone who was as articulate as he was passionate about his work, his life’s devotion. Such were the qualities that had marked him as Movement talent, what Stein was certain that George Antunovich had spotted and identified early on, leading him to choose Russell over any number of withdrawn computer jocks. George kept his ear to the ground, and knew exactly who or what he was looking for, for both long and short-term projects. Stein felt obliged to gain the confidence and friendship of his new neighbour. After all, who else knew what the future held?