It Looks Like You're Writing a Letter

Early the following morning, Thorner was sat in a cramped, air-conditioned bus being jostled by teenagers absorbed in their arm piece games. Knights swung swords at zombies staggering inches from the surface of their arms as the teens nimbly moved their hands and fingers to control the carnage. Every arm piece sounded like it was turned up to its maximum volume, and the cries and screams of the undead were abrasive and intensely irritating. The old bus smelled of stale sweat and burning electrics.

Thorner used to enjoy reading the newspaper on public transport, back when such things still existed and there was enough space to unfold one. These days, as the transport company continually tried to eke out more margin from every ticket sold, it was impossible to even fit into your allotted seat. Thorner was of slim build but his hip bones still rubbed painfully on each side of the bucket-like plastic seat he had grudgingly paid 800 credits for. There had been a number of high-profile lawsuits brought against the transport company by the obese, but as OraCorp was both the owner of the nationwide public transport network and the manufacturer of almost all snack foods it was caught in a kind of stalemate. Representatives of the OraCorp subsidiaries countered in the media by bringing to light their concern for the health of the nation, and their intention to double the price of all desserts, snack foods and soft drinks. The lawsuits were quietly dropped.

Thorner also used to enjoy having time to sit and think. At times he wondered if he spent too much time thinking. Nowadays, everyone was consumed with attending to their Grid persona, polishing their profile, enriching their online presence, or communicating digitally with people who were often only a few hundred meters away. Because everyone was doing the same thing, every update provoked a tidal wave of notifications across the Grid and back, a monster feeding itself with its own young.

In a way, he mused, OraCorp was to be admired. Since its inception as a small search service the company had grown at an alarming rate, scooping up niche businesses along the way. This gave them a practical monopoly on invention, to the point where the military were content with getting their cast-off innovations. Sound and energy weapons came from the OraCorp labs long before they were used in international warfare or sold to different warring factions across the globe. The technology to monitor and track a person's health to the DNA level was originally patented by a small English research company, but as soon as OraCorp acquired them the commercial implications soon became clear and OraCorp's vast resources accelerated it into the mainstream within one financial year. Ever since, owners of sufficiently high specification arm pieces were alerted to diseases decades before they became a factor, allowing the individual to embark upon whatever preventative or palliative treatment was required.

OraCorp did a lot of good for society, even Thorner had to admit that. Healthcare cost a fraction of the price it used to as disease became quickly and accurately detected. The population was still younger, globally, as the effects of the influenza pandemic of the 2020s that obliterated a large proportion of the very old were still being felt. The resulting reduced strain on the existing governmental healthcare systems had enabled the cure for both HIV and most cancers to be found. Unsurprisingly, these were all discovered by OraCorp funded university research laboratories and the required drugs were subsequently patented and manufactured by the company.

Thorner looked out of the window. It was 8am and a murky greenish sunrise was blooming over a sea of industrial units. The factories slid by, faceless and lumpen. If Thorner had been wearing an arm piece, a quick map check would display those buildings in plan view, but no text overlay would be present to inform him of their purpose. It was the same in most cities. OraCorp had a wealth of data but would only share what it wanted to. Large corporations would spend their advertising budgets, often in the billions of credits per year, with the understanding that certain details about their operations would remain hidden from the general public. The general public was confident that battery farming was ancient history and that their meat and animal byproducts were organic, pasture-raised and sustainable. They didn't need to see a field full of happy cows to confirm this.

Shifting uncomfortably to the other buttock, Thorner looked up to check the screen above his head. Estimated remaining journey time: thirty minutes. It would seem like thirty hours.

He closed the ancient, yellowed paperback he had been reading and rubbed his eyes. This particular book was one of his favourites. A science-fiction yarn about a spaceman stranded thousands of miles away from Earth, completely alone. One day, a ship approaches but makes no attempt to rescue him. The spaceman continues to drift, plotting his revenge.

Thorner brought his attention back to the case. He wouldn't be the only person looking for Griffen, so where were Sec? He didn't need an arm piece to detect them. With their spotless blue vehicles and slim-cut suits they were as recognisable as the old police officers on the beat used to be. Maybe that was the point, perhaps their conspicuous presence was intended to keep the public on the straight and narrow? Whatever the reason he had no doubt it was a conscious choice, just like their idents having the SEC prefix so that on-Grid people could flag them a particular colour or set alerts to ping when they were within a certain proximity.

The idea of a private company ultimately policing the entire country initially provoked riots and consternation when it was first tabled. But, as with everything these days, the people who did the talking did a great job in convincing everyone - with the help of the mass media - that OraCorp had their best interests at heart and were best placed to serve and protect. After all, Ora knew everything, which could only be bad news for bad people. If you had nothing to hide, why were you worried?

By the time it dawned on a section of society that they were ultimately being monitored for advertising gain, a large proportion of these new enlightened then rationalised it by saying the service was free, and seeing a few advertisements was a small price to pay for all the functionality they enjoyed. This left a thin sliver of dissenters who continued to complain and kick up a stink, but would never consider deleting their profile or giving up their ident. For them, the stakes were just too high - there was too much to lose by leaving Ora. Thorner at least had the advantage that he had never signed up, never had an ident and had never used the service beyond their non-subscription satellite video and audio calling features. On the one hand, he didn't know what he was missing. On the other, the thing that frightened him the most - more even than the all-seeing, pervasive intrusion into every aspect of his life - was that he was missing out on something fantastic.

A noise came over the audio system like a bell ringing underwater. The whole carriage erupted into motion as passengers unwedged themselves from their seats and scrambled to retrieve their luggage from the overhead racks. Thorner remained seated, buffeted by swinging handbags and suitcases until the vehicle slid to a stop and the doors opened. A stream of humanity bled from the open doors until only Thorner was left in the vehicle.

The journey had left him feeling older than his 56 years. He creaked down the central aisle then stepped blinking into the crisp morning sunshine of Fort Smith's main street.

The station's information board enabled him to scroll around the town in holographic 3D. Thorner quickly located the Church of the Divine, positioned in the main square of the small town. Zooming in he was presented with some details and trivia - it was currently owned by CommunityLink, which was a well-known OraCorp subsidiary that had purchased most mosques, churches and synagogues across the United States over the previous decade. Nobody complained, because only OraCorp had the funds to keep them all maintained in the face of dwindling public support. William Kruke was designated as Pastor and manager of the facility. Beneath some dull square footage and fire safety limit information there was a box headed 'Previous Usages', among which was 'Nuclear Bunker'.

Even though the Cold War was nothing but a distant memory, the increased threat of global terrorism was enough to prompt many institutions and organisations to repurpose bank vaults, basements and other subterranean dwellings as 'nuclear bunkers'. The 'nuclear' part of the name was seen as a quaint throwback. No one was scared of 'the bomb' these days. Terrorist groups much preferred more direct methods such as chemical, biological or energy weapons. Nonetheless, families and communities felt reassured knowing they had the option to scurry underground like cockroaches, hoping that this action alone would make them as hard to kill off in the event of an apocalypse.

Thorner noted the Church of the Divine's opening hours. He had two hours to kill, so he looked around for options. Across the street from the station was a diner promising hot coffee and perhaps some solids for breakfast.

Fort Smith was a nice little place, if a bit featureless. You could say it was frozen in time, were it not for everyone walking around with a glowing, chirruping forearm and the huge personalised 3D billboards covering the sides of buildings just as they did in London, New York or Paris. The roads were poorly maintained but still showed the shining silver trails required by the driverless cars that ran upon them. Life may well move a little slower here than in the major towns and cities, but it still moved along the same predetermined tracks.

Opening the door of the diner, Thorner was greeted by the smell of fresh coffee and the sound of vintage music, most likely chosen to conjure an atmosphere of the diners of the 1950s. The music was unconvincing, a pastiche. No business could afford the royalty payments for the original rock n' roll music of that era, it was cheaper for them to buy in 'soundalike' recordings created specifically for shops, elevators, and doctor's waiting rooms. In many cases, OraCorp themselves had synthesised the formula for each popular genre of music and could wring hundreds of new compositions from a small amount of provided data - theme, tempo, key and duration.

Despite the markedly retro intentions, the diner was still fully appointed with the required modern conveniences. All the tables were touch enabled and full-screen holographic, meaning patrons could order their food, see it prepared on a live video feed and track its progress from the kitchen to their table. Large screens above the counter displayed a deluge of breaking news, sports scores and ranting polemic from spittle-lipped talking heads. One screen broadcast a raven-haired, deeply tanned man in a crisp white shirt addressing a large crowd.

Thorner wanted conversation, which to his mind had become one of the most valuable and rare commodities of modern life. He deliberately climbed onto a high barstool at the counter. Presently a waitress appeared from the kitchen.

She was perhaps mid-thirties, mousey and petite. Her features were too blunt and clumsy for her to be considered pretty but she was well groomed, her makeup fastidiously applied. She looked at Thorner emotionlessly.

"Welcome to The Hop. What can I get you?" she said robotically. It was more of a rehearsed line than a genuine query. Her name badge read 'Amanda'. Her demeanour read 'please sit at a SmarTable so I don't have to interact with you'.

"Hi Amanda, how's it going today?"

Amanda blinked slowly. "Uhh, good I guess," she said, hesitantly. "Look - there are plenty of window seats, we're not too busy this early on a morning."

"I'm good just here, thanks. What do you recommend?"

She sighed. "Coffee is fresh, made from real beans too. Waffles are OK, bacon is pretty good and we got eggs."

"You know what? I'll just take a coffee for now. Thanks Amanda."

The waitress almost visibly winced every time Thorner used her name. It was becoming alien for people to hear their own names out loud. They were used to being known as an ident, an avatar or just as activated pixels on a hi-res, 3D holographic screen. She drifted off to the kitchen. Thorner removed his coat. His grey three-piece suit was once excellent quality, but had been worn a few years too long. He was mildly self-conscious about it.

When Amanda re-emerged with a white mug of steaming coffee and set it down in front of him, Thorner shot in quickly with a question before she could turn and retreat.

"So, tell me. What it's like living in Fort Smith?"

The waitress appeared frozen, the slimmest vestiges of social acceptance keeping her from ignoring him and walking away. She wasn't technically paid to talk to customers, she was paid to ferry food from kitchen to table, and dishes from table to dishwasher. "What do you mean?" she asked.

"Well, you know - does much go on here, or is it quiet?"

"Uhh, it's pretty quiet I guess. Not much happens usually."

There was something in the way she phrased the word 'usually' that made Thorner prick up his ears, like a sixth sense for intonation and inflection. This would have been wholly missed if this conversation was happening over two arm-pieces in text format - dictated or otherwise. "Usually?" echoed Thorner, "Something happen recently?"

Amanda had no interest either in keeping information from this stranger, or in gossip. This was in Thorner's favour. "Gee, I don't know. A couple days ago there was a real to-do up at the town square. Big white auto-drone landed and this young man falls out - cursing and threatening folks, and you know we're not used to that kind of thing out here, we're quiet types and keep ourselves to ourselves. Anyway this young fella is covered in tattoos and whatnot, starts demanding alcohol which of course we can't give him as we're a dry town and have been for over thirty years."

"I take it you don't get many visitors like him?"

"No sir, he shocked a lot of people! I take it from your clothes and all you're from one of those big cities up the way, but you seem like a decent gentleman. This... young man, he had no place here at all."

"So where did he go?" asked Thorner, warming his hands on the coffee mug.

"Old Bill Kruke took him in - seemed like he was expecting him if you ask me. Could be part of his community work maybe? Either way, that was a few days back and nobody's seen the young guy since and we're better for it."

Thorner sipped his coffee, which was terrible. "Well I can see how that could rustle a few feathers. Does this... Kruke?" - Amanda nodded - "does he get visitors like this often?"

"Oh I couldn't really say. If he does then they don't tend to cause such a ruckus as to be noticed. Bill does good work up at the Church, takes in some strays but you never have any trouble once he's taken them under his wing."

"I'm here to see Mr Kruke myself."

Amanda's features warmed. "Oh I see! Well that would explain you being here. We don't get many tourists you see."

"Well Amanda, that surprises me - such a quaint little town you have here."

She smiled for the first time in the whole exchange. "How is your coffee sir?"

"It's just great Amanda, and call me Henry."

She smiled again. "Well, I hope you enjoy your stay here Henry."

Amanda retreated to the kitchen once more, but with a renewed spring in her step and a realisation that face-to-face contact was much better than perhaps she imagined it. Back in the kitchen, she updated her Ora profile accordingly:

'JST SPK 2 CHRMING OLDR GUY FRND UV BILL K FRGT HW GD IS 2 SPK 2 STRNGRS'.

Three hundred miles away, a dark haired man in an immaculate black suit smiled.

Two hours passed quickly for Thorner. He was good at waiting. Back when he was a real police officer, he relished stakeouts and observation jobs. He often said that the person who's prepared to wait the longest, wins. Compared to some cases, two hours was the blink of an eye. He used the time to wander around Fort Smith, which didn't take long, and scrutinise the Church of the Divine from a safe distance.

The Church of the Divine was a fairly nondescript concrete structure dating from around 2014. In keeping with the architectural style of the time, it consisted of wide sweeping bows ending in robust curlicues. No doubt at the time it was designed and built, it attracted countless complaints and petitions from the local residents calling it ugly and obscene. Now he noted it carried a plaque proudly stating its protected status as a valuable piece of architectural history. It had most likely been designed specifically to be a church - the bell tower looked original, although no bell was present. Part of organised religion's last hurrah. The building stood apart from the neighbouring dogs home and pizza restaurant.

For the hour or so that Thorner watched the building, nobody went in and nobody came out. When 11am finally rolled around, the front doors were unbolted and opened from the inside. This meant that at least one person was resident in the church full-time, most likely. The building had a fire regulation limit of 150 persons, which would apply to its largest room. Judging from the size of the building as observed from the outside, there would be precious little living space above ground. Thorner wondered how many levels were below ground and how far they sprawled.

He waited until 11:30am before sauntering over the road and up the few steps to the heavy wood-effect door. Like most buildings of this type, it was oppressively dark as he stepped inside. A young girl was stood behind a desk, tidying leaflets.

"Good morning Sir, how can we help you?" As usual, there was a brief pause before she got to the word 'Sir' while she scanned her arm piece, only to come back blank. This often short-circuited conversations, especially with the younger generation for whom the idea of an off-Gridder was like something out of a history module.

"And a good morning to you. I'm here to see Mr Kruke."

The girl's face conveyed nothing. She had the glassy optimistic sheen of the converted - but converted to what? "Certainly, let me get him for you."

The receptionist waved imperceptibly over her arm piece and said out loud: "Mr Kruke, there is a gentleman in the lobby to see you," followed by, "he'll be right down."

The church was sparsely but tastefully decorated. All the trappings of its denomination had long since been removed but it still retained a religious air. In contrast to the Reverend's setup back home, this place seemed altogether cleaner and more polished. The clientele here would be far removed from the drug addicts and derelicts the Reverend welcomed into his flock. Most likely the regulars here were members of the community using it as a meeting place or central hub of the small town. Large, well equipped buildings such as this were always useful, especially if they had some corporate funding behind them.

Thorner became aware of hard soles clacking towards him. He turned to be confronted with William Kruke, Pastor.

Kruke thrust out his hand. He was in his mid-forties with close-cropped sandy hair, a muscular jaw and impossibly white teeth. Although the practice had long since fallen out of favour, Kruke could not look more like one of the old-school fire and brimstone televangelists. He was dressed head to toe in well-fitted black cotton that had a sheen to it, halfway between the demure cassock of old and a rock star's jumpsuit. Just being in his presence made Thorner feel grey, dusty and insubstantial.

"Bill Kruke, a pleasure to meet you my friend, welcome into my house. Used to be God's house but he upped and left so I took it for myself!" Kruke's voice was a deep, rich southern twang. He guffawed loudly and pumped Thorner's hand.

"Henry Thorner, good to meet you too - thanks for seeing me."

"Goodness, not at all, my door is always open. Well, between the hours of 11am - 11pm at any rate!" he added in a half-joking manner, as if to casually warn Thorner not to try and push these boundaries.

Kruke wore a black anodised alloy arm piece mounted on black leather. When the screen was dimmed this gave the impression he wasn't wearing one at all. Throughout their conversation he had not glanced at it once, which made Thorner feel like he had his full attention. As Kruke turned his head in the light the reason for this became clear. The pupil of his left eye was a perfect square, like a large pixel - he had ocular implants and could see information from his arm piece in real time as an overlay on his vision. Thorner knew that Kruke had already drawn a blank on him - although he couldn't see it, he knew the ocular overlay was currently flashing 'NO IDENT DETECTED'.

This particular mod was expensive but popular with salesmen and others who wanted to go the extra mile with their face-to-face connections. It provided all the benefits of the Grid, without having to glance at your arm. Thorner found it unsettling and dishonest. Early criticism of this technology was countered with the argument that you had never known what people were thinking when you spoke to them, and anyone could take photographs and record video of you without you knowing. At least this way you knew who was doing the capturing.

"What brings you to my town Mr Thorner?"

"You, actually."

"Ah Mr Thorner, I am flattered! Now I'm going to have to ask you for a little more detail as my services to this beautiful community are wide-ranging and I wear a lot of hats, so to speak." Kruke continued to grin like the Cheshire cat and still hadn't relinquished Thorner's hand.

"Is there somewhere we can talk in private, Mr Kruke?"

Kruke's smile did not flinch in the slightest. "But of course my man. Daisy, hold my calls please." The young receptionist nodded demurely.

Kruke lead Thorner through a side door and up a short winding stairway to an office on the first floor. It was small but, like the rest of the church, tastefully decorated with minimalist furniture and a few pieces of art which were inoffensive and didn't look expensive. Sun speared through the room from the small high windows, dust motes dancing in slow motion. Kruke motioned for Thorner to sit in front of a worn-looking desk while he sat behind it. Kruke settled into his chair like a big black cat.

"So, Mr Thorner - what brings you to my church? Have you come to sample the blessings of the almighty Grid?"

"Mr Kruke, I work out of Tulsa as a freelance consultant. I specialise in finding missing people," replied Thorner.

Kruke tilted his head in an earnest display of interest. "Isn't that particularly hard given your... status?" he nodded towards Thorner's naked left forearm, his brow furrowed as if he was addressing someone with a terminal illness.

Thorner wanted to avoid this line of conversation. "I get by somehow Mr Kruke. Anyway, yesterday I was employed to locate a young man by the name of Tanner Griffen. He's disappeared from the Grid and Fort Smith was his last known location. I was wondering if you could help me locate him."

Kruke's perma-smile faded. It changed the whole complexion of his face. For the first time, Thorner detected Kruke's military background in his demeanour. Kruke leant across the desk towards Thorner. His chair creaked slowly as he did so and a shadow fell across his face, making his expression hard to read.

"I see, Mr Thorner. And I suppose you've come to me because of my reputation for taking in the unfortunates of this world and helping them turn their lives around due to the blessing of the Grid and all its multifarious connections?"

"Partially, yes. The Reverend at the Church of Our Lord the Provider in Tulsa told me Griffen had gone to him asking for your ident."

The mention of a mutual friend didn't thaw Kruke's newly iced temperament. He was silent as he leant back again, drumming his fingers thoughtfully on the arm of his chair.

"You know, the problem with being off-Grid, Mr Thorner, is that it's very easy for a person to disappear, without anyone looking for them. Our young people are all connected up, they're safer that way, because they can't be lost. Not truly anyway. If you disappeared, for example, who would know?"

Thorner assumed this was meant as some kind of threat but decided to play dumb to see where the conversation would go. "You're right Mr Kruke - as you would expect I have few friends and nobody knows I'm here. Despite that I feel quite safe, rightly or wrongly."

Kruke tilted the corners of his mouth slightly. Thorner got the impression he had passed some kind of test. "Mr Thorner, even a Sec officer can remove his arm piece. How do I know you are who you say you are?"

"You don't. I'm right here in front of you, but I'm not on your arm or on your pricey HUD there. That means I'm not on anyone else's radar, and they're not on mine. Sure, I'm easy to lose but I'm harder to track. In my line of work that's a compromise that works."

Kruke's grin returned. He pulled open a drawer and retrieved a wooden case. Thorner's muscles tightened, his stomach chilled.

"Cigar, Mr Thorner?" he offered the opened box across the table. Thorner shook his head. Kruke wedged a large cigar in the corner of his mouth and put the box back in the drawer. It seemed curiously theatrical, well-rehearsed. To Thorner's surprise, Kruke pulled a lighter from his pocket and actually lit it. No alarms sounded and the building's anti-fire mechanisms (if they existed) were not triggered. The room soon began to smell acrid.

"Who hired you to look for Griffen, Mr Thorner?"

"I'd rather not say at this point."

"Oh come now, if you have things you'd rather not say, then you'll never find out about the things I'd rather not say and I wonder if maybe you've had a wasted trip out from the big city."

Thorner's eyes had begun to sting. He conceded "Family."

"Can I trust you Mr Thorner?"

This was a difficult question to answer, which is why Kruke asked it. The test continued.

"Mr Kruke, I met you five minutes ago, and you have no idea who I am. If I told you that you could trust me, that would be a sure sign that I'm either a liar or an idiot."

Kruke bellowed with laughter again, shattering the tension in the room. He stubbed out the cigar and pulled a face. "I hate those things," he confessed, picking fragments of tobacco from his tongue. His wide southern accent had suddenly disappeared and was replaced with a crisp, cultured tone. It took Thorner by surprise. Kruke's whole face was now held differently, and he seemed to be what he actually was - an ex-military man in fancy dress.

"For some reason, I trust you Thorner. Griffen is here, after a fashion. Do you really have no idea what we do here?"

"No Mr Kruke - no games. I've got one case to complete and this is it. I need your help."

Kruke stood up. "Okay Mr Thorner, I'll take you into my confidence but please heed my previous point which still stands - you already don't exist, it would be a trivial thing for that to become more... final. Do we understand each other?"

Thorner was already more than well aware, but it was almost reassuring to hear Kruke confirm it. "We do and I appreciate your candour Mr Kruke."

Kruke led Thorner back down the stairs to the lobby, then into the main church hall. Like the Reverend's church in Tulsa the pews had been replaced with row upon row of PayCubes, although these were in better repair and didn't have the anti-vandalism cases and screens that those in Tulsa had by necessity. A handful of people were already using them, video calling quietly or updating their profiles with what they'd eaten the previous evening and tagging who they had been with. Thorner didn't see anyone not wearing an arm piece but a majority of the people using the public terminals were sporting devices with the screens dimmed and a flashing red light - a sign their subscription had lapsed. When this happened the device still collected data and biometrics and stored them on the remote servers, but information searching and manual updating were frozen until credits were made available to OraCorp.

Kruke marched to the pulpit, and after cautiously glancing around, stepped down and into it. Pulling back a thick rug he revealed a heavy steel trapdoor set into the stone of the floor. He tapped a five-digit passcode into his arm piece and the door opened hydraulically and silently. A ladder lead down into darkness.

"After you, Mr Thorner," said Kruke, cordially.

Thorner placed his foot on the ladder and smelled hot electronics. He climbed down, followed closely by Kruke, who shut the trapdoor once he was through.

At the bottom of the ladder was a small tunnel, barely high enough to stand upright in. Kruke motioned silently for Thorner to carry on, so he made his way down the tunnel towards a dull blue glow coming from around a bend. Kruke's voice from behind made him jump.

"It goes without saying, Mr Thorner, that you will not breathe a word of this to anybody."

"Of course," Thorner tried to sound casual, "who would I tell?"

They rounded the corner and Thorner was confronted with the source of the blue glow. In a large basement room, there was a central tower of huge monitors, computers, servers, firewalls, network switches and other intricate Grid hardware. Eight operators - each immersed in their work - were manning it with furious concentration. Around the edges of the room were bunk beds, simple eating and cooking facilities and a rudimentary shower block sectioned off roughly with tarpaulins.

"Well, what do you think?" asked Kruke.

"Wow. What is all this?"

"Pretty impressive, isn't it? Come, grab a seat with me over here - can I get you a coffee?"

Thorner shook his head and remained transfixed on the computer operators as he was lead across to the corner of the room where a table and chairs were set up in the half-darkness.

"Do you know where we are now?"

"This used to be a nuclear bunker," replied Thorner.

"That's right! My, you have done your homework. This used to be a nuclear bunker, which means it's insulated with three foot thick concrete lined with six inches of lead. Meant to protect against EMP strikes and energy weapons of certain sorts. Also means that there's no wireless, no GPS, no long or short wave radio signals. It's a legitimate cold spot. Can you see the advantages of having a space that is invisible to the Grid, Mr Thorner?"

"Sure I can. I am one."

Kruke's tone turned businesslike. "But you're not really invisible are you? Everyone you come into contact with can and will report your presence and your actions on your behalf. You'll be tagged in photographs, mentioned in status updates and tracked geographically as a result. Have you ever heard of the Strong Anthropic Principle Mr Thorner?"

"Can't say that I have Mr Kruke."

Kruke was getting into his stride, and was now in the rhythm of a school headmaster, or a drill sergeant - a million miles away from the gregarious televangelist character who first shook Thorners hand. "The Strong Anthropic Principle, in a nutshell, posits that only in the act of observing a particle or body does it come into existence. Proponents of this theory state that the universe is really only as big as that which we've so far managed to see - which is a hell of a lot with our super powerful nuclear telescopes and what have you, but still a tiny fragment of what we suspect is out there. To all intents and purposes, if it can't be seen, it can't be said to exist. You obviously exist, Mr Thorner, which means you've been seen to exist - do you understand?"

Kruke didn't wait for a response. "This bunker and its contents exist because you and I and my little flock here have seen it - we can't stop that now. But to expand my previous point still further, we all have our own universe and they're all of different sizes. Now, the universe that OraCorp accepts to be true is unspeakably vast, containing as it does everything everyone in the civilised world is doing, thinking and feeling. So they probably think they've got it pretty stitched up. But they'll never know how much they don't know. And they don't know about our operation here."

"Well, how can you be sure they don't know about it?"

"Simple! If they did, I'd be dead," said Kruke, matter of factly.

"I don't think you get the death penalty for running a server farm Mr Kruke."

"Hmmm," grunted Kruke, "I don't think you quite yet understand what we do here. This is remiss of me, I digressed. Come, look at this monitor with me."

Kruke gestured to a nearby screen. It was an old, 2D model but seemed fit for purpose, which apparently was tracking points on a global map. They all seemed quite static apart from a few that were crawling lazily across oceans.

"We provide a very specialist service here. Now, we can't remove things from OraCorp's universe once they've observed it, by which I mean people. Once you've signed up and got your ident and your arm piece, you're a container for data and you're tagged and tracked until you're cold in the ground."

Thorner interrupted. "Excuse me Mr Kruke, but I make a decent living from finding people who have been lost, or who have disappeared. It is possible to slip through the cracks and become untraceable, even if you once were."

"And in most cases, what is the outcome may I ask?"

"In most cases, I'm sorry to say, the subjects of my investigations turn out to be dead."

"That's exactly what I'm saying. You could say death is the only true way to leave the Grid. It's like a fairground ride that never stops, and the only way to get off the ride is to throw yourself from it and be dashed on the ground below."

"So - you kill people who want to leave the Grid? A euthanasia deal?"

Kruke laughed with surprising warmth. "No no no, nothing that macabre. We do something much more... positive. Have you ever heard of reprofiling?"

Thorner shook his head.

"Everybody on the Grid is really just a big data file, as you know. This data file contains your personal details, the mundane stuff like name, date of birth, blood type, bank details and what have you. But it also contains all your opinions, your affiliations, your tastes, your contacts, and it ties all that together with physical location data, biometrics and all that good sticky stuff. In a more existential manner of speaking, to OraCorp this is you and you are it. We call this a 'profile', I'm not sure what they call it. Doesn't matter. Anyway, what we do - for a price - is manufacture these data profiles, like works of fiction, and that's what my trusty crew are doing right now."

Thorner looked around at the overworked, scruffy computer operators. Their hands were dancing over input devices and touch screens. Maps and streaming notifications bathed their faces in a sickly pallor.

"Do you remember the witness protection programme the police used to have, back in the day?" continued Kruke, "I like to think of this as my own updated version. I furnish my clients with brand new, clean profiles. New names, new patterns, new contacts. They go on with their new life, reborn if you will. Provided they keep their noses clean, they're free to walk the streets as if nothing had happened."

"And they don't get recognised by the Sec forces?"

"Come now Mr Thorner, don't be naive. Nobody recognises faces anymore - not even Sec. You're known as an avatar, an ident or a plain old flashing blue dot. Indeed, as far as OraCorp is concerned you're not even that - you're a block of data. A new haircut, a change of clothes and I guarantee anyone can walk out of my church, get on the next bus out of here and go wherever they want. Provided they never overlap with their previous profile, there's nothing to connect this life with the one they had."

Thorner raised his eyebrows and ran a hand through his salt and pepper hair. "And this works?"

"Flawlessly. I've processed maybe fifty reprofiles in the last three years. I'm proud to say nobody has ever been identified to the best of my knowledge."

"So, what happens to your client's old profiles?" asked Thorner.

"Good question!" said Kruke, nodding his head as a mark of respect. "That's the other service we provide. If necessary, we can keep the old profile up to date from right here, and send Sec on a wild goose chase in the opposite direction. Martin over here is currently backpacking across Goa. Michael is living in a one-room apartment in Hollywood, trying to break into the movie industry. All their updates, check-ins, connections, conversations are all entered manually from this facility. They, and my other loyal crew members, decided not to leave, but to stay here and help me."

"What about Griffen, is he getting reprofiled or is he staying to work for you?"

Kruke chuckled crisply and motioned to the bunks at the other side of the room. "Why don't you ask him yourself?"

Tanner Griffen was sprawled on a lower bunk, dressed in ripped leather trousers, a filthy T-shirt, a biker jacket and huge leather military boots. Cigarette butts littered the ground around the bunk. He stank.

Thorner kicked the nearest boot. When no response was forthcoming he kicked it harder and said loudly "Tanner Griffen, can I speak with you?"

Griffen snorted and opened one eye to peer at Kruke and Thorner. He propped himself up on his elbows and squinted at them.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"Mr Griffen, my name is Henry Thorner. Your sister Sue hired me to find you."

"Congratulations mate, it looks like you're a winner."

Griffen slumped back down and rubbed his eyes. Thorner noticed the knuckles of his right hand were tattooed with the letters H-A-C-K and the left with S-H-I-T. What a charming individual, he thought. Kruke found the exchange amusing and smirked behind Thorner. Griffen realised that the two older men were not going away and sat up with another loud snort, wiping his nose on his jacket sleeve.

"Alright, you found me. Nice one. Now what?"

"I've been talking to Mr Kruke here about why you came to this place. I was wondering what your intentions were."

"Well, I ain't working in his little fucking rabbit hutch for the rest of my life, know what I mean? I want a nice fresh new profile and as soon as it's ready I'm out of here."

Thorner nodded. "OK, that's fine. I was speaking to the Reverend in Tulsa yesterday, he told me you went to see him to get the details of this place."

"Ah yeah, the Rev, how is he?" Griffen seemed to visibly warm at the mention of the old clergyman.

"He's doing well. Was worried about you."

"Yeah well, nobody has to worry about me. I'm Tanner fucking Griffen aren't I? Untouchable."

"Except not this time. You've pulled all kinds of stunts and never gone to ground. How is this one different?"

"Huh. High stakes play my friend." He tapped the bridge of his nose conspiratorially.

"It was the data smash and grab at Wichita, right?"

Griffen looked suspiciously at Thorner. "How do you know that? You don't look like Sec?"

"No Tanner, I'm a consultant."

Griffen instinctively checked his arm piece. The screen was blank, a message flashed 'NO CONNECTION'.

"Listen, Billy boy - how come your hamsters have got a nice fast connection but I don't?"

"Hard piped. Through two thousand proxies coming out of an onionskin network."

Griffen grunted. "It's like having my bloody eyes poked out."

Kruke mollified him. "Only temporary. You'll be back up top soon enough."

"Alright," he turned his attention back to Thorner. "I don't know you from Adam, old-timer. You could still be Sec. How do I know I can trust you?"

"You don't. And you won't find me on that thing even when you do get your connection back."

Griffen rolled his eyes and slumped back on the bunk. "Fuck me, not an off-Gridder. This is insulting. I've pulled off loads of derring-do and never got caught. I get myself into a nuclear bunker and some granddad with a sense of curiosity tracks me down. I must be losing my touch."

"I'll take that as a compliment. I'm here to help you Tanner. If you leave here with a new profile you'll never be able to see your family again, but I can. I need to know you get out safely so I can report back to your sister - my client - and close this case."

"And get paid."

"Yes, that too. Tell me about Wichita."

Griffen sighed. "Like you say, pretty standard smash and grab. Bunch of memory cards, got short changed on the number of rows. Smoked a couple of rentacops, right laugh. Got to the roof, got the fuck out of dodge, came here, end of story."

"So where's the data?"

"Gave it to 'em didn't I. In the car, transfer mat."

"Who is 'them'?"

"Eh?"

"Who hired you to steal the data?"

"I don't know, man."

"You don't know?"

"Nah, who cares right? I got paid."

"So how did you get the job?"

"Anonymous direct message on the sub. That's how I get most of my work, whether it's hacking, kidnap, protection, stealing, whatever. I don't ask questions, know what I mean?"

"So who paid your fee?"

"Don't know - anonymous transfer."

Thorner exhaled deeply. "Who arranged the extraction?"

"Employer did."

"And you told them to bring you straight here?"

"Yeah. Well, they suggested it but I had to make contact myself, they wouldn't do it."

He turned to Kruke. "This true?"

"Yes. Griffen got in touch through encrypted channels on the sub-Grid. I'd already heard of him by reputation. To be honest I knew it was only a matter of time before he ended up on my doorstep. You can't do as much high-profile crime as he does without eventually upsetting someone important."

"Yeah, I'll say." Thorner looked at Griffen. "You know who you stole that data from right?"

Griffen grinned. His teeth were yellowed and quite a few were broken. "Yeah. Big Momma."

"OraCorp. Not very clever."

"I don't know gramps, I'm alive, got paid, and I'm about to start my new life as a fucking librarian or something, I think I'm doing OK."

"How long before his new profile is ready?" Thorner asked Kruke.

"We plan to brief Griffen this afternoon, tomorrow he'll wake up a new man. Literally."

"Can I stay here until he's ready to go?"

"Sure, you're more than welcome."

"Sleepover!" shouted Griffen, then rolled around laughing hysterically at his own joke.

All Kruke's reprofiles were different, depending on the personality he was moving from and to. He considered it an art, and he approached the process like an artist. He had moved up the ranks of the Security Armed Forces quickly, coming from a military family going all the way back to the seventeenth century. For William Kruke there was never going to be any other career option; like his ancestors before him, he was efficient and ruthless in equal measure.

War in Kruke's lifetime bore little resemblance to the war of his forebears. Remote drones were flown by computer algorithms, and the higher echelons of the military industrial complex were now more akin to the middle and upper management of a bank or retail chain. Kruke watched monitors, saw gritty video streams of factories getting closer and closer before they whited out in a sacrificial explosion over and over again. All targets were tactical. Human casualties were always kept to an absolute minimum by all sides in any conflict by way of some unspoken gentleman's agreement. War, then, had become a battle of infrastructure, and the West had OraCorp funding, technologies and knowhow.

The advent of energy weapons and highly targeted electro-magnetic pulses made incapacitating large communication facilities as prosaic as performing a few gestures over a touch screen. The western Security Forces could disable an entire region in an hour, essentially sending them back to the dark ages - no power, no heating, no lighting.

Guerrilla tactics were ineffectual in the new, modern age. Scanning for bombs, chemicals, even certain types of metals had become so advanced that no successful terrorist attacks against the West had been reported for decades. Ora algorithms scanned individuals and if the pattern of non-organic matter on the body was out of the ordinary, this was all too easy to report on the screens of airport or border security.

All this meant that Kruke was a military officer without a concrete job to do. Strategic decisions were taken out of his hands and trusted to the Ora algorithms designed specifically for the successful deployment of resources and tactics. They couldn't be bettered, because they were always correct. They weren't fashioned on intuition, or knowledge of human nature - they consisted of pure, cold science. Incoming missiles could be auto-hacked in seconds to send them off target, bombs could be defused before they were planted. It was computer versus computer, and the defensive party always won, because they were always responding to a scenario provided to them with full information.

Kruke had for some time been working closely with the most elite Ora programming teams, developing new methodologies for tracking sensitive individuals across continents. In the back of his mind he was having treasonous thoughts. He couldn't pinpoint exactly the moment when he turned from gamekeeper to poacher, but there was a sense of justice involved. An old-fashioned notion that the playing field needed to be levelled. It was about time the individual took some power back.

He quietly observed the way Ora dealt with profiles, the strict rules that governed the possible actions of an ident. Knowing what it could and couldn't do was crucial. He noted that if a profile was populated completely enough it was indistinguishable from a living, breathing person. With enough information, he could reverse-engineer a personality.

Kruke was inspired by the old stories of 'Witness Protection' he would read about in case studies from the last century. Back then an individual was given a new name and location and left to fend for themselves. Of course, in the modern era this simply wouldn't work without a lot more data, so he followed it to its logical conclusion. The new profile could no longer just be a mask that the individual would wear. It would be a fully whole new person. The trouble with this approach was that the recipient of the new profile would have to adapt to it completely. It wasn't enough for them to call themselves by a new name and move across the country. The transparency of modern living precluded this easy escape route. Every movement, every word uttered and typed had to be in keeping with the new identity. Kruke would have to literally create new people.

When he finally left the military, honourably discharged and with a spotless record, Kruke came back to the town of his birth and bought the deserted church that his mother and father had been married in. He knew the bunker underneath the building would make a suitable base for operations.

At first, his clientele were low-level criminals and petty thieves wanting to leave their current lives behind and start afresh. They claimed to go straight, but whether they did or not didn't really concern him. Humans could be trained to act like someone else, but human nature was a constant he couldn't override. Over the years the jobs got hotter but the process remained the same. He was proud of his process and he had no ethical qualms about giving people a second chance in exchange for hard credits. He was thumbing his nose at OraCorp, his ex-employer and proving to himself and his clients that Ora wasn't quite infallible yet. He was winning his own little war, using the tools his father and his father before him had brought to bear against seemingly insurmountable odds. The nice profit on the side kept him afloat financially and the evangelist preacher character he used in public kept prying eyes away from the church basement.

Everyone thought they could handle the reprofiling process - the corrupt bankers, whistleblowers, tough guys and the career criminals. But they weren't prepared for the utter annihilation of their personality that was required for this process to be successful. Tanner Griffen would be no different.

Griffen's briefing was thorough albeit punctuated by childish outbursts and tantrums from the man himself. Kruke explained patiently that while all the information Griffen would need would be on his arm piece it was important that his behaviour from dawn the next day was congruent with his new profile. Sec technology employees had bots set up to scan the Grid for out of place behaviour. Historically, this had led to quite a few unnecessarily broken down doors and more than a few extra-marital affairs ending with a fatal shooting.

If Griffen hated the classroom-like environment of the reprofiling briefing, he loathed what came next. Kruke explained that, while it was less likely that he would be identified by sight, Griffen could avoid drawing additional attention to himself by changing his appearance. He protested in vain. Griffen's head was shaved, facial piercings removed and neck and face tattoos quickly but painfully erased by portable laser. Save for the pockmarks and holes left by the piercings in every flap of skin, he looked almost respectable.

"Shower," ordered Kruke, arms folded like a hospital matron.

"How the fuck do Sec find me by smell?"

"Oh this is purely for our benefit. Shower."

Griffen was shoved naked behind one of the tarps, emitting howls as the water was turned on. "It's fucking freezing man!"

"Soap's on the shelf."

The last part of his transformation was Griffen's clothes. His leather trousers, when finally peeled from his legs, were so fetid that they practically fell to pieces. The leather jacket, the back of which was adorned by a crude cartoon of a man having his head smashed in below the words 'SHOVEL BASTARD' was deemed too provocative and was incinerated. In their place, brown cotton trousers, white espadrilles, a white oxford shirt and a navy Harrington jacket.

"Very dapper my man!" chuckled Thorner.

"Fuck off. I feel like a fucking dweeb."

"Better than feeling dead," quipped Kruke, grimly.

"Why do I have to dress like a tool? Could have got some more leathers couldn't I?"

"Ah yes, black leather. The uniform of the hacker, the disaffected youth, the social outcast. You see, Griffen - reprofiling is not just about logging into your arm piece with a new ident. It's about becoming a new person - it's a rebirth, if you like." Thorner got the impression Kruke had given this speech numerous times. "It's hard at first, but if this is going to work, and we're not going to waste your money and my time, you have to commit fully to your new personality."

Griffen sat despondently on a rusty chair. "I don't know if the job was worth it. I thought you'd just buy me some time. You know, I'd go on the run and come back when the heat had come off."

"Oh, I think you're way past that point Griffen. I'm aware of your past exploits," said Kruke. "Everything you've done, every crime you've committed, every rule you've broken, all of it has led you to this point. You've used up the Tanner Griffen profile, no lives left. No credits. Noone could continue in the way you have been, Griffen. Not in this day and age, when Ora knows everything and OraCorp own the cops. Maybe if you'd been smarter in the past - more secretive, rather than rubbing their nose in it, the stakes wouldn't have got this high, so fast."

"Alright, I don't need a lecture. And just for your data, I'm still proud of everything I've done. Big Momma don't own me. Nobody does. Tanner Griffen is his own man, know what I mean?"

"You won't be after tomorrow," said Kruke.

"Are you proud of killing those two Sec guards in Wichita?" Thorner asked, pointedly.

"Who rattled your cage gramps? Yeah, I am - fuck 'em. They knew what they were signing up for. If they weren't so fat and full of donuts they might have been able to get out of the way when I spiked 'em."

Thorner shook his head. Somehow he'd acquired the responsibility of keeping this kid alive, but for how long? He figured if he could get him away from this facility, see him set up somewhere, he could go back home and report to Sue. Tell her Griffen was gone, but not really. To all intents and purposes she will have lost her brother just as surely as if he'd been killed by Sec anyway. He was filled with a sense of futility. He shook it off, based on the knowledge that if he wasn't working, he wasn't sure what he'd be doing instead.

Kruke got back on track. "Right, we're good. Any questions, Griffen?"

"Will I ever be able to get this ident back?"

Kruke paused. He sat down opposite Griffen at one of the scruffy tables. Thorner continued to hover a few paces away. "No, is the short answer. This isn't a game, Griffen. It's not a prank, or a hack. We're pulling the plug on Tanner Griffen for good."

Griffen looked down at the floor. With his freshly shorn head and crisp clothes he looked vulnerable, like a newborn. He was about to become a newborn, in every way that mattered. They remained in silence for a few moments, until Kruke clapped his hands loudly.

"Right! I want you to meet someone. This is Jeopardy."

A shiny black shape emerged from the shadows in the corner of the room. Thorner had no idea how long she'd been there. Dressed from head to toe in tight leather, buffed to a high sheen to match her razor-sharp inky black bob, she strode towards the men on impossibly uncomfortable looking heels. As she came into the light, Thorner was surprised by her youth - she looked only in her early twenties. Her eyes were the sort of piercing blue that only came from expensive optical implants, and her lips were a scarlet slash across her face.

"Nice to meet you, gentlemen," her voice was like fine crystal.

"Jeopardy here comes as part of the package. Mr Thorner, I understand you will be accompanying Mr Griffen for at least part of his journey to his new life. I do insist that one of my operatives is on hand in case Mr Griffen here starts to forget who he really is and reverts to old patterns. She will keep you safe, she will ensure you get to the drop point, which is the epicentre of the new profile's social radius, and most importantly she will report back to me at all times. Jeopardy is an excellent employee. You can have full confidence in her abilities."

Thorner said nothing. Griffen openly leered at her, which she dealt with by throwing him a withering look.

Kruke leaned across and said in a low voice: "Don't even think about it, Griffen. She'd eat you for breakfast."

"I propose we get an early night," Jeopardy announced, "tomorrow is going to be pretty fucking awful."