Grime, page 20
Everyone has logical-sounding explanations for the state of the world. The Vatican, intelligence agencies, the Koch brothers, if they’re still alive, and if not, the people who represent the Koch brothers, a coalition of free marketeers and old Nazis—someone is to blame. Someone wants to usurp global power. Their minds won’t tolerate chaotic situations and rule out coincidences. The Friends here are looking for a hold in a parallel world, because the real world is unbearable when you have a bit too much intellect and also too little to just blow out the candle. Save the world. Meaning, actually, themselves.
Ben has a theory that all the agitation—the terror attacks, the mutual antagonism among the citizenry, the Nazis, the hatred of foreigners, the unrest—was just a diversion from, well, something. Whenever he’s almost able to grasp the answer to the big question of Why, he’s distracted. By some bridge he needs to solder, or some new information from some hacker about the fact that you can now infiltrate a computer via electric circuits or an aquarium thermometer. It seems they are hammering against concrete here. So to speak. With a bit of encryption against almost all governments of the world, all intelligence services.
“Cute.” Says Hannah when she sees all the flashing devices and the little rough-and-ready soldered robots. She had followed the light, entered the factory, a visit to the neighbors, so to speak. The Friends’ distrust of Hannah lasts only a few seconds. Until they notice that Hannah doesn’t exhibit the intellectual capacity for an espionage job. That she’s a user. And with that the group’s interest is extinguished, the attention span stretched excessively. It’s back to staring at computers.
The Friends had once believed they’d win. That their numbers would continue to increase. The cool new youth movement. Though they hadn’t considered the fact that nerds don’t wear erotic clothing or that the masses had no clue about technology or politics. You can’t dance to technology or politics. The Friends grew less numerous rather than more. Their people disappeared more and more often. Into prisons or mental health facilities. Too much information isn’t good for the human brain. They know that the so-called internet isn’t just a place where people watch cat porn and search for travel deals. They know that everything is online. Electrical infrastructure, traffic controls, stock markets, world trade, trains, life. And that all life ends when systems are attacked. Or when raw materials for the manufacture of computers are no longer available. They know that there are wars over these raw materials. That they are called wars against terror. They know that people are manipulated online, that people are monitored. At all times. That their voices and bodies and mails are faked, that lawsuits are brought and that malcontents are eliminated. It is serious. It always had been, but in the past it hadn’t been life-threatening. When they fought against intelligence services. They’d done incredible things and celebrated online. Leaked secret service data banks, hacked the fingerprint scanner of a smartphone manufacturer, proved that every five minutes access was granted or an arrest was made based on glitches in algorithms. Right, and so forth. They had believed they were the next revolution. And now.
They sit here. In this shitty factory. And don’t know what to do next.
Virtually nobody had been interested in their revolution. What people don’t understand, they don’t care about. They care about terror. Which is why attacks by random fundamentalists take place regularly. After such attacks, people are all too happy to let themselves be x-rayed, stripped, and filmed before boarding an airplane. Nobody has anything to hide. The Friends. Hadn’t managed to mobilize the masses.
Hadn’t deployed an army of bots in the battle for votes over Brexit, hadn’t manipulated, hadn’t distributed false reports, hadn’t set up any fake social media accounts, or done any microtargeting, because they believed in what was right, or what they believed to be right. And now they’re sitting among the rubble, a ruin, and don’t know whether to stay still or fight, and if so, how. Most of the people they know had surrendered, conformed, watching the nationalist revolution taking place in the Western world. Nearly every little country had voted in a right-wing conservative government with more or less cravenly fascist agendas. In nearly all Western countries it was the men who had carried this revolution to victory.
“Right,” said Ben, “the servers are working again.”
The Friends are one of two underground movements still in existence at this particular moment in history. Until a few years before there had still been anarchist youths who demonstrated or squatted buildings, who set out to hunt down fascists, who covered their faces and believed they could turn England into another Freetown Christiana, an area beyond the law where carefree young hippies sat around eating vegan mash. The militarization of the police and outfitting them with machine guns had meant the end of that. Squatters had in some cases been chased from their accommodations with grenades, a few children lost limbs. A demonstration was shut down with armored vehicles and live ammunition. It was quiet after that. Since then there are only a few young people who haven’t submitted to the system. Only a few who don’t believe they live at the greatest moment of all time. The few malcontents who still rap or hack will soon find their place in society, too. And it’s good for them. The only way to partake in the successes of a society is to conform.
Whatever.
Most of those who live here in this space are unpopular. Were. Because they don’t meet today’s standards of human normalization. Because they’re too loud, too quiet, too tall, too small, too fat, too thin. They move too quickly or too slowly, they’re too gay or asexual, too uncoordinated or too nervous. All were lonely. Still are when they leave the sheltered workshops and with poor eyesight look at the surroundings beyond the net. Most of them want to save the world. A few just want to show off. And all suspect that they won’t achieve anything. The superiority of strength has grown too much, or, let’s just say, they are gradually realizing who they are fighting against—
Against intelligence agencies, countries, multinational corporations, radical right-wingers, crackpots, conspiracy theorists, and murderers. Where to start? They’ve barely finished off a Nazi network before thousands of bots mushroom up again. Knock off a few surveillance cameras and through some miracle new streetlamps with biometric recognition systems have already sprung up to grace the motorways with their presence. The group turns to Hannah, trying within the limitations of their abilities to show hospitality.
They make tea, sit down together, and Hannah tells them about the others and the buried devices. The little group, in a room with a gaping hole in the middle of the floor, is happy not to be alone in a strange world. Where at the moment the news is being shown on one of the computers.
There’s
THOME’S FATHER
Speaking to the people:
“The reintroduction of the death penalty for capital offenses and civil disorder is an effective measure for the protection and strengthening of democracy. We’ve noticed that even bringing the full weight of the law in some cases, such as terrorism, fails to create a deterrent effect. In the battle against terrorism we must as a result be able to impose drastic punishments alongside the ubiquitous surveillance of potential terrorists. Terrorists are increasingly moving away from suicide attacks. Perpetrators are surviving attacks with cars, knives, poison gas, which in turn emboldens other terrorists. For that reason we have decided to send an unambiguous message through bold and resolute action.”
Jubilation
Applause
Elation
New day. New location.
Back to
HANNAH, KAREN, DON, AND PETER
The markings on whose faces, to undermine the facial recognition capabilities of surveillance cameras, sometimes done with duct tape, look like war paint. They go off to war in their military outfits, overalls, boots, marching aggressively. They love the fact that passersby jump out of their way, they jostle people, they kick, they scare, this is music, this is power. They listen to Little Simz. On a portable CD player. Magnificently retro. Don grabs the mobile out of the hand of an egg carton–colored man and drops it elegantly to the ground, a joy, this feeling of being part of a formidable army.
And so forth.
Arriving at the observation site, the four of them sit down on some steps. They look like the cast of a music video, embodying various parts of the country’s unbelievably interesting and multicultural youth. None of the children believes in the mission. None has an overarching sense of vengeance. The past is so far removed that it seems like a yellowed old photo. When there were still photos. When there was still a sense of vengefulness. Vague is the memory of excitement—back on the roof of the homeless shelter, the oath and the motivation. They’d imagined that they’d need a mission in their new life but now they realize this new life is itself mission enough. That it’s interesting enough to recognize the transformation of the world and of one’s own body. But. The children are human, and humans don’t talk about important things. The conversation could be short and everything that followed would move in another direction. “Hey, cops-and-robbers is a totally shite game,” one of them could say, to which the others could nod, then they would go home or build a bunker or entertain the idea of constructing an ark. Or emigrating to Iceland so as not to have to attend Europe’s downfall live in person. But they don’t talk. They sit at the observation site.
Two nights earlier
Hannah, visiting the hackers, the Friends, the new acquaintances, had received more information about their victims, which she had jotted down on the list.
Walter, Don’s mother’s ex-boyfriend and sadistic failure,
Lives in one of the smart homes on the outskirts of town.
Idiotic. A little hack in the thermostat controls and you already had access to their network and private documents. They learned from the hackers,
Walter is married, a sex addict, and had taken a remote course to become a religious instructor. Address below.
Dr. Brown, the doctor responsible for the death of Hannah’s mother, heads up a private practice in a basement office, address below, where he conducts abortions and outlandish cosmetic surgery. Lives in a sublet room (address below) and sexually assaults unconscious patients from time to time. Athlete’s foot.
Thome, developer of Dream Island,
Frequent visitor to gay porn sites. 99 percent homosexual. Hasn’t come out. Father plans to take over prime minister’s office. Just as an aside. Lives in a villa on Holland Park, address below. Works in Silicon Roundabout, failure.
Patuk, Karen’s—um,
Owns a nearly bankrupt tailor shop in Savile Row (address below)
Lives in Luton (address below)
Profoundly frustrated. No sexuality, impotent, strikingly frequent visits to Islamist/Daesh/torture/nuclear terrorism sites
Financial problems, single, frustrated,
Peter’s mother
The Russian
Villa on Regent’s Park (address below), operate child prostitution ring
She visits a fitness club (address below)
Whole Foods delivery day, smart apartment without password, ha ha ha.
Sergej, leader of a paramilitary organization, right-wing radical.
Mini sublet east, on Campell Rd (address below)
Conducts survival training in various parks without surveillance
cameras.
PETER
Checks the address. This is the right spot. This is where his mother, according to her log-ins, comes to the gym four days a week. Today is one of those four. But his mother is nowhere to be seen.
Chants can be heard in the distance. A demonstration? What about? They have everything, the people. The weather is, well, yeah, weather. They are getting money, don’t have any serious diseases, don’t die shortly after birth, their land isn’t decimated by locusts, since there are no locusts. Scientists have modified a bacteria to eat plastic. So the world’s oceans might be saved. Okay, so they’ll be polluted with bacteria. But does that make sense? To demonstrate against bacteria? Speaking of which—where is your goddamn mother, and how are you supposed to react to her? Peter starts to rock back and forth. Whenever Peter works himself into a state, it’s up to Don to calm him down. “We’re sitting here planning and thinking about our lives, because we think it’s totally important, because every human thinks he, specifically, will enrich the world or even allow it to survive at all. And then comes a meteorite and the world is gone in a flash. Or a volcano that darkens the sky and lowers the earth’s temperature to minus ten, and so on. I’m just saying,” says Don. And Peter calms down. “We don’t have the power,” says Don.
“Amen,” says Hannah. The four of them stare at the entrance to the Bulgari Hotel. An exceedingly boring street full of Victorian red brick buildings and rich women who obviously work out. That type of women, who seem to live only to fulfill men’s expectations, are unknown to the children from Rochdale. It’s as if they’ve been produced by a 3-D printer. Without anything objectionable. Without pores or fat, without cellulite or brains. They’d probably have been influencers or models. They’d thought they could take a shortcut. Have their hair removed and sculpt themselves, and just like that, a sumptuous life would be there for the taking as a reward. But it isn’t there; their sumptuous life consists of service and fear. Fear of losing out to the new sex robots can be seen in their eyes with the surgically tightened upper and lower lids. Presumably it’s helpful to have deterioration as the only thing to fear in one’s life. It makes you so damn stupid. Speaking of which, it smells almost like spring. The holly bushes rustle quietly in cast-iron pots in front of the entrances to buildings where exclusively millionaires live, millionaires who are somewhere else. Sparrows express themselves as well. The sound of sparrows in the big city always produces a vague sense of longing in people. Perhaps for blossoming landscapes and serious songbirds. Karen is reading a book about viruses, Hannah and Don have their eyes closed, their heads leaning together. Peter stares at the entrance. “They’re really doing it, the bodycams,” says Peter. He points to a large man with a little camera clipped to his cap.
BODYCAM MAN
ETHNICITY: white
POLITICAL ORIENTATION: malcontent
SEXUAL ORIENTATION: asexual
FRIENDS: not really
Had picked up his equipment the day before at the newly opened bureau of citizen points.
THOME’S FATHER
Had spoken to the people a few days before:
“Now we come to a brilliant added feature of the chips in your wrists. Last week we launched a new program: ‘Social points for a good life.’ From now on you can boost your basic income through environmentally friendly, socially conscious conduct. You can lower energy costs by using less heat and showering less frequently, lower insurance premiums with sensible eating and sufficient exercise. You can earn a number of attractive benefits on the public transport system or on holidays if you’re willing to engage collectively. Of course, this new offering is strictly voluntary.”
Then Thome’s father turns away from the camera. He feels an outburst of laughter welling up inside.
And the
BODYCAM MAN
Also smirks. Just now. The point system has been in place for a week now.
And has already persuaded, so to speak, nearly half the population of the island. Just picking up the equipment (pulse transmitter and bodycam) racks up three points. Use of the bodycam gets you five points a month. So.
The bodycam looks like a pair of glasses. Google Glass, the great flop of Intel Glass, and Amazon Glass. Body Glass allows uninterrupted access to the social behavior of the wearer. No fistfights, no crossing the street on red, friendly greetings, goodwill in the neighborhood.
Hang on
THE PROGRAMMER
Adds: “And first and foremost access into the areas not covered by conventional surveillance tools. Like alcohol consumption, an unusually high use of vulgar language, racist statements, the persistent scratching of body parts, lies, antisocial behavior in cellar spaces.”
And
BODYCAM MAN
Is excited about the new possibilities to turn his behavior into cash. His behavior, which was always impeccable and still is to this day. He had allowed himself one mistake, luckily before the introduction of the point system. A mistake that to this day he can’t recognize as one.
The bodycam man is a forensic architect. Was. With the help of 3-D models and VR animation he investigated the causes of construction failures and fire damage. In recent years there had been increasing numbers of fires in social housing. Brutalist blocks with 267 units, high-rises with 400 units, burned down just like that.
The bodycam man figured out that all the evidence pointed toward arson. Since in the wake of the fires the buildings were invariably razed and condo buildings were then built in their place, it was logical to examine the relationship of the owners more closely.
In the course of his research the bodycam man found for instance a real estate firm that had acquired 357 social housing facilities around the country. Of them, forty-three had been condemned because of fire and another twenty-one because of collapsed roofs or load-bearing walls. It must be, well, a coincidence, thought the bodycam man, but it emerged that the owners had realized a few cost savings in the run-up to the events. The bodycam man wrote to the housing authority, to the buildings department, to the House of Lords, the prime minister, the mayor—and subsequently lost his job.
Today, in his new life, he runs every morning, confronted with vacant luxury buildings standing around as if bored.
Speaking of which. A new business idea hit him upon beholding his new living situation. It’s important to know that he lives in a pipe. Tube housing was a concept to combat the housing crisis that he had also worked on during his studies. Nine-square-meter apartments inside concrete water pipes, fitted with everything a person needed to live: mini kitchen, shower, bed. Plexiglas on the sides. At first the tubes were installed only beneath motorway bridges and on the edges of industrial areas. Later they were stacked—up to twenty meters high—on other financially uninteresting expanses. The bodycam man’s tube lay next to a wastewater treatment plant. At night his home looked like a beehive. With one in each honeycomb.
