Awe-Struck Preview

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-Dissent in Real Time-

Chapter 1

July, 2022, Ottawa, Canada

"Get off my machine, hacker. You've got the wrong number. No ***Belizaire*** at this location." Thirty-eleven, Journalist, Level 0 hammered out in sweaty hunt-and- peck.

"There will be soon enough." His screen blinked back. "I am Seventy-eighty-nine. Login same time in seven days. I'll restore your work now."

This Internet chat thing had gone just a little too far, Thirty-eleven pondered as the hacker's message dissolved into what he had been working on before the intrusion. He took up where he had left off, the words to his latest attack on the government forming methodically beneath his fingers. Action, inaction, it was all the same to him and to his shocked-and-appalled formula. So long as it sold copy, everyone was happy.

The next day was Monday, and the heat was getting more oppressive by the minute as he stood in front of the ATM. Its auditory cues had trained him well. But this morning, the clicks and whirrs were different.

"UNIQUE IDENTIFIER ON SMARTSIM UNKNOWN; PLEASE ENTER UNIQUE IDENTIFIER."

"What the hell!" So his Unique Identifier failed to impress the ATM. Coincidence? Why not, he pondered, and typed in "Belizaire".

"ENTER PASSWORD"

It was a normal response and from this point. It accepted his input as it had always done in the past.

He ignored the white noise of the pressroom as he set his breakfast, a tub of coffee and a bag of popcorn, down in the middle of the sea of paper glutting his desk. The office runner came by with today's stack.

"Hey Thirty-eleven, I liked your editorial this morning."

"Thanks, kid. Anything earth-shattering in there?" He motioned absently at his paper burden.

"Government's computer is down." He handed him the top sheet, and plunked the rest beside the coffee.

GOVERNMENT OF CANADA PRESS RELEASE

Ottawa -- July 15, 2022

Department of Communication. Central EDP Division

Central Computer Information System Announcement:

EDP Central announced today that they will be shutting down their main computer for routine maintenance. This should not affect non-government transactions, but citizens may notice discrepancies in Unique Identifier assignment. Work on the computer should be completed within a week.

He mulled the ATM incident over and reread the communiqué. Somewhere under the mess on his desk was the Feds' telephone directory. As he flailed about, the popcorn went flying.

"Godammit!" He settled on the familiar feel of the dog-eared document.

The book dropped open to the index of Unique Identifiers of all who worked at local installations, ran his finger down the list until it stopped at an entry, Seventy-eighty-nine. That was the identifier that the hacker had used last night. Programmer Level Ten, Director EDP Central.

Yeah right, and I'm Napoleon Bonaparte.

As the week progressed, he discovered that his electronic identity had been systematically replaced with a patchwork of other lives, each one minutely detailed, each one accessible only through the name Belizaire.

In restaurants and on public transportation, he listened in on conversations complaining about lost access to funds, the appearance of names instead of UIs and jumbled-up files. The phenomenon reached across the country, according to the wire service. Then on Friday, everything miraculously re-assembled and the names went away.

Sunday night crept up slowly. He sat poised at his PC anxious for an explanation from the so-called Director of EDP Central. As his screen responded to the alien instructions, he activated his printer.

"Hello Belizaire. Will you receive my transmission tonight?"

"What do you think, hacker?"

"So where do you want me to start? Do you want to know what happened?"

"Sure do, more to the point, I want to know why. I especially want to know why the Director of EDP, that is, if you are the director, would sabotage his own computer."

"That's good, Belizaire. If you were curious enough to find out who I was, then you must also know that I've gone into hiding. And I suggest you hide the printout of this meeting or you will have to disappear, too."

"Okay, what happened?"

"It's a simple virus, a worm, technically speaking. I think you have good idea of what it does. The reason they had to bring CCIS down was to wipe it clean and then reload from a backup source. What they have discovered though, is the virus is still there, waiting for my command. In a little while, they will come to realize that it's there for good, and any attempt to get rid of it will only cause them grief. Are you getting the picture, Belizaire?"

"I think so, hacker. I have the ***Who*** and the ***What*** in this story. Now how about the ***Why?***"

"The ***Why*** starts with the data. Think about the information that got attached to your name this week. What did you notice about it?"

"You tell me."

"No, you figure it out. Then log into your office file server and leave a message for your systems administrator. Say "Can you retrieve the work I did on July 15th?" When I see this message, I'll reconnect the same night at eleven o'clock."

The transmission ceased, and the journalist turned to collect the printout strewn like ticker tape across his floor.

"I wonder if he will think about it." The hacker smiled across the table to his companion and gently closed the cover to his notepad computer.

"You've done your best, Owen. It's time to leave it and get some rest." His companion smiled in the half-light of the kitchen.

"Yeah. Can you drive me into the city tomorrow? I'll need to find a place to stay." The hacker sighed.

"Why not here?"

"They monitor line usage, Ter'. And if your habits change, it could lead them here."

Terence watched his friend disappear down the dark hallway. A familiar twinge caught him in the gut. Can't go back now, he reminded himself. The planning stage is over. This is implementation.

It wasn't much of a story yet, but it had potential, the Journalist surmised. What had the hacker-bureaucrat been getting at, anyway? He thought back to the fuck-up of the week before, ran through the highlights in his mind. The bank portfolio that had been assigned him was great, untouchable but great. And when he had asked for detail on all accounts, he figured his unknown counterpart was no Canadian, he was too much of a risk-taker. When he had called his doctor's office for his latest HDL/LDL ratio, he discovered he had undergone a gender change.

What other files had been inadvertently released, credit records, tax returns, driving history? Hey wait a minute. How did all this get attached to Belizaire in the first place?

Under normal circumstances, the right information must then be connected to his UI, his Unique Identifier.

Was this the point the hacker-bureaucrat was trying to make? So what. Hadn't that been the whole purpose of establishing a common numeric identification system in the first place? He had said to start with the data, so this couldn't be what he was getting at.

The elements of the puzzle rolled through his mind as he remote-controlled through the channels on his TV. He stopped at the Court Network out of habit, best entertainment was real. Lawyers were arguing about the privileged nature of personnel files, who could see what. They're filed by Unique Identifier too, he speculated. You don't need a court order. All you have to do is know how to work the system.

That's it, isn't it? What matters is who can see them.

The cat looked sleepily in his direction as he returned to his PC and logged into the National Bureau file server. Once he had gotten to the point where he needed to type in the message to the systems administrator, he consulted the printout for the wording the hacker wanted him to use.

The apartment was gray, like the area of town where it was located. Dust permeated every free space, coated the windows and blocked out the sunlight. But it was suitably invisible to prying eyes.

A knock came gently at the door.

"Who is it?"

"Terence."

It had been a week since he had visited the hacker and he had missed the quiet strength he brought to his resolve. They embraced, and the reassuring smiles they exchanged betrayed their shared apprehension.

"You hungry?" Terence asked.

"Yeah, come to think of it."

He spread the boxed feast of Chinese food out over a stained arborite table, while the hacker went for plates and utensils of assorted patterns and sizes. They sat down on torn plastic and pitted chrome chairs.

"What's happening?"

"Predictable chaos. It took us a week to get the system back up." Terence replied.

"And they know I can still take it down, right?"

"Oh yes. What's more, the RCMP have been tearing your office apart for the last three days looking for clues to your whereabouts. Cormac says they have been ransacking the townhouse, too. Have you contacted Belizaire yet?"

"Twice, I'm waiting for him to put it all together before I tell him our agenda. Let's log in tonight so I can show you how reach him if I'm caught."

"I don't want to think about that."

"We've got to, Ter."

They ate quietly for awhile, Terence pondering the consequences of what they had started, not wanting to discuss the matter over good food. When the meal was finished, they cleared away the remains and set up the notepad.

"You aren't establishing a direct link with their server are you, Owen? It would be easy to trace it."

"No, I'm going through Berkeley Anonymous. Stay clear of Finland."

"Why?"

"Berkeley doesn't keep transaction logs. "There it is." Owen, the hacker, pointed to a message on the screen. "He wants to talk to me. I get him to leave specific messages to the Sys-Admin, since that's whose sign-on I'm accessing. That way you have god- access to all the sign-ons and getting into Belizaire's is easy from there."

"Got it."

"I'm running a bilateral chat routine so we can talk in real time. Okay, Ter', showtime."

Terence pulled his chair closer to the screen and watched the chat session materialize.

"What have you learned, Belizaire?"

"You toasted your system because you didn't like who was getting hold of the information, right?"

"Right."

"So who is getting hold of it?"

"Let me illustrate with a story, Belizaire. Why don't you check it out, in fact? It takes place in Brantford, Sligo Steel Casings, Inc. Just before the last Federal election. The workers are warned that if they vote NDP, they will lose their jobs. After the election, we are asked to send comprehensive information on all Sligo employees to Brantford. Then fifty workers are laid off just as the company secures a huge contract with Japan."

"You're telling me the Government knows how everybody votes?"

"Yes."

"I don't believe you, hacker."

"Want to know how you voted, Belizaire?"

"Sure."

"You haven't, for the last two elections."

The cursor blinked aimlessly, waiting for the journalist's response. Owen waited a moment then tapped in his next message. "Belizaire, are you still there?"

"I'm here. So what do you want me to do, hacker?"

"My name is Owen Teague. I will no longer let them reduce me to a number. There is no point destroying CCIS unless I can be assured that it won't rise again. Only the people of this country can provide that assurance. Get the word out, Belizaire. So I can take it down once and for all."

"What makes you think they won't catch you before you can do it?"

"I am one of a group called ***The Committee***. So long as there is one of us left on the outside, the system will crash and burn."

The Galaxy Lounge was a half-mile away from the cluster of factories that made up Sligo Steel Castings Incorporated. It seemed a natural spot to eavesdrop. So far, pickings had been slim, Maybe today he would get lucky, Belizaire hoped.

At the other end of the bar, a man, bent over with the weight of some tragedy, stared trance-like into a thumb-smudged glass. He downed the contents in one swallow. Soon another worker bounced in, slapped the sullen one on the back and then sat down beside him.

"Hey Cas. What's the word, man? Gimme a beer, Chipper." He swung the beer to his lips and smacked the foam from his mustache. "C'mon Cas, cheer up. This won't last long."

"Get out of my face, Tomaso." The worker's response was low, depressed.

"Shit for brains, Cas." the one named Tomaso laughed. "They laid off three dozen of their best men, and the foreman tells me they got orders coming out their ass. It doesn't make sense to me, except it must be some kind of bean counter thing. You know, fire 'em today, hire 'em back tomorrow, save on taxes or pensions or some shit like that."

"Tell me this, Tomaso," the other whispered loudly, "who did you vote for last month?"

"C'mon, man, you don't believe that crap management tried to sell us, do you?"

"Who did you vote for, Tomaso?" The other grabbed him by the shirt and shrieked in his face.

Belizaire approached the two. He turned to the bartender and ordered another round. The two men squinted at the stranger through the dank atmosphere of the bar.

"Who the fuck are you?" The one named Cas asked.

"No one in particular. But I've been listening to your conversation and you've got me curious. So who did you vote for?"

"Tell him, Tomaso. He's probably the only one in Canada that don't know."

Tomaso smiled broadly and then downed the rest of his beer.

"Who else? The working man's party..."

"NDP?"

"Yeah. Want to make something of it?"

"And who did you vote for?" Belizaire turned to Cas.

"None of your goddamned business, none of anybody's goddamned business."

September, 2022

Terence slipped silently into the half-lit hallway of the seedy walk-up, newspaper tucked into the bag of groceries. The old location had lasted almost two months before a gut-level uneasiness had set in. Good thing too, he thought. RCMP raided it within the week Owen left. Although it was still safe to live at home with his family, he could feel Owen's need and spent as much time as he could with him.

"Page Seven." He tossed the paper to his companion before emptying the rest of the contents into the cupboard.

He watched as Owen found the reference and began reading Belizaire's first editorial on the virus.

"Now we're in business."

Terence nodded as he surveyed the street from the kitchen window. How long would it take them to find him here? More to the point, how long could Owen handle the stress of running?

November 2022

They walked resolutely in the crisp night air, their breath forming clouds behind them. Terence held back straining behind the cramp in his side. He hunched his shoulders to the chilly November night and made fists in his jacket pockets.

"What if something goes wrong with the program? Who's going to fix it?"

"No more arguments, Ter', it's gone too far for any other solution. Can we just get on with it?" Only then did he notice that Owen was shaking like a leaf through his thick black overcoat.

They resumed, only faster now. Rounding the last corner, they came within sight of the police station. He stopped, one last time.

"Please, Owen, don't do this."

He waited for more twisted logic to drop from his lips. It didn't come, thank God. There was nothing left to say. Instead Owen smiled, held out his arms for one last moment of contact.

"I'll be alright. Take care of yourself -- and the others. Don't get caught."

He watched Owen pace away without looking back, leaving his last words behind him in the hanging mist.

Chapter 2

Owen Teague stepped from the gray quiet of the street into the white clamor of Twelfth Precinct and negotiated his way through several dramas to reach the reception desk.

"Excuse me."

The cop at the reception desk ignored him.

Adrenaline churned in his gut as he repeated himself.

"Take a number." Without looking up, the cop pointed in the direction of the far wall.

Seventy-one, there were ten ahead of him. He winced at the absurdity, then found a place on the bench under the number dispenser.

The other occupant stared down at his broken shoes, a holy man in his bench- world. He closed his eyes, tried to imagine a force field around himself so he would not have to deal with the sodden smell of the derelict beside him.

"It's a prime number."

"Eh?" He started at the sound of the man's voice.

"Seventy-one, it's a prime number." The derelict clarified.

He looked at the slip of paper and nodded absently in the man's direction.

The derelict nudged closer, poked him amiably in the side and then fixed his eyes on the floor. Words fell out of his mouth, like a novena.

"Prime numbers are very important. They hold gravity to the planet. They define the light."

Owen leaned back against the wall and sighed. If only he could make time go away.

"The speed of light is a prime number. It is really the definition of time. Time is how we exist. It holds us to the earth, so it is gravity as well."

The holy man reached through his isolation and touched his knee. He smiled into his eyes, like he was about to bestow a gift.

"All science is just the study of light."

"Seventy-one."

He approached the constable and smiled shyly, his voice, a near whisper.

"I am Seventy-eighty-nine, Programmer Level Ten and I would like to give myself up."

She blinked into his face and then turned to a photograph taped to the panel. He followed her to the picture of himself, a civil service security mugshot. He flushed at the familiarity.

The cop drew her service revolver, armed it as she moved.

"Freeze."

"You don't need that, I'm giving myself up."

"Shut up or I'll blow your brains out." Her voice rose above the din. Her arms, locked at the elbows, shook uncomfortably from the weight of the gun. He realized that behind him, Twelve P had fallen silent.

"Then the angel Gabriel said go, tell everyone that the hour is come." A stringy, alcoholic voice intoned from somewhere to his left.

"Shut up or you're gone too." She shouted in its direction.

He stood absolutely still for fear of provoking her. He didn't want to die here, his blood mixing with the vomit on this floor. He tried desperately to stifle a smile.

What a joke. This was to be his grand exit, his meaningful end. And here he stood, arms in the air, about to be offed by some hysterical cop, his passing to be witnessed by drunks and derelicts who would hardly remember it in the morning.

"What's so funny?" she screamed at him. "Keep your hands above your head."

She twisted slowly and lowered one hand to the telephone. Keeping her eyes fixed on him, she hauled the receiver to her ear and punched at the keys.

"Sarg, I need your help. We have a situation here."

Owen listened to the din of voices and toilets down the corridor. He was glad that they had separated him off from the rest, from the stench and the madness. The handcuff joining his left wrist to the horizontal bar above his cot cut across his already- compromised medial nerve, transforming the tingling in his first three fingers to throbbing. Carpal tunnel syndrome seemed insignificant now against the backdrop of this place.

He thought about the reason they had confiscated his belt and his sweatshirt and why there were no sheets on the mattress. What's the point? he asked himself.

A smile broke free from his inner madness as he counted the minutes before the pain in his fingers would force him to shift and escape the downward pressure of the biting metal restraint.

"You can't be out of work, Cas. No one's out of work these days. We're back to good times now. That's why we're using those numbers instead of names, right? As far as I'm concerned, the only guys on the street deserve to be there." Chipper didn't mince words nor was he one to be the best friend of every client in his bar.

Since the layoffs Cas hadn't been able to get the company warning out of his head. It didn't make sense. No one was supposed to know how you voted. Wasn't that some kind of right or something? He fished around inside a pocket and found the crumpled paper hidden in a deep recess, the last unemployment check. He drew it out and slipped it to the bartender.

"Will you cash this for me, Chipper?"

Chipper sighed and took the paper from him.

"Like I said, Cas, if you're on the street, maybe you deserve to be there."

After Unemployment, had come Welfare, and another drop in income. Dena and the kids had been stoic 'til then, despite losing the house, and despite his rage, even when it had exploded in their faces.

Couldn't be any worse than last July, he thought, with the computer going down and all. No one on pogey had gotten a check that month. If it hadn't been for Dena's folks, they would have been out on the street. There would be a lot more of that from now on.

Last call came too soon. He downed the drink and turned for home and the silent shame that awaited him.

The metal-on-metal of a shift change greeted Owen before the lights. Surprisingly enough, he had fallen asleep. He stretched his free arm up to meet the one tethered to the metal rung above him. Momentary equilibrium brought respite from knawing pain and throbbing fingers. As he rolled onto his side, his bladder reminded him of logistical problems. He leaned as far as he could toward the corridor and peered in the direction of the most noise.

"Hey." He tried to sound polite, conciliatory at first, but this deteriorated with the rising pain in his gut. "Hey, anybody there?"

"Shut the fuck up." Reaction from the groaning masses behind dark bars was swift.

"Whad-da-ya want?" The right voice fought for attention and eventually silenced the rest.

"I can't reach the toilet." He stretched in the direction of the faceless response in the corridor.

"So?"

"So I need to use it." He laughed.

There followed silence. Maybe if he used the same tone as the other residents of the cell block he would get results.

"If you don't come now, I'll piss all over the floor." His threat met with more silence and his gut pounded with the need to void it. He surveyed the situation, calculated the farthest point he could reach from his tether.

Footsteps, Thank God. They seemed to go on forever before materializing into one-hell-of-a-fat-cop. He threw him an empty mayonnaise jar, one that looked and smelled like a veteran of the same purpose.

"You're kidding." He watched as the jar rolled aimlessly to his feet.

"Your choice, asshole, the bottle or the floor."

It took some skill to complete the process one-handed and he basked in the comfort victory gave him.

More footsteps. Two bureaucrats rounded the corridor and came into his field of vision. They carried a tray with food and something steaming in a metal cup. The burly one zipped open the cell with his SMARTSIM, the other one with the tray was a familiar face.

"Hello Seventy-eighty-nine -- long time no see."

Forty-four-forty surveyed the disheveled figure of his former director. Seventy- eighty-nine was a legend, a genius, he had been told. So where had it gotten him, he pondered.

"Is that mine, or yours, Rastus?" His former boss smiled arrogantly from his cot.

"By all means, you must be hungry." He placed the tray in the alcove by the bed.

Seventy-eighty-nine rattled his bound hand.

"Yeah sure, no problem."

He unlocked the handcuff from the bed rung, but left it attached to his wrist.

Seventy-eighty-nine retrieved a jar filled with piss and emptied it into the toilet. Then he went to the sink, slowly washed his hands and face and rebound his hair.

Forty-four-forty watched him as he wolfed down the food. He looked small, insignificant now. But he knew this impression was false. Even in captivity he was more dangerous than anyone else in the country.

"Why did they send you?" Seventy-eighty-nine spoke through crunching toast.

"Are you surprised to see me?"

"Not really. I knew you couldn't be a systems analyst. Secret service? No, you're not clever enough. Party hack, right?"

"C'mon, Owen, stop hurting my feelings."

He watched him grin into the metal cup as he drank deeply of the bitter coffee.

"I mustn't be that stupid, I've got your job, don't I?" He stretched his back to ease the knot in his stomach, and rubbed clammy hands on closely-pressed knees.

"You had that long before I left."

"But then I'll never be completely in charge, will I? The computer still answers to you."

He fumbled for the arrest document and finally found it in his inner breast pocket. "Owen TAgue? Why not Zorro or the Scarlet Pimpernel?"

"TEEgue. It's my name, what's yours?"

"Mahatma Gandhi, or maybe we should all go by the names you gave us. Rastus, is it? Real cute, Seventy-eighty-nine."

He crossed over to the cot and sat down beside him. Seventy-eighty-nine responded by retreating to the perimeter of the cell where he fixed his gaze beyond the bars.

"You asked me why I was here. I guess the answer is obvious, but for the books, I'll tell you anyway. The government is very anxious to fix its system, to get whatever you programmed into it, out. They've asked me to appeal to your sense of professionalism, or what's left of it. Offer you a deal."

Seventy-eighty-nine turned to face him and leaned on the bars. Was this a good sign? Had one night in a holding cell scared him sufficiently?

"Look," He softened his tone. "Owen. They are willing to drop all but a mischief charge and recommend a two-year house arrest in exchange for your cooperation in dismantling the virus. Home is just so much better than prison, don't you agree?"

Of course they'd never let him near a computer or a telephone, he thought, but why prejudice the offer?

"The simple fact of the matter is that we'll crack the code eventually, with or without your help. Seems to me you'd be a lot better off accepting the offer." He watched as Seventy-eighty-nine measured him silently. "Let it go, Owen, it's not worth it."

"Sure it is, Rastus. Just seeing you squirm makes it worth it."

Belizaire surveyed the lobby of Twelve P in its early morning state of chaos. He remembered how grateful he had been at the time to leave the crime beat for the halls of power. But then again, he had found himself yearning for the simplicity of the in-your-face atmosphere of a police station whenever he tried to find truth behind the face of a politician.

"Hey dick, How're ya doin? It's been a long time since I seen you here." The derelict lurched to his side and offered a filthy hand. Belizaire accepted it tentatively.

"Jimmy, thought you'd be long dead by now. You still shooting up?"

"Gone straight, man, gone straight. You wouldn't happen to have a little change for an old friend?"

"Hey Jimmy, have you been here for a awhile?" He reached into his pocket and pressed a couple of twooneys into the shaking hand.

"All night, man, it's too cold to sleep in the park."

"Anything strange go down?"

He waited as the derelict probed his murky recollection and cast his red-rimmed eyes toward the reception desk.

"Nothing much. Oh yeah, a cop pulled a gun on someone -- over there. Scared the shit out him." Jimmy wheezed with delight, remnants of brown teeth budding through cracked lips.

"Another bum?" Belizaire asked.

"Nah, too classy." He looked at the money in his hand. Belizaire knew he was thinking of the buzz it would buy.

"Nice talkin' to you, dick. Gotta go now -- breakfast."

Sounds right, he thought as he watched the derelict hurry toward the side exit. He followed behind him, fumbling in his coat pocket for his own addiction. In the alleyway, he lit up and took that first satisfying drag before running through last night's transmission from the hacker named Owen Teague.

He had smiled as his screen went blank and then split into chat sectors. A relationship had developed since that first editorial; one defined in null parity, and eight-bit packets.

The commitment of his correspondent rang in his words as they spread across the white void of the cathode ray tube, multi-coloured, multi-sized like a ransom note made of clipped newspaper letters. Sometimes Owen would beep him to emphasize a point. The sessions were always mind-expanding, unpredictable like any conversation with a good friend. In the absence of form, he had imagined his face reacting to his questions and observations.

Last night, however, there had been a subtle change in the format, something missing.

"Hello Belizaire, it's Owen. I have important information for you. Will you receive?"

"Owen, it's been awhile; sure, I'll receive."

There was a nano-second pause that seemed longer to him as his MODEM translated digital code into pixelled letters.

"My freedom no longer serves the interests of The Committee or the people. The Virus is entrenched and will work when given the right cueing sequence. Therefore I'm surrendering to the police tonight at Twelfth precinct on Clarence. Can you get the message out for me?"

The words spread across the screen in plain Courier, white on black, he noted. It didn't feel like real time.

"Are you sure you're doing the right thing?"

"Thanks friend, it's been a pleasure doing business with you. We will contact you when the time comes to finish the system off.

.......................................Owen :-)

"Resume session."

Definitely not real time. He had already done it.

Belizaire considered his dilemma. Although he had brought Owen Teague's cause to the attention of the common man, and was up for an award for his efforts in fact, he had never laid eyes on him.

So far the Government had denied any of his claims, but had fallen short of challenging his facts either publicly or legally. It was how they kept the movement faceless, without form, he thought through a lazy smoke circle. And their strategy had, for the most part, been effective. Interest among the general public had been mild at best. At least it had caught the imaginations of the cyberphreaks. Alt.conspiracy had reported, on average, two hundred messages a week on the subject.

In his conversations he had tried to explain to Owen how hard it was for the general public to understand the inner workings of powerful machines. The message would get through eventually, he promised. But it was hard to preach patience to someone whose time was running out.

Now he was close to putting a face to the electronic reality of this movement. Like a blind date, he waited, hoping that instinct would help identify his man. As he ground his cigarette butt into the step of Twelve P, a black Mercedes turned into the alleyway and drove past him to the back door. Two men, official-looking, menacing in a business-like manner, entered the building. He checked his watch and then meandered over to the car. Pulling his overcoat around him, he resigned himself to the monotony of a stake-out.

Eventually, the two emerged from the side entrance with a third man handcuffed between them.

"Bingo." He whispered under his breath. Activating a pocket tape recorder, he closed in.

"I'm with National News, can I talk to you for a minute? Who's your prisoner?"

"Fuck off." The larger of the two knocked him out of the way and pushed the prisoner toward the car.

He dashed to the passenger side and planted himself in their path. "I have reason to believe that Seventy-eighty-nine Programmer, Level Ten was taken into custody last night -- is this him?"

The same agent grabbed him by the shoulder and threw him aside. As they fumbled with the remote door lock, the prisoner managed eye contact and smiled shyly. Belizaire accepted it as confirmation. He pulled the disposable camera from his pocket and managed a couple of shots before the prisoner disappeared into the back of the Mercedes.

"Oh no you don't." The burly one stepped back out while his partner called for assistance. It felt silly, almost Hollywood, running like hell down the middle of the road. The ten pounds he had cultivated over the summer flopped against his belt, and his heart pounded in his ears. Rounding a corner, he knew he would be absorbed by the salmon- run of commuters heading to work. He boarded a bus in the other direction wondering if his heart would give out before he could get the story to print. Gasping for air in the near- empty bus he contemplated his next move. Their reaction surprised him, sounded a clear warning in his head. He gathered up the paper evidence at his apartment and added the tape and camera to the file. It would be safe in a bank vault, and the key could be easily hidden.

It had been a long day, criss-crossing town. He headed for home, exhausted by the stress and the unexpected exercise of the morning. As he opened his door he sensed the chaos, and then the presence of its authors.

"The film, and everything else, Thirty-eleven." A plainclothes Mountie barked without looking up.

"You got authorization for this, Dudley?"

The Fed rose from his couch, kicked aside several boxes and slammed some paper into his chest. He expected the search and seizure document, but the warrant for his arrest was another matter.

"Aiding and abetting criminal activity and conspiracy to overthrow the Government of Canada. Why not murder one? It's the same level of shit."

A second Mountie emerged from his bedroom and smirked broadly at him as he pulled a restraining strap from his pocket.

Terence rushed across the park to Claxton. It had been two days since he had contacted Belizaire with Owen's final communiqué but there had been nothing in the news. Something had gone terribly wrong, he speculated as he fought the sleet in his face. And now this; an interrogation, the director had called it, something concerning the virus. He hadn't asked who was to be interrogated, especially in light of the apparent news blackout. And he feared it would be Owen. He felt the perspiration on the back of his neck despite the biting wind off the river and groped for a plausible explanation to the blood that would surely pool in his face as soon as he faced his co-conspirator.

His director met him in the lobby.

"So, Twenty-three forty-seven, ever questioned a suspect before?"

"Suspect?"

"We arrested a journalist the other day, the same one who wrote those articles about the virus and The Committee. This guy's in deep. He even knew where to be the morning we transferred Owen to maximum security."

"You caught Owen?"

The elevator lurched to their stop.

"The night of the twelfth. He's at Chalk River Penitentiary -- isolation block."

"So why aren't we talking to him instead of the journalist? Maybe there are grounds for cooperation."

"He won't cooperate. For the moment, our only lead is the journalist. I figure the least he can tell us is what happens next."

"I don't understand. Why am I here?"

"You worked on this project longer than anyone else in EDP Central. You know Owen's style. This guy may say something important or nothing at all. It might be that you alone would know the difference. I don't want you to say anything to him. I want you to listen and interpret. Okay?"

"I guess so." Terence shrugged and followed his director into the interview room.

Belizaire looked exhausted. Damn Committee, Terence thought, how are we going to get the message out now? If only he could make contact, let him know that they would help him out.

His name, Owen had hand-programmed it, first to test the virus and then to make sure Thirty-eleven would get the point. They had dreamed it up together, in the bullfrog darkness of their last camping trip. And in all that had been published, the name had remained a secret. All he would need then was opportunity.

He leaned back into his chair and smiled into his hands before joining Forty-four- forty's preamble.

"We know you have been in contact with Seventy-eighty-nine from the beginning. It is quite simple to prove that you've been conspiring with him, aiding and abetting, I think they call it in legal terms."

"Hold on. I haven't been allowed to see a lawyer, or my editor. I'm not admitting to anything until I get legal advice."

"We're not the police, Thirty-eleven. We're only interested in fixing our computer. But we can talk to the police, make it easier for you to get you the help you want. A few questions, that's all."

Belizaire nodded his surrender.

"What do you know about the virus?" The director took a deep breath and clasped his hands.

"It paid off my credit card. What should I know? You guys are the experts, aren't you?"

"What did Seventy-eighty-nine tell you about it, then?"

"He said you wouldn't be able to stop it because it's too deep in the code. It is too deep, isn't it? Otherwise, I wouldn't be here."

The director ignored his query. "How did Seventy-eighty-nine communicate with you?"

"Through the neurons in my head. I'm not telling you my sources; that would be stupid, wouldn't it?"

After an hour of circular talk and too much coffee, the prisoner asked for a bio- break. Perfect, Terence thought, and excused himself for the same reason. He followed the prisoner to the men's room, then the urinal. He made eye contact, then realized his mistake. Belizaire kept his distance, and watched him carefully from the corner of his eye.

Terence whistled quietly. "Do you know Bluegrass music at all? He spoke cheerily to the tiles. "Belizaire the Cajun is my favorite piece."

The prisoner turned to him in astonishment, and then checked over his shoulder in the direction of his guard. He nodded for him to continue.

"Sorry about all this; we'll get you out somehow."

Belizaire motioned to a cubicle shouting to his guard that he needed to have a shit.

"Who are you?"

"Terence, a Committee member."

"Right. I've seen Owen. He's okay."

"I'll let the others know. You'll understand if I ask you to keep my identity to yourself."

"He wasn't kidding when he said he could finish it off from prison." Belizaire chortled.

"Do you want me to arrange a lawyer for you?"

"That would be helpful. They won't let me near a phone."

"Where are they holding you?"

"Six P, Alta Vista." Belizaire flushed the toilet and led the way out.

The interrogation adjourned in frustration. As far as he could figure, the journalist could tell them nothing that they didn't already know. He was a mouthpiece for the movement, nothing more.

"That may be so, but as the mouthpiece he is as dangerous as the saboteur." his director replied.

Eleven-sixteen Lawyer, Level six smiled at his quarry before closing in for the kill.

"Which of your girls did we so foolishly pick up?" He watched the detective swallow hard.

"Thirty-eleven Journalist, Level Zero. Can I see the documentation?"

"Don't have any; he's on a Federal warrant." The cop rolled his pencil between forefinger and thumb as he stared contemptuously at him.

"Look, you either have the forms, or you don't, that's all that matters to me." The lawyer spat back.

"I don't need paper to hold him. Didn't you hear me? This is a Federal matter." The cop leaned in to make his point.

"Go get my client, Captain. You're holding him without due process."

As Eleven-sixteen Lawyer, Level Six waited for Belizaire, he amused himself with numerous directives stuck on the office notice board. He turned and smiled warmly to the prisoner when he entered the room.

"Do you wish to press charges for unlawful detention?"

"What's the point? It won't stop them from doing it again." The journalist laughed quietly.

Not bad, the lawyer thought and smiled cynically at the detective. "Get the release forms in order before I advise my client to change his mind."

Belizaire stopped on the steps of Six P to put his watch on, and then offered his liberator a cigarette.

"No thanks. But I could use some coffee, how about you?" he offered as he pulled his collar up against the wind.

"It will have to be on you, friend. I don't have a cent."

A good volume of warm breath frosted the windows of the diner and the booths were jammed with the late morning crowd.

"So what's your name?" Belizaire pressed as soon as they plopped down into the tight booth.

"Cormac."

"I didn't realize how widespread this little conspiracy was, Cormac. Just how many members are there in the Committee?" He tapped his pockets for paper and pen.

The lawyer cast his eyes around the room and then leaned forward to ensure no one could hear them.

"Look, we distinctly told you to stand by until our next move. We didn't tell you to go to Twelve P and get yourself arrested. That was just plain stupid on your part. If you want to continue this little relationship, I suggest you do exactly what we tell you."

Belizaire sensed something secret through the rebuke. It excited him, like the scent of blood. "There's more to this, isn't there Cormac? Why did Owen really give himself up?"

He watched the lawyer recoil.

"You already know why."

"You're right, it's none of my business. But you're not going to pull this off without widespread support, and I'm the only one who can bring it to you. C'mon Cormac, just a few questions."

The lawyer studied him with the precision of an executioner and then looked around the cafe again. "Not here."

Many hours later, Belizaire ambled into the night from the quiet bar where he had crowbarred the clues to Owen Teague's madness out of someone probably more insane. The lawyer had been easy to read, fear made him easy, not like Terence.

Cormac listened to his shoes as they clipped against the cruel pavement. The cold air and the cutting damp would remind him to hide the fear and the anger that still burned him. Belizaire's questions had reset the acid burning in his throat and the clammy feeling in his hands. The peace of returning to routine after Owen turned himself in had been illusory. Once primed to the fear of capture, there was no escape but capture itself. He thought back to last fall, to the time when the fear of capture reigned supreme.

October, 2022

The telephone rang. At four o'clock in the morning the news had to be bad.

"Get out of there now." The voice, unrecognizable in Cormac's semi-conscious state delivered the message, then rang off.

The phone had roused Alkis as well. Muffled words echoed like an air raid siren in the quiet of their predawn room. She jumped from their bed and ran into the darkness of the living room to wake Asher and Terence.

Cormac made his way to Owen's bedroom, pulling clothes on as he ran.

"Get up, Owen. The police are on the way over here."

"The police?" Owen shook sleep from his head, took too much precious time to absorb the message.

"C'mon let's go. Let's go." Cormac threw clothes at him as he listened to the crackling of burning paper coming from the living room fireplace.

"What about the notes?"

"Taken care of. Just get dressed." He could feel his heart pounding as he watched Owen pull a mustard-yellow turtleneck over his face.

"Don't you have anything darker than that?"

"Ready?" Terence was at the door now.

Owen nodded and followed him to the living room. They heard the pounding of footsteps closing in on the front stairs.

"The fire escape." Cormac whispered from behind them.

Owen was first to jump onto the metal latticework and survey the empty darkness below. He reached the bottom he met the flashlight of the cop-sent-around-to-check-the- back. It paralyzed him, like a deer in the headlights of a car.

Before the cop could react, Cormac rammed him, knocking him senseless below their fleeing legs. It bought them a little distance, a moment to work things out.

"Asher's farm in two days." Owen cast about for agreement. The rest nodded.

"Owen, get down." Cormac yelled as the bullet whistled past.

"Jesus Christ!" He grabbed Alkis' hand and leapt into the darkness, buried his head in the cold mud to avoid the next volley and then dashed into the scrub brush beyond the car park.

From the marsh beyond their last hideout Owen ran easily along the railway tracks and then turned east toward the gathering light. The intermittent drone of police sirens buzzed in the distance as he stopped to catch his breath.

The back of his head throbbed to his heartbeat, and the clammy sensation of something pooling in the neck of his sweater eked into awareness. He slipped his fingers into his turtleneck and drew them out. They were covered in blood. He probed for the source of the throbbing and felt the lips of the gash just above his ear. Dawn was beginning to strengthen. Soon the street would be filled with people.

I can't stay out here like this. His thoughts bounced off the colorless brick-face in front of him. The intersection was vaguely familiar. Ananda -- she lived close by. They hadn't spoken in months, not since an ugly goodbye, not since he had gone into hiding. She had every right to slam the door in his face, turn him in even. Either way, it would invoke closure, he sighed. By the time he leaned against the door to her third-floor walk-up the nausea was rising in his throat. He swallowed hard and knocked.

"Who is it?"

"It's Owen. Please let me in, Ananda."

Silence. He sighed with relief as he heard the bolts drawn back. Their eyes met in embarrassment and pain. She stood out of his path and closed the door quietly behind him. He made for the kitchen to replenish the water he had burned off in his run. He gulped the first glass down and then bled the tap colder for the second.

"It's been a long time." she mumbled from the doorway.

"I've been preoccupied." That didn't come out right, damn. He tried to think of something else to say but was interrupted by the throbbing in his head.

"Preoccupied." She smirked and led the way into the living room.

"How have you been?" His words sounded false to his own ears.

"There's blood all over your neck." She reached for him, but then withdrew her hand.

"Ananda, I need to clean up. Can I stay 'til dark? Then I'll leave, I promise."

"What's going on?" she spat. " First you drop out of everyone's life, then the police came around to the club asking questions about you. What kind of trouble are you in, Owen?"

"I don't think it would be good to say anything. Please, Ananda."

"Give me your sweater to soak." She sighed and then padded off to draw him a bath. "Sit down over there." She indicated the toilet seat cover. "You need stitches. I'll take you to the hospital."

"Can't do that."

"Tell me what's going on, Owen, or you'll have to go now." She turned to face him.

He winced under her gaze, felt the familiar urge to withdraw from her kindness. But he needed her at this moment.

"I'm running from the police. They shot at me."

"Why are you running?"

"They suspect me of sabotaging a government computer."

"Did you?"

"Yes." It was the most he had ever told her about himself, it was terrifying.

She bent down to stop the water running in the bathtub.

"You're lucky, one inch closer and you would be dead." She brushed the contour of her warm breasts against his cheek, as she reached for the medicine chest.

"Take the rest of your clothes off and get in. I'll find something to clean that wound and some gauze."

"Lean your head forward so I can work on it." She probed the matted mess of congealed blood and hair with tweezers and peroxide. "Well at least it's clean and the bleeding has stopped."

Task finished, she soaped a generous sponge and began passing it over the stringy contours of his shoulders. The warmth, the scent of cardamom mixed with steam rising from the water undid the knots in his shoulders, loosened the muscles in his jaws.

"What about Alkis?"

"That's over. I'm too cold, too remote, according to her."

She laughed like a child at a solemn occasion. The pain in his eyes only made her laugh more. "Good for her, at least she has some sense. Out, and I'll dry you off."

He leaned on her as he stepped out. She toweled him with caressing strokes and then guided him to her bedroom. They sat on the edge of the bed listening to the rhythm of their hearts. She placed his hand on her breast. He hesitated, fear leaping through his tired brain, but then responded with his other hand. Her dressing gown drooped down her shoulders revealing her perfect body, her nut-brown areolae. He abandoned his urge to withdraw and buried his head in the warmth of her breasts.

The scent of her body banished the terror. They slipped under the covers, in the morning sun, drew close to each other to find the familiar places that time and absence had not diminished.

He fought to concentrate on making love but fear and the pain in the back of his head yanked him away from her. He shut his eyes and continued through the desire to remove himself. Did she sense the lie inside her? Without answering his own question, he rolled away. "I'm sorry. I'm distracted."

"No doubt, by the trouble you are in."

"Not just that." He chaffed at the disappointment in her voice.

She rolled over and stroked the stubble emerging on his chin. "For once, let me into your thoughts, Owen."

"No, Ananda, I need to sleep."

The quiet click of the lock jolted him to the surface. He woke, heart pounding, muscles tensed for flight. The peach walls seemed to laugh at his terror. He found the pain in his head with his hand and then rose. In the kitchen he fumbled through her cupboards for coffee, knowing that once it was made he would have to read the delicately folded paper on the table.

Dearest Owen;

We're two of a kind, you and I. We live out of touch with the rest of the world. What I wouldn't admit to though was that we do not live in the same out-of-touch place. When I saw you this morning, I was ready to start it all over again, but you reminded me that there wasn't anything to start over with.

Please, for both our sakes, go away and don't come back.

All My Love; Ananda.

He tore it slowly into small pieces lest it ever be found by those who could truly hurt her. Somewhere behind him, the buzzer from the dryer went off. She had cleaned his bloodstained turtleneck.

One by one they crept to the farmhouse on the edge of nowhere. As they passed in the hallway and in the kitchen, they counted each other and then counted again. Only Terence was missing, cut off by checkpoints. He had called them from the safety of home.

Gunfire. How could it have come to this? They asked each other. This was Canada for heaven's sake, a country where cops had to file reports every time they drew their weapons.

"I think we really underestimated ourselves. It isn't about CCIS or straightening out a few misguided politicians. It's not even about educating the public on what kind of information is kept on them." Owen explained. "The real issue is power and consolidating it. That's why it is so important for them to suppress this thing, and me."

"I don't know, Owen. Do you really think they would go to such lengths for this? How important can their computer system appear to be to an average Joe anyway? Look at how little reaction there has been to Belizaire's articles? No one understands. No one cares, really. The heat of the moment, undisciplined cops, these are more likely explanations of what happened."

"Cormac, they nearly killed one of us." Alkis brought the discussion back to its beginning, and to its essential problem.

"That's why I want you to consider letting me give myself up." Owen's words struck the table like a knife thrust into wood. The room cracked with the silence of settling joists.

"What good will that do? Besides the movement depends on the virus. That's completely your show."

"I'm their prime suspect, Cormac. They know who I am and what I look like. As for the virus, it's safe-and-sound in the Cray, waiting for the right command. Terence can fine- tune it if necessary. And when the time comes, anyone of you can set it off."

He paused to let his words sink in, then took up the argument again. "This isn't a game anymore, if it ever was a game. We have to keep the upper hand. If I give myself up, I can divert their attention away from you. But more importantly, it will give Belizaire the ammunition he needs to make the story intelligible. We can bring the system down as many times as we want. Only public opinion will see that it never rises again."

"What about the system, Owen? You created it. You know where everything is, right?" Asher leaned into the discussion from his quiet chair in the corner.

"Right." Owen smiled back.

"Can Terence change your password? Can he modify what you have done so that you wouldn't be able to find it or even recognize it?"

"What are you getting at, Asher?" Owen puzzled.

"You hold the key to their simplest solution. Fix the system and they can make everything go away, including you. Extracting information from prisoners is a simple procedure. That's probably the least they'll try. Don't kid yourself, they can be brutal without leaving a mark."

Asher was right. They all knew that, because they had been there for him when he recounted what the government had done to him. A militant in the Gay Rights Movement, openly gay -- proud of it, in fact. His crime lay in his defiance of the mores and laws that a paranoid society had imposed on him. Their ultimate goal had been to break him, to neutralize him as a role model to his kind.

"Terence can't change my password. And the virus is too deeply embedded to modify."

"So this is the weakness in the plan. You have no idea what goes on in jail, Owen, no idea."

"Then teach me, Asher. Maybe it's like anything else, the worst fear is of the unknown."

Asher shook his head slowly. The rest deliberated in silence, digesting his proposal, searching for something that would lay it aside.

"Perhaps you better let us decide this without you, Owen." Cormac broke the uncomfortable silence.

Owen nodded, then donned his coat.

"I'll be in the barn."

Behind him, the meeting resumed in earnest.

"Alkis?"

"I say let him do it."

They all knew that she and Owen had split up. How could they not know in such close quarters? They knew also that Cormac had taken his place but nothing had been said to upset the fragile balance of raw nerves.

"I hope you're not being influenced by anything other than what is best for the movement?" Cormac felt sick asking her.

"Whatever Owen and I had, I still think he's right. It's just easier to be objective, that's all."

Her words melted into the tired rose linoleum floor. Cormac offered her his hand for comfort.

"I don't like it. He'll spill his guts with the first injection, and he won't even realize he did it. Where will that leave us, or the movement?" Asher piped in.

He looked into Cormac's eyes and then sighed. "They'll find us one way or the other, I suppose. At least this is a plan with some chance of success. Maybe Owen's right. Maybe we can prepare him."

Cormac kept his thoughts to himself but joined the reluctant consensus when he called for it. He trudged across the yard to the barn. As he entered Owen smiled at him from behind the soft brown flank that he was brushing.

"Listen, we really need to talk about Alkis." He took silence to mean go ahead. "She was tired of waiting, Owen. I mean she got tired of waiting for you to make a commitment. How long have you been together? Two years? It's a long time."

He watched his words rise and then dissipate in the dust from the horse's thick winter flank as Owen's brush passed over it.

"So what has The Committee decided to do?"

"We're going to go with your proposal. Asher thinks we can prepare you for what might happen."

"Good. When do you want to start?"

"As soon as possible, I guess." He watched Owen stow the brushes as he spoke.

"Don't underestimate how I feel about Alkis." Owen mumbled as he brushed past him into the dark.

He moved off toward the farmhouse at a pace indicating he wished to be alone. Cormac followed, hands in pockets, scanning the road for headlights, uneasy despite their isolation.

Cormac returned to the kitchen after Owen and went to the wood stove to put the kettle on. They would need to plan the scenario that would teach him what to expect.

"He is so screwed up." Alkis sighed. "He's got so much emotion and passion when he lets himself go. It's like he drops his guard for short spells and gets incredibly close. But it's always followed by panic. It's easy to tell when he's in panic-mode. He disappears to the office, or sits at his computer and pretends there's no one else in the world except him. Maybe there's something there you can use."

"It's a mixture of mental and physical terror that finally gets you. But I don't know if I'm up for the physical side of things." Asher added.

"Christ, Asher. I can barely make fist." Cormac answered.

"I guess, we'll have to rely on words then." Asher sighed then turned to retrieve the screaming kettle.

Cas drifted eastward, to Ottawa where employment prospects seemed better, where he could depend on anonymity. The pattern resumed however, when he tried to land permanent work. There was always short-term labor. He mailed most of his earnings back to Dena to keep the bond alive, and to assure him that his family was still his. In return, she wrote, sometimes twice a week, in words that sounded like the ones that had greeted him and soothed him when he came off his shift. He could hear her voice in the print, and he longed for her soothing hands and her warm body.

This was how he learned about SLIGO's plan to recruit sixty workers to fill the commitments that Tomaso had spoken about. He contemplated returning home and standing in line for his old job. After all, Dena made it clear that this was what she wanted, and this was what Tomaso was going to do. Instinct told him that the trip home would be fruitless. So he stayed in the capital, turning up scraps of work, like beetles under rocks.

Some weeks later, Dena's letter bore the news of Tomaso's suicide.

At the door to Owen's bedroom, Cormac took a deep breath. He kicked it in and clattered to his bedside.

"Get up."

He shivered as he rose. Cormac pushed him down the stairs and out into the cold night where Asher was waiting to prime him for the ordeal. They forced him to stand near- naked in the cold, then hauled him back inside to the root cellar.

Owen blinked his eyes and tried to find something to focus on in the black earthy void. Hugging his bare knees for warmth, he leaned against the damp concrete wall and waited for their return. Asher broke into his darkness and carried a folding table down the steep stairs. He broke the void again and returned with two metal chairs. Then he left him alone to find his fear in the dirt and sweaty concrete.

Daybreak brought Terence through the kitchen door. He made for the pot of coffee then noted how sullen Cormac and Asher were as they sat at the kitchen table.

"It's cold out there. We need some snow to warm things up."

He had left his car down an abandoned dirt road for safety and then hiked the remaining three kilometers in the dark so he could be with them. From his phone call two nights ago, he had felt the devastation of the raid. It had scared the hell out of him, too, especially when they told him that Owen had been wounded.

"What's up?" He smiled at the two. Asher responded by leaving to check on their business in the cellar.

The quiet man's angry tone caught him like a blow to the stomach. His stiff fingers recoiled and his cup shattered at his feet.

"What the hell is going on?"

"Last night Owen asked us to consider letting him give himself up. We agreed to it. He also wanted us to prepare him for what he might have to face." Terence sensed the doubt in Cormac's words.

"So what does that mean? Asher is downstairs torturing Owen?" He started toward the cellar.

"Don't interfere here Terence, it's what Owen wants. It's for his own good."

"I don't believe that and neither do you. Get out of my way."

"No Terence."

Asher reappeared. He positioned a chair in front of the cellar door and sat down. Cormac stood his ground.

"Come back in three days. I promise you Owen will be alright. We are not going to hurt him."

He left the farmhouse, sick at heart. Where did this madness come from? Why haven't I been able to find out after all these years? He stumbled across the field toward the abandoned road.

Asher guided him to the metal chair, then shone a light in his eyes. He laughed, but could not see beyond the searing brightness. "Isn't this a little cliche, Asher? They don't really do this, do they?"

"It's more effective after they've pumped you up with drugs. The light makes your heart race, makes you sweat and feel like vomiting. It's how they wear you down, how they set you up for the rest."

"The rest?" He wished Asher would come out from behind the light so that he could read his eyes.

"Some of them prefer brute force, others like their toys and technology. The worst like sexual things." Asher created silence.

"Asher, what's going to happen?"

"All of it, Owen. All of it. And then they're going to kill you."

Terence paced the floor, checked the kids again, then returned to bed to pitch sleeplessly beside his wife. He knew Joanna understood. His abiding love of Owen had always been a given between them. He had protected him, like an older brother, and now he was powerless.

Through the years he had tried to understand his friend's deepening dislocation with life, but it had always eluded him. Just when it seemed to fade, it would reappear to sabotage the balance. He understood the purpose behind what Owen had orchestrated at the farmhouse. It followed a familiar pattern. Why did he work so hard to cut himself off from those whom he needed to survive?

His mind drifted back to Owen's thirteenth birthday and the last time he had let himself be drawn in. There had been a promise, father to son. They would spend the day together. But the promise had been broken by the beeping of a pager. Terence had sensed the loneliness, the disappointment when he called. It was late, but he feared the tone in his friend's voice. He bicycled over.

"The real test is not feeling pain." Owen had said in the shadows of the sterile house. He followed his friend to the kitchen and grew uneasy when he ignited the jet on the gas stove.

"Keep your eyes on my eyes. If I flinch, hit me." He stood to face him.

"Don't be stupid, Owen."

"Watch, Ter." He teased the flame with his fingers and then placed his hand squarely in the middle. Terence remembered his cool gray eyes and steady expression.

He listened to the stringy wind as it wove its music through the steady breath of his sleeping wife. There was no need to test Owen's mettle, no need to hit him.

By the third night, reality was fading into the damp walls of the cellar. They sat, tormentor and victim across from each on the damp metal folding chairs. Cormac had the upper hand. From years of practice on the bench he had developed a special talent for exploiting weaknesses in his opponents. But he was growing sick of this game, and despite his exhaustion, Owen was standing firm against him.

He wanted to move on to the only fight that mattered to them. He drew fire at the mention of her name. It fed his resolve to break him.

"Shall I tell you why you really want to give yourself up? It's because you've lost Alkis. She's gone and now you realize that you didn't want that to happen. What's left Owen? You're all alone."

"Get off this, Cormac."

"Alkis left you. Just like everyone leaves you. You're pathetically leavable. Your life is meaningless, despite everything you do to bring it meaning. Do you honestly think giving yourself up will change things? You'll wake up in prison and feel alive, because you got the attention of a few more people? Think again man, because you are missing something fundamental. And no matter what happens, you'll be as cold and dead as the bronze statue they put up in your honor."

He watched his victim's control fall away like the moorings of a rocket. Owen leapt across the table and pinned him to the ground. His hands were tight around his neck and there was murder in his eyes. As quickly as he had struck, he released his grip and backed away. Cormac slid to the ground retching and gasping for breath.

"Oh God. What am I doing? Cormac are you alright?"

He nodded and tried to reassure him with a smile. So he had a breaking point after all. The least Owen owed him was an explanation. He watched him slump to the ground and hide his tears behind filthy hands. It was hard to watch him cry, but satisfying in another place.

"Let me do this, Cormac, it's so much more useful than simply blowing my brains out."

Cormac swallowed the wave of nausea rising in his gut. He wanted to leave, but could not move without help.

"Let's get out of here."

They stumbled up the stairway together and met Asher in the kitchen. He poured them coffee and then brought one for himself.

Twelve hours passed. Cormac returned to the kitchen refreshed but anxious to put some sense to what happened.

"Let's take a walk."

They meandered a good half mile across the field of stiff grass, thinking about what to say to each other, wondering how and where to begin.

"What are you going to tell the rest?" There was anxiety in Owen's voice.

"What do you want me to tell them that this is your way of killing yourself?"

"It's the truth. What's more important though, is that I broke under pressure. I think that's what you have to tell them."

"I had an inside track on how to do it. Otherwise you passed with flying colors."

They continued in silence like two boys on a walkabout. The lake lay still and steamy, waiting to be atrophied by winter's hand. Owen skipped one rock across the glassy surface. The first bounced three times before sinking; the second, four. Cormac sat down nearby.

"How do you do that?"

"It's all in the rock."

"No, it's not." Cormac smiled at his friend then returned to the issue. "If you really want to give yourself up, I won't stop you. What happened last night is between you and me -- no one else."

"Yes, I really do want to give myself up. But now you know why. That makes you a kind of Dr. Death doesn't it?"

Cormac turned to scan the steaming lake. "I suppose. But it seems like a perfect crime to me."

"Will it bother you to know?"

Cormac caught the emptiness and the fear as it crossed his friend's eyes. He cursed himself for stripping him of the support that he would need to carry him through.

"Look, Owen, what I said back there was real crazy. We haven't left you. Whatever happens, we'll back your efforts. You need to hold on to this. Promise me that you'll survive."

"We both acted pretty badly. How's your neck?"

"It's okay." He involuntarily reached for the spot where he could still feel Owen's thumb. The smell of reconciliation drifted into consciousness. It emanated from the dew on their coats and in their hair. It brought them peace and genuine sorrow for the loss they would both suffer.

It was time to head back. They retraced their steps across the frosted landscape.

"It's best to keep silent, Owen, whatever happens. As soon as you open your mouth, you've lost control. That's the advice I always give to my clients. Keep your goals simple. Take things one step at a time, get through the minute, then the hour before thinking about the next day."

They worked out the words of his surrender, and finally, the place.

Cormac's footsteps trailed behind him like a turtle's tail. Time slipped by to his front porch. He sat down on the wet step and looked at the darkened shell of Owen's house across the street. He stayed there, unaware that his clothes were soaked through with the damp and with the sweat from the weight of his burden. Alkis came out, coat covering her flannel nightgown. She sat down and wrapped her arms around him. He responded with a long and passionate kiss.

"Let's go inside."

He cast another look toward Owen's house, laid siege by the yellow cordon, and by the dark police cruiser stationed down the street.

Chapter 3

Thirty-ninety Lawyer, Level Seven stepped out of her public self into the foyer of her apartment. Fourteen hours had elapsed since she had crossed the threshold in the other direction. Dropping the heavy briefcase stuffed with human folly, she made her way to her bedroom and the crumpled tracksuit that lay waiting to embrace her. She assumed the flashing light on her answering machine as she padded to the kitchen to complete a power supper with bicarbonate and coffee. Collecting the briefcase, she plopped herself down into a favorite corner of the black leather sectional and activated the phone messages by remote control.

"Hi Thirty-ninety? This is Twenty-four-sixty-eight. Are we still on for this weekend? Call me at the office before Three."

Too late. Twenty-four-sixty-eight was a convenience, like a beer in the fridge. He was great to have around when the urge struck. Otherwise, he got in the way. Casual liaisons were out, too risky, unhygienic. She needed someone whom she could depend upon to stay clean, to stay out of other women. She had made a pact with Twenty-four- sixty-eight who feared STD's as much as she did. In return for cleanliness, she gave him a playground, on her terms.

She wondered 'til the next message how she could truly get out of "this weekend".

"Forty-five-O-six here, don't forget to pencil in lunch with the Women's Law Reform, this Friday."

She sighed and reached for her daybook. These luncheons were a waste of time, but necessary, like joining the Junior League was necessary to a divorce lawyer.

Other voices dictated her agenda. They filled the void with meaningless games that she had half-convinced herself were realities worth pursuing. She hated the phone, depended on it for meaning, like a junkie to the needle.

"Hello, I am Eighty-three-forty-two Administrator, Level Six from the Department of Justice. Could you please call me at 994 2703 as soon as possible to arrange an appointment with the Minister. Thank You."

Probably calling in some heavyweight lawyers to stage a media event, she surmised. These functions were exercises in mutual masturbation. The Minister's credibility got stroked by the presence of the lawyers, and the lawyers' prestige got stroked by association with the official power. In the end, much seed was spilled, with no substantive issue. But the wine was always French and the caviar, always Russian, so it was worth the trip.

She made a note to call a colleague to find out if he too had received an invitation.

"Beats me Thirty-ninety. I didn't get a call from Justice. Who was it?"

"Don't know, I'm not familiar with his UI. Is there anything about to pass in the House?"

"Maybe they want you to do some work for them."

"No." she mused. "They have their own people, trained to their standards. There's no reason for them to go outside."

When she had sucked the answering machine dry, she turned to the cases she had chosen to bring into her private world. These were the oddballs, the difficult ones that would require extra consideration. They committed more time, more energy to the void between consciousness and sleep. But then the commitment paid off in a success rate beyond comparison. In turn, she could use her competitiveness and her success to distance herself from everyone.

The bureaucrat from the odd phone message set an appointment for the same afternoon and refused to divulge the reason why she had been summoned.

Two sets of leather-soled shoes thumped gently in the thick pile carpet that wound its way to the boardroom. Thirty-ninety distracted herself with the barred pattern on her escort's shiny charcoal suit. He created it as he tripped the beams of sunlight shining through the floor-to-ceiling vertical blinds.

It was difficult to make out the features of the people gathered for the meeting with the sun on their backs. She smelled the bureaucracy before putting a face to it.

Mothballs.

The Minister was typical of his contemporaries, new to the portfolio, a product of the latest Cabinet shuffle. He brought to his post a combination of inexperience in the subject matter, unpreparedness for the task, and a lack of imagination. These credentials of course were inconsequential to the effective management of the Department. The real power lay with the career civil servants under him.

She noted how she was directed to the Minister's right, like a team member.

"Thank you for coming on such short notice, I hope that we have not inconvenienced you?"

"Not at all. How can I help you?"

He smiled appreciatively. Nevertheless, the script had been written, and it was his job to follow it.

"Thirty-ninety, we have reviewed your dossier and are very impressed by your qualifications and your track record. Your success rate in litigation is staggering. That is why we have called you here today, to discuss a very sensitive matter. I wonder if you might continue, Ten-eleven."

This is beginning to feel like a ballet for an audience of one.

The man to his left cleared his throat and leaned forward importantly.

"No doubt you are aware of the case of Seventy-eighty-nine Programmer, Level Ten and the computer virus that he activated last July?"

She nodded, recalling a series of articles that had appeared subsequent to the event. At the time she had been amused by the creativity shown by the authors in UI replacements; that is, until she lost her own identity.

"For reasons of security, it is not widely known that the Government apprehended him some three months ago. Given the adverse publicity that we have already suffered, we are anxious to appear fair-handed when the news of his capture is made public, and that will be shortly, by the same journalist who has been responsible for the other stories. In fact we were unable to extend the three-month injunction against his organization publishing any material relevant to the case. Our appeal notwithstanding, we expect it will be lifted tomorrow."

She breathed deeply halfway through Ten-eleven's discourse, wondering how he could go on so long without taking a breath himself. After that she found herself phasing out, lulled to sleep by the bureaucrat's monotonous tone. Had he not paused dramatically, she would have missed the punch-line.

"We would like to be able to announce that you have consented to take on Seventy- eighty-nine's defense."

"Has Seventy-eighty-nine been consulted about this arrangement?" The question was obvious, she thought, but asked it anyway.

"Well, no. He has refused counsel of any kind." Ten-eleven replied, barely audibly.

"What makes you think he'll accept me, especially if I've been retained by the Government?"

"I think he'll respond to you." The Minister seemed to anticipate this question. "After all he has been held in isolation for three months. You have more to offer than just legal advice."

Of course, perfect qualifications, tits and ass with a brain. She tried to stifle the sneer.

"Suppose I'm not his type, Minister?"

"Is my male chauvinism showing? You represent our best shot at trying to provide fair treatment for this man. That you are the best defense lawyer around is vital to our public image and to killing some of the doubts that have surfaced because of Seventy-eighty- nine's activities. You are also an attractive woman. That may improve our chances of changing his mind about accepting Counsel."

She walked to the far end of the conference table and gazed down on the city. The politics of it could prove a trap, not to mention the matter of possible conflict of interest if she was retained by the Complainant to represent the Defendant.

But the idea appealed to her. It smacked of glitter. And it would ensure further lucrative contracts with the Government. If Seventy-eighty-nine had admitted his role in the crime, then his probable intent was to use the legal process as a soapbox. What they really wanted was to cover the whole thing up, to turn him away from the idea of show-trial and accept plea-bargaining.

If she played it right, it could be cut-and-dry, lots of money and little work. She could achieve a win-win for both sides. For the government, silence, for Seventy-eighty-nine, what every revolutionary wanted, the freedom to pursue his agenda.

"Do you have the file for me to look over?"

Ten-eleven retrieved a box in the corner of the boardroom and pulled out three thick file folders as well as a black three-ring binder.

"I've arranged the documents to facilitate your briefing on the subject. The binder contains a record of what we found in his house when it was searched."

"I'll read through them tonight and give you my answer tomorrow."

It was nearing five-thirty and she had another appointment before she could retreat.

Buried in the black folds of home, she opened the file. It began with photograph and fingerprints of the subject, taken during processing at Twelve P. She glossed over these and settled on the Chalk River induction form.

Her subject was thirty-eight years old, 173 centimeters tall, 64 kilograms. On the thin side, she thought. Fresh scar at the hairline behind his left ear, scar on his right palm, no remarkable birthmarks. According to the medical report, he was in excellent health. There was no next of kin listed, of course. Since his incarceration, he had been allowed no visitors, nor had anyone applied to see him.

She moved on to the arrest report. It was disjointed and short, under the circumstances, she noted. It informed her that he had been arrested on the night of November twelfth, last year, and was processed at Twelve P by Sixty-two-fifty Police Sergeant, Level Four.

She read his statement. No surprises here, except that his confession felt rehearsed; his words, well-chosen. It was as if he had been coached by a good lawyer. He had signed the name, Owen Teague, under his typed 'Unique Identifier'.

Appended to the arrest document was a transfer form, indicating that he had been moved to Chalk River the morning of the thirteenth.

The file outlined a brilliant career, highlighted by awards and promotions. His last position had been the best, Head, EDP Central and Technical Liaison to Committee One- Three-Seven.

Oh yes, the Peoples' Information Ombudsman.

The dossier read like a hagiography that fell short of the last step. If she was careful, she thought, she could prevent his martyrdom.

The black binder contained artifacts of an everyday existence. Several items caught her attention. The first was a set of notes and reminders to contact someone named Terence. It culminated in a letter linking him as well as a group of unknown players to the conspiracy.

She recalled the articles she had read last summer. Hadn't there been mention of a revolutionary cell? What was it called? The Committee; how original.

June 6

Dear Terence;

The time is not quite right. It's pointless to set the thing off without some kind of forewarning. We need general public agreement. Please try to convince the others of this, since they are expecting me to activate it sometime in July.

Owen.

Another set of notes identified someone else in his life. Probably the most revealing said simply; "Alkis: I'm sorry! Owen."

She accepted the case the next day.

Within an hour of her phone call to the Department, Ten-eleven was in her office. He brought with him several items crucial to her involvement. Letters and pass card guaranteed her access to information and to her client. His last offering was the contract for her approval and signature. She scanned it and ticked those clauses that were questionable.

"What are you getting at in Four C?

"The virus is still in CCIS. Any information that might help us dismantle it is crucial to our efforts. Four C only requires you to report anything that relates to the virus or to the system, nothing else. Seventy-eighty-nine is our principle resource, and so far he's not been cooperative."

She leaned back to measure the implications of the clause.

"It will in no way compromise your ability to defend him, since we continue by saying that none of this information will be used by the Prosecution. Under the circumstances, there would be no point." He punctuated his last statement with a superior smile. She vowed silently to make him eat it.

"I would like added, Insofar as it does not violate the principle of client-attorney privilege to Four C."

He hand-wrote her words on the document and they ratified them with their Unique Identifiers. There were no arguments over the 1.5 million dollar retainer.

The final business that he had in his briefcase involved the press release that would be issued in response to the impending news report on Seventy-eighty-nine's capture. Thirty- ninety approved the text with minor edits.

As she watched him leave, a sudden spasm gripped her throat. She soothed it with bottled water. Would this case be more trouble than it was worth?

The lights at Concord and Wurtemburg were never in her favor when she was tired and wanted only to go home. Seventy-eighty-nine's house was on Concord Street, 172 Concord.

Why not? She whispered to herself.

She got the key from the officer in the sentinel car and made her way to his front door. The house itself was one of those turn-of-the-century townhouses that had been gentrified some years back and sold for an astronomical amount. She remembered contemplating investing in one of them, but had instead chosen a no-maintenance high- rise as a more fitting solution to her lifestyle.

Stepping into his foyer, she cast her eyes around a scene of laundered chaos. As she moved about, she involuntarily stooped to right the phone table that lay across her path. She picked her way across the debris that littered the floor and tried to approximate the scene as it might have existed, in a state of grace.

For the most part, he had chosen to decorate his surroundings in the manner of a desert pueblo. Bleached greens and pale brick defined the space. His furniture was sparse, solid but light, sandblasted in appearance. The coverings were geometric in design, almost mathematical. The near-white pine floors were accented by throw rugs of Hopi origin, or by rattan mats of intricate weave. In the kitchen and in the bathroom he had followed through with his theme, choosing weathered adobe tiles for the floor and faded green for the walls. She noted that wherever she stood in these two rooms, she could discern a logic in the placement of his kitchenware or toiletries or the like.

His bedroom was warmer in color, but still thematically correct. Underneath the strewn contents of a drawer there was a sheepskin over a woven bed cover. She relished the sensation as she buried her hand in it.

She sat on the edge of the bed and surveyed the room. On the armoire was a framed photograph of a dark-haired boy of about seven standing beside a smiling woman. Their eyes squinted in the same way against a long-shadowed sun. Next to this was another frame, face down. She righted it. It was a portrait in black and white of Seventy-eighty-nine the adult, head and naked shoulders. It said so much more about her subject than the mug shot in the police file. She removed it from the frame and read the writing on the back. "The Wizard."

She noted the fine line of his face, the translucent quality of his eyes and how striking they seemed juxtaposed with dark hair and eyebrows. Bare shoulders made him sultry, vaguely erotic. It was a reflective study, taken with a special sensitivity. So what she reasoned as an intense face seemed more so. He looks the part of a celluloid revolutionary, she chuckled to herself and tucked the photo into her coat pocket. The rest of the room awaited her intrusion.

Her next stop was his wardrobe. Despite the length of time since he had been there, she could discern a characteristic scent when she opened the door. It was faint and mixed with the smell of cedar from the planked walls.

There were several suits of conventional color but of unusual style hanging there. The shirts for these were, for the most part, white or wild-patterned and oversized. His collection of ties bespoke a tendency toward the outré. There was an upside-down rainbow trout, and one with the Starship, Enterprise and the words, "the final frontier" discreetly sewn into the apex. There were a couple of gray fleece track pants that still held the shape of his thighs and knees.

She continued her exploration into his office. This room appeared to have been completely denuded of his personal effects. A CRT, and a black halogen desk lamp dominated from a corner. On the upper level of his desk was a brass nameplate with 'Owen Teague, Ph.D.' stamped on it. Shrine-like, some dried flowers and an incense stick had been stuck in its frame.

On the wall above, was a certificate embossed with the sign of the Yin and the Yang. It linked him to a popular local Tai Chi club at the instructor level. She recalled visiting it once, several years ago with a view to joining something that approximated exercise. Had she spoken to him? No, it had been a woman, an East Indian woman who had shown her around.

There were more framed photographs situated within eye range of the computer screen. From their arrangement, several had been removed. The ones that remained were scenes of past vacations; Seventy-eighty-nine catching a fish, a close-up of a pitcher plant, and a typical shot of Lake Louise.

It was getting quite dark now, and there was no electricity. She shivered amidst the cold walls and watched the gray vapor of her breath as it dissipated into the atmosphere. The cold drove her back to the foyer. She closed the door quietly behind her.

Cormac looked toward Owen's house over the rim of his evening tea. There was someone there. He decided to add some more salt to the ice pooled in his front walkway to get a better look.

From this vantage point, he watched the woman pull the front door shut. If she crossed the street, the remaining light would be enough to get a good look at her. Thirty-ninety obliged, since the patrol car was parked on his side. As she passed by, she acknowledged him with a vacant smile.

I've seen her before. In court.

He hated his cell, the lack of human contact, the sterile gray walls and the violet parabolic eye of the camera that watched him.

There was little room to pace, and less for Tai Chi. But the mental image of the moves and how they had relaxed him in better times returned here, unimpeded by the distractions of a busy life. He practiced each one, and then the long set by the hour. The placement of foot, the synchrony of hand and arm, and especially the shifting and turning of weight and body calmed his soul, fed his chi and kept his system intact.

Asher had been right about the drugs.

They came at night, hoping to catch him in a vulnerable state. First they would pin him to his bed, and then administer the shot. A sickening taste would flood the back of his throat and he would float free of his restraints. He could depend on the headache and the nausea that would follow. In the morning, when he could stand up without the support of a wall, he would bring his aching body and pounding head back to the Tai Chi hoping it would heal and clear the toxins from his organs.

Between sessions, his isolation was complete, and his sensory deprivation absolute. Starved of human contact, he came to anticipate and almost appreciate their visits. God only knew what he said to them. When he tried to remember, it seemed like abstract babble, or words with secret meanings. But he could still will himself short of giving them what they wanted. Maybe it was Asher's warning. If he kept his secret, they would not kill him. Silence was an act of survival; isolation was death enough. And he needed to stay alive, if only for the hearing.

Then they stopped coming.

The expiry of the ban on information was timed to deny the other side the lucrative six o'clock share. The late-night crowd was the first to hear the news. From the quiet of her bedroom, Thirty-ninety washed the journalist's observations down with mineral water.

Why did he insist that Seventy-eighty-nine had given himself up? His story was inconsistent with fact, a strange tactic for a seasoned journalist. Perhaps he knew something more than what she had found in the official record. It was worth a meeting.

They met at a piano bar where they could blend into the crowd.

"What makes you think I have anything to say to you? It isn't that I don't like you, I'm just a little sensitive about anything that has a connection to the Feds."

"I will be Counsel for the Defense, not for the Prosecution. The Government has nothing to do with this."

"They're paying your fees, aren't they?" He was guessing, she surmised, but spoke as if it were fact. She swished the wine around her glass impatiently, calculating her next move.

"Seventy-eighty-nine has refused counsel." she sighed. " Their interest is in seeing justice done, of giving him a fighting chance. I accepted the case, only on the condition that I have complete autonomy in all matters."

"And you believe that?" The journalist smiled cynically.

"Believe what exactly?"

"Their interest is in seeing justice done? That they will let you have complete autonomy on all matters?"

She sighed again and returned his smile. "It seems to me, whatever their motivation, they have provided a window of opportunity for him, and it should be exploited to the full. That's what I intend to do. That's why I would like your help."

Belizaire chased her words down with the remainder of his scotch. She didn't want a refill, but he ordered another for himself. He leaned back in his chair and sized her up until his drink came. A looker, with a sharp mind, he reasoned. Must eat men up like nachos.

"You obviously haven't met him yet."

"Why do you say that?"

"You wouldn't be referring to him as Seventy-eighty-nine." He took a moment to acquaint himself with the new drink.

"He's given me a name, you know." He continued. "He gives everybody a name, unless they had the guts to keep their own. Mine's Belizaire, but I haven't the balls to use it yet. I wonder what he'll call you?"

"He'll call me what I want him to call me." she smiled.

Belizaire produced his portfolio on the matter, glancing furtively about the smoky room for any sign of foul play.

"You can look at my stuff here, but you can't have any of it."

She went quickly through the screen dumps then studied the photographs he had taken at Twelve P.

"Great shots, but they prove nothing." She observed. "And all these printouts tell me is that you could easily be found guilty as a co-conspirator to treason. That is if they could be proven to originate with my client."

"It's the story that's important here, not the teller. And as for verifying my sources, I'm in touch with Terence and Cormac, the leaders of the Committee since Owen took the fall." He up-ended the remainder of his drink and chewed the ice.

He smiled and said, "Baby, you're just as much a cog in their wheel as I am, no matter how much you convince yourself otherwise. Get used to it."

It had been a week since she had accepted the Government's offer and she had studied as much of the material on the case as she could lay her hands on. It was time to meet her client face-to-face.

The gates of Chalk River Federal Penitentiary fell to her pass card each time she zipped it through the readers. At the third gate, she was met by the warden and two uniformed guards.

"Thirty-ninety Lawyer level Seven, right?"

"Right."

The guards led the way across a concrete courtyard.

"We've allocated a private room to you, and your client. If there is anything you need, let me know and it will be provided." The warden offered.

"Thank you. I will need a good-sized table for papers and the like, and an outlet for my computer notepad and tape recorder."

"Already taken care of, ma'am. Could we discuss arrangements for the prisoner for a moment?"

"Certainly."

"Would you like him restrained during your interviews?"

"Is he a violent man, Warden?"

"A bit eccentric, but not violent."

"Then no."

"Well, in any event, I'll post a guard inside the room to ensure your safety."

"Thank you, but that won't be necessary. I would rather our meetings be private." She made eye contact to punctuate her demand.

"If that's what you want, my instructions are to cooperate fully, short of letting him walk out of here."

They had come to their destination. The Warden accompanied her as she inspected the arrangements. The room was a good size and boasted a larger-than-usual heavily meshed window overlooking the inner courtyard. The walls and floor were consistently concrete, gray and cold; and there were several naked light bulbs hanging from the ceiling at regular intervals, casting a bland but useable light. A plain wooden table was situated on the far wall opposite and facing the door. Someone had placed a water jug and two glasses on a tray at its corner. Her chair was obviously the new ergonomic one. The prisoner's was a plain wooden one.

"This will do nicely, Warden. Thank you."

She walked over to the table and plopped her briefcase down. The warden followed her to give her his last instructions.

"If you need anything, the guard will be outside the door. There are buttons here, here, and on the table that will summon him immediately. When you're finished, press one and he will unlock the door to let you out and escort the prisoner back to his cell."

She used the time until the prisoner arrived to arrange papers and review her strategy for controlling the meeting.

It was only mid-afternoon by crude reckoning, so why was there someone opening his cell door? He blinked astonishment at the guard through Stork Fans Wings.

"Out."

He complied, relieved that he was not being forcibly dealt with. He followed the guard down the corridor and across the courtyard. Despite the raw cold, he stopped and turned his face upward to catch the fleeting warmth of the sun. The aura it cast across the brick and concrete was spectacular, like some miracle without the Alleluia. It cleared his head of the musty smells of his cell and lightened the rest of his steps.

The guard unlocked the door and entered with him. A woman waved the guard out and then smiled at him.

He felt himself staring wide-eyed, like a child on Christmas morning. He covered his amazement with a half-smile and plunged his hands into the pockets of his prison coveralls.

"Good afternoon, Seventy-eighty-nine. Would you like to sit down?"

She ignored him as he approached. Rather, she turned her attention to the papers before her.

"I am Thirty-ninety Lawyer, Level Seven. People interested in serving justice have asked me to approach you about letting me represent you. Will you hear me out? Or would you like me to go away?"

He barely listened to her. Instead he concentrated on internalizing a description of her to take back with him; anything to cut through the isolation.

By her sitting height, she was at least as tall as he was, functionally slender, but not thin, and neat almost to the point of severity. Her face was sharp-featured but pleasant. Her eyes were of animated blue and strikingly correct against her auburn hair which she wore in a thick dancer's knot. He glanced down to her hands. Her fingers were long, relaxed until she noticed his attention. Then she covered the left hand with the right.

"I told them I didn't want a lawyer." His voice, it sounded new after months of listening to it only from his mind. "But I'd like to hear what you have to say. Please stay awhile."

He surprised himself with his own candor, his need to sustain the contact. "My name is Owen, what's yours?"

"Your virus called me Eleni. That was just before it destroyed all my work."

"Eleni," he formed it quietly, without apology. "I like it. Pretty good for random allocation."

"Let's get back to business shall we?"

"Who sent you, Eleni? Did they?"

She met his eyes with directness.

"Yes. And, to answer your next question, they are paying the bills, too. Mighty generous under the circumstances."

"Why? What do they want?"

"What do you think they want?"

"Not justice," he shrugged. "Maybe they want to make things look right."

He drew back into reality. Drugs hadn't worked; maybe she would. No. Full consciousness was on his side. But it was so good to be out from under the surveillance, to be talking to someone. She was a resource. So what if she was their instrument, she could be his, too, if he was careful.

"Why are you here, Eleni?"

It was her turn to consider strategy. What could she say? He was too bright to try to snow, but then her gut response to direct questions had always been evasion. She sensed his ability to cut through facade. It was disquieting, it forced her to be sincere.

"The case is advantageous to me."

"Advantageous?"

"It's the first challenge I've had in a long time."

"Good money?"

He met her eyes with gray prisms. She saw herself reflected back, almost sharper than the image sent.

"That too."

"Are you good?" He blushed at the words.

She laughed, watched him absorb the sound.

"Yes, I'm very good."

There was awkward silence. She bristled under observation but concealed it in ice. He had power over her, because the decision lay with him. No, more than that, she intuited, because he could pull more from his observation of her than she might know of herself.

"So what would you recommend I do, Eleni?"

It was as if he wanted to provide her an opening, an escape. He's playing me, she thought.

"Since you have already pleaded guilty, my best advice is to go for a reduction of the charges and plea-bargain for sentence. They're not going to let you put on a show, if that's what you hoped for. In any event, if you want to accept my counsel there are several possibilities open to you."

He was seated as comfortably as possible, given the austerity of his chair. Though the photo on his dresser had reproduced him accurately and with a certain art, it had failed to capture the intensity of his eyes, their observational power, the vulnerability behind them. He was slight of body, but strong. His fingers were long and almost delicate. And the random collections of gray in his long black hair tried to make him seem older than he looked.

She wondered if he was falling into the trap anticipated by the Minister. No, she was not reading arousal. He seemed too innocent, almost child-like in the attention he paid her. Yet there was wariness, reticence. He was like a starving wild thing confronted with food.

"What's your opinion of all this, Eleni?"

"Not important. A lawyer's job is to represent, not necessarily to believe in the client's cause."

He smiled at this, as if in triumph, she thought.

"How can I make a decision without context?"

She had underestimated him. How odd. Her thoughts, or maybe the pause they created were exposing her.

"It's a two-way street, Seventy-eighty-nine. My frank opinion for your cooperation. Agreed?"

"Are those your only terms, Eleni?"

"No surprises."

"Sounds reasonable. Okay."

She drew herself up and matched his eyes with hers.

"In my opinion, you have wreaked havoc on the country. The People chose to implement the government's system, not you. You have no right to impose your single- minded vision on us without first testing it out democratically." She cut herself off. The soapbox was his medium, not hers.

"I'm not what you might characterize as an intellectual ally."

More silence. He's inviting me to contradict myself. She remained firm.

He reached for the water jug on the table. It startled her and she responded by laying her hand over the button. Her fear stopped him. He offered what he hoped was a comforting smile and then resumed his intent when she withdrew her hand. Pouring two glasses, he offered her one.

"Shall we toast the beginning of the case or shall we drink to our first meeting?"

She hesitated, but then took the glass from him. There was nothing to say. This round had gone to him.

"There is a legal expression that fits here, isn't there?" He teased her with his gray smile.

"I thought you were a computer programmer, not a lawyer."

"Systems analyst, please. This kind of work requires one to know a little about everything. Do you want me to continue?"

"Why not?"

He beamed at her as he formed the Latin words. "Qui tacit concentire videtur.

"Since silence indicates consent. Shall we drink to both?"

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