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- Herausgeber: Next Chapter
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
50 years ago, two little boys set out in the world. At the same time, companies begin using computers. Aiden and Stevie don't fit in the grey society of the 1970s, but when punk rock explodes across the land, misfits like them are welcomed with open arms.
The scene is intoxicating: the music, the camaraderie, the ‘you can do anything’ philosophy. Encouraged, they follow their dreams. But sometimes, dreams can become nightmares. While Aiden gets involved with East German spies and Stevie becomes a part of a street gang, computers become smarter and the internet arrives.
But the billionaires controlling the network haven't had enough; they know whoever controls the killswitch controls the Internet, and they want that power. Now, the fate of mankind rests in the hands of two dodgy, old punks. Our heroes are battle weary and intimidated by modern technology; they need someone younger to answer the call.
There is someone who has the right attitude and the skills, but he isn't convinced the human race deserves to be saved. Soon, the three find themselves racing against time and impossible odds... and they are the only hope we've got.
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
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THE KILLSWITCH
IAN PARSON
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Chapter 128
Chapter 129
Chapter 130
Chapter 131
Chapter 132
Chapter 133
Chapter 134
Chapter 135
Chapter 136
Chapter 137
Chapter 138
Chapter 139
Chapter 140
Chapter 141
Chapter 142
Chapter 143
Chapter 144
Chapter 145
Chapter 146
Chapter 147
Chapter 148
About the Author
Copyright (C) 2022 Ian Parson
Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter
Published 2022 by Next Chapter
Edited by Charity Rabbiosi
Cover art by CoverMint
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.
In memory of Simon ‘Sibs’ Sibley 1965 – 2022
Dedicated to punks, hackers & ornithologists everywhere
1
1970
Aiden Fitzpatrick was five years old. He strolled along a tree-lined path with a book tucked under his arm. Aiden loved books. He’d spent the afternoon beneath his favourite oak, rolling new words around in his mouth, pretending he knew how to pronounce them and what they meant. He lived just up the hill.
“Where you goin’?”
He looked up at a boy about the same age as him on a bend in the path. The kid wore a Spiderman T-shirt. Aiden smiled. He liked Spiderman and was always up for new friends.
“Where you goin’?” the stranger repeated.
“‘Ome,” Aiden told him.
“You can’t come this way.”
“I always go this way.”
In the 70s, it was not unusual for small children to make their own way within their locality. Nobody gave it too much thought.
In response to Aiden’s statement of fact, the boy held up a stone. He drew back his arm as though about to throw.
“Nobody passes this way!” he declared.
Aiden dropped his book and picked up a stone of his own.
“I am,” he said defiantly and launched his missile.
They threw simultaneously. It was impossible to say who actually started it. It didn’t really matter. Aiden dived under a shrub on his side of the path and hastily gathered some stones about him.
The other lad ducked behind a tree. It was a good spot. He had the sweep of the path covered. He popped out intermittently, launching missiles. His aim was nothing for Aiden to worry about. But he clearly had a large supply of ammo within easy reach.
The kid had prepared for this at leisure. He’d been waiting for an opponent. It was nothing personal, anyone would do. He just liked stone fights. He was that age. It was the seventies.
He needs the practice, Aiden mused.
He took to firing sparingly, allowing his opponent to run down his superior reserves.
The boys merrily set to, each using their own tactic. They were rather enjoying themselves until they heard a shout.
“Oi!”
It was the park keeper holding his hat in place and jogging towards them. He didn’t look best pleased, and to five-year-olds he was big.
“Leg it!” the unknown kid shouted, and Aiden followed him through the rhododendrons, out of the park, and up the main road.
After a few minutes they fell in behind a stationery car. The parkie was no longer chasing them. Once they’d left the boundary of his responsibility he didn’t care.
“You’re not a bad shot,” the kid told Aiden.
“Thanks,” Aiden replied. “You need practice.”
The kid smiled. “Do you live round ‘ere?”
Aiden pointed up the hill. “Up there.”
“I’m Stevie.”
“Aiden.”
They beamed at each other and that was it. They might never meet again, but if they did, they were already buddies.
2
A few weeks later, and it was Aiden’s first day at school. He heard the alarm go off in his mum’s bedroom.
“Aiden!” she shouted across the landing. “Get up!”
“I am up.”
He’d already eaten a bowl of rice Krispies and drunk a glass of milk. Now he was browsing a comic.
“Don’t leave a mess in that kitchen!” his mother shouted.
He ignored her and glanced at the clock. Eight-thirty. The school started at nine. It was only a five-minute walk. He carried on reading.
At a quarter to the hour his mum poked her head around the kitchen door. She stood there in her dressing gown with her hair ruffled. She seemed more subdued than normal. “You better not be late.”
He glanced at the clock again. “I won’t.”
She hovered in the doorway, and he couldn’t concentrate on his comic.
“I might as well go,” he announced, sliding back his chair.
His mum tried to give him a kiss on the cheek. It was clumsy, awkward. Neither of them were used to shows of affection.
“See ya,” he said, squeezing past her.
“Don’t take no shit,” she called after his tiny departing form. “And learn something.”
At the school gates, hordes of parents and children buzzed around. The noise was deafening. Aiden slowed his walk as he approached. He glanced suspiciously at all the kissing and cuddling. He skulked to a parked car and leaned on the front wing. All the other kids had somebody to see them off. He felt like a misfit. Not that he wanted his mother present; she would only find a way to embarrass him. But it would have been nice to have somebody.
“Aiden!” He heard his name being called and was stupidly grateful. “Are you startin’ today?”
It was Stevie, his stone-throwing pal. Things were looking up.
“Yeah.”
“Me too.”
They beamed at each other.
“Mum, this is Aiden, my friend from the park.”
“Hello, Aiden.”
He looked up at an impressively tidy woman. Her hair and makeup were immaculate and her coat well cared for. She wore it with the collar turned up—
Like a movie star, Aiden thought.
“Hello,” he mumbled.
“So, you boys are friends? That’s nice. Stay close and they’ll let you sit together.”
They both liked the sound of that. Then a bell clanked above the general hubbub.
“Hold hands, quick,” Stevie’s mother whispered. “Say you’re together.”
They did as she suggested. They clung tightly to each other as the group of new recruits shuffled towards the gate.
Very soon, they were standing before an ancient-looking man. Aiden looked up at tufts of hair protruding from his nostrils. Stevie noted the coating of dandruff halfway down his shoulders.
“Names?” he barked.
“Aiden Fitzpatrick.”
He ticked his sheet of paper.
“Stevie Williams.”
He ticked again.
“Go through,” he instructed.
A young woman hovered behind the door.
“Go through and find a chair,” she said.
They did.
The room filled up with noisy five-year-olds until the woman finally closed the door behind herself.
“Good morning, children, my name is Miss Anderson.”
An expectant hush fell over the room.
“The seat you are now in will be your place for the rest of the school term.”
The boys beamed at each other. It felt like a victory.
“We’re going to stay best friends forever.” Aiden whispered
3
A few years passed. Aiden was eight now.
“Are you awake yet?” His mother’s voice blew across the landing.
“Yeah,” he called back.
He’d been awake for ages, lying on his bed, reading how the Victorians had built the London tube network. It blew his mind that this had actually been made to work, and that it still worked over a hundred years later.
He rolled a new phrase around his mouth.
“Metropolitan Line.” He said it aloud purely because he liked the sound of it. He was improving his vocabulary at an alarming rate.
“Metropolitan Line,” he whispered softly.
“Get me a cup o’ tea,” his mother shouted from her bedroom.
Aiden went to the kitchen.
As he waited for the kettle to boil, he threw an empty wine bottle into the bin.
“‘Ere.” He plonked a mug of sweet tea on the floor beside her bed.
“I threw the empty away,” he said. She smiled sarcastically.
“I ‘eard you chuckin’ glass around.” There was a don’t judge me air about her.
“I’m goin’ to Stevie’s,” he announced and turned on his heel.
“They don’t want you round there this time o’ the morning!”
He ignored her.
The streets were filled with people heading to their daily tasks. Aiden was suspicious of them all. He used the quieter back lanes. He never approached Stevie’s house from the front door. Besides, you never knew what you might find in the lanes. Once he’d come across a pile of books in perfect condition.
From the cobbles, he looked up to Stevie’s kitchen window. He could see his mum wrapped in a dressing gown, fussing over the stove.
She saw him and waved him up.
He climbed the back wall using the same hand and foot holds he always used. He slid across the roof of the outside toilet and lowered himself into the yard. He skipped to the door and flicked the latch.
He could hear old Mr. Stanray coughing from the downstairs flat. He hurried up the stairs to where his pal was waiting for him.
“Alright?”
“Alright?”
They smirked at each other.
“Wanna go down the train yard before school?” Stevie asked.
“Yeah alright.”
“I wanna check the nest.”
Aiden smiled at his little buddy. “Yeah,” he said. “Course you do.”
“We’re going down the yard, mum,” Stevie shouted.
“Not on an empty stomach. Come on, come on, get in here.”
She ushered them to the little table that took up half the kitchen.
“‘Ow’s your mum?” she asked pleasantly as she fried bacon whilst spreading margarine and red sauce onto slices of day-old white bread.
“Alright.”
Stevie watched a sparrow on the wall outside. “‘Urry up, mum.”
“Alright, keep your hair on.” She raised an eyebrow at Aiden. He smiled at her.
“We wanna go down the yard.”
“‘Ave you got time?”
There was no response.
“Stevie?”
He glanced towards her, then back at the sparrow. A small flock had joined it.
“What? Yeah?” he said.
“I don’t want Mr. Scott phoning me up an’ telling me you was late for class.”
“We won’t be.” Aiden immediately jumped to his friend’s assistance.
“There’s a blackbird nest in the old carriages,” Stevie said.
“I know, dear,” his mother smiled. “You ‘ave mentioned it once or twice.”
She winked at Aiden, and he smiled back. They were sharing a moment about Stevie’s ornithological obsession, but there was more to it than that.
Aiden was feeling something to do with sex because her dressing gown was gaping around the cleavage.
“The chicks ‘ave hatched. I don’t want to miss them fledging,” Stevie said.
“I know, dear,” she winked again. “But you mustn’t be late for school.”
“I know,” he agreed.
Stevie was as obsessed by birds as Aiden was by books.
They would walk for miles on the back of the flimsiest rumour trying to spot some feathered delight.
Stevie would climb up trees or rummage in bushes. Aiden had peace to read.
Through roaming they developed an excellent knowledge of the city. Knew which areas you risked a beating, and where the kids were friendly.
Inevitably they were forced to defend themselves from time to time. Aiden taught Stevie to launch a rock with unerring accuracy. Stevie added it to his arsenal and nurtured his growing reputation as a fighter.
In the 70s, towns and cities throughout the land were still littered with bombsites. Thirty years after the war had ended, there were still many shortages. Rocks and stones were not among them. Children regularly left trails of broken bottles in their wake. It was the seventies. Little boys smashed glass. Nobody cared.
4
Stevie’s father Tommy owned a lorry which he used for removals. He also had a yard and a warehouse to store furniture. He was a no-nonsense, fun-loving guy. He treated the boys better than anyone Aiden knew.
On Wednesday nights he took them to the big sports centre. They swam up and down the pool under the strict eye of the coaches. Afterwards Tommy would give them five pence each to buy sweets. That was the highlight of the evening.
Invariably, Aiden would be allowed to sleep over. Tommy let them stay up late and watch the sport with him. He had a real gift for sarcasm. He criticised footballers and snooker players, even the boxers.
He talked as though he genuinely believed he could do better. Aiden found him hilarious. Stevie found him embarrassing.
At weekends Stevie’s parents held parties after the pubs closed. These culminated in Irish singsongs. Sometimes the male patrons got argumentative and Stevie’s mum made them take it outside where arguments turned to fisticuffs.
The boys would press their little noses against the glass, betting each other as to which fighter would end up victorious. Stevie would moan and whinge for ages if he ever fell asleep and missed a fight.
5
The boys were ten years old. They were climbing on the warehouse opposite the house. Stevie was a natural. He flew across the brickwork. Aiden was more careful. He concentrated harder but was equally happy up near the roof. At first, they didn’t notice Stevie’s sister Beverley come out. She slammed the gate, which got their attention. She was wearing outrageously high platform shoes. Her blue jeans had a tartan strip down the outside of each leg, making sure everyone knew she loved the Bay City Rollers.
She had on a bright yellow blouse with ruffled cuffs and a multicoloured, stripy woollen tank top with a huge badge of the Rollers in the middle.
Her hair at the back was long and feathered. Her fringe lined up perfectly with her eyebrows.
She thought she looked the absolute business. Aiden agreed silently but wholeheartedly.
His vantage position offered a tantalising glimpse of white bra strap running across her shoulder.
“What are you losers doing?” she demanded to know.
“We ain’t losers,” Stevie shot back.
He was dangerously high. Right where the drainpipe connected to the guttering. Practically on the roof. Fortunately, Health and Safety laws didn’t exist yet. So it was all good.
“What’s the matter? Won’t no girls play with you?” she called up sarcastically.
“We can play with girls if we want,” Stevie protested.
“We got plenty o’ girls to play with,” Aiden piped up. He had moved onto a narrow little windowsill. It looked as precarious as it was.
She sniggered. “I would ‘ave thought you’d be playin’ down the church, little Stevie.”
She called him little Stevie to wind him up. It never used to bother him when he was little. But now that he was double figures, he disliked the moniker intensely.
“I don’t go church!” he spat out contemptuously.
“I thought you liked birds?”
“Uh?”
She moved, and Aiden stared at her bra strap again. For some reason it unnerved him.
“I said, I thought you liked birds.”
“So?” her brother muttered defiantly.
“So there’s some bird nesting on the spire. A kestrel I think.”
“l know that.”
“Yeah, sure.” She folded her arms, somehow taunting Aiden.
“I know about all the birds around here.”
“Yeah, the feathered kind maybe.”
“We know about girls.”
Aiden joined in. “Yeah, we know plenty.”
She shook her head, and her breasts wobbled. Aiden nearly fell off his window ledge.
“Aw, bless,” she uttered sarcastically before throwing her cigarette butt on the ground and heading back to the house.
“Let’s go down the church,” Stevie called as soon as she was gone. “If we sit quiet, they’ll come.”
They climbed down and marched off without a care in the world.
6
Two more years passed.
A male blackbird sat on a thick bramble. He’d chosen the highest point in the dense jumble of thorns.
His feathers were shiny. His beak bright yellow and his eyes sparkled. He was king of all he surveyed.
He let forth a burst of complex song. Then pecked half-heartedly at a berry by his feet.
Not quite ripe but it was wise to keep tabs on such things.
The thicket he perched on ran down to a disused railway yard. Old rusty tracks crisscrossed oil-stained, litter-strewn ground. Abandoned carriages slowly rusted.
Not many years ago, the noise down here was deafening. Men shouted, cranes turned, and heavy machinery rattled and clanked. Now it was the calming drone of bees, the gentle buzz of insects, the melodic harmonies of birdsong that filled the air. No trains had passed this way for a long time.
Nature as always had reclaimed the territory.
A female blackbird scooped in and perched on top of a carriage. She called to her mate.
She was dull. Her feathers were ruffled and unkempt, as though she’d no time to preen. As though she’d been busy caring for demanding offspring.
In reply the male let forth another complex tune.
It was designed to reassure her, whilst warding off potential competitors for his mate, his territory, his soon to be ripe berries.
Beneath the disused carriage, Stevie closely followed every nuance of the exchange.
To him, these were majestic creatures living in a parallel world. A world that, if he was patient, offered tantalising glimpses of itself through the behaviour of its inhabitants.
Stevie Williams may be just twelve years old, but he has an incredibly mature understanding of the natural world.
Humans he didn’t get. Everyone kept telling him he was lucky to be born here. How could that be right? Imagine living in a country with parrots for example. Surely they were the lucky ones, whoever they were.
Stevie knew the birdwatching made him a misfit. He told himself it didn’t matter.
But still he wanted to belong, to feel acceptance. In the animal kingdom, he found what human society denied him. Creatures didn’t judge.
He moved slightly, and the blackbird took off, screaming a warning as it flew.
Stevie didn’t want to cause undue alarm. He dragged himself backwards and the calls grew less frantic. He found Aiden leaning against a carriage.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” He closed his book. “Did you see ‘em?”
Stevie nodded. “Didn’t you hear ‘em?”
“I was readin’.”
“You must ‘ave heard them?”
“I was readin’.”
“Come on. Let’s go.”
They walked along the tracks until they were beneath a huge bridge. Traffic buzzed on the road above them. A giant billboard that hadn’t been there yesterday blocked their path.
“Land acquired for development by ‘The Trust’. What’s that?” Stevie asked.
“Development! They’re going to develop.”
Stevie looked at him blankly.
“They’re goin’ to build down ‘ere,” his literary friend told him.
“Oh.” Stevie pondered for a moment. “That’s bullshit. Why does everythin’ ‘ave to change?” He kicked a can in frustration.
“They call it progress.”
“Fuck progress. Where’s the wildlife meant to go?”
“There’s nothin’ we can do,” Aiden reminded him.
“It’s bullshit,” Stevie muttered angrily. “If I was king I wouldn’t allow it. I’d have a big switch, and when they change things I don’t like, I could just flick the switch and change it back again.”
Aiden joined in the game. “Yeah and if it was a good day, I’d flick the switch and have the day all over again.”
“Yeah,” Stevie agreed. “An’ if a day is shit, we can flick the switch and move onto the next one.”
Both boys had passed the 11-plus. They were smart kids capable of great things. They’d been at grammar school for a year now.
Unfortunately, Aiden had read books that contradicted things the school taught. He began to suspect they were being conned. Groomed into accepting an official narrative. He wanted to learn, but his questions in class were not appreciated. He was actually being advised to read less. Read less! Like he was supposed to embrace ignorance. It was bullshit.
“Sir, if there are five thousand religions being practiced on Earth. How do we know ours is the right one?”
“Stop showing off, boy, and don’t be ridiculous,” had come the answer.
He sat quietly fuming at the back of the class. It had been a genuine question.
I don’t belong here. I’m not like these people.
Meanwhile Stevie was being made to feel like an outsider because he preferred football to rugby and because he liked birdwatching.
“This is a rugby school,” they insisted. “Football is for plebs and birdwatching is not a career. At best it’s a genteel past time for spinsters.”
He was told to leave childish things behind and focus on passing exams.
And they had the nerve to call it an education. It was absurd.
Stevie read the small print and cursed again.
“Private property,” he fumed. “No trespassing! Fuck that.”
He yanked the sign from the ground and threw it into the brambles.
Aiden knew his pal was just letting off steam. He wasn’t really angry about some development.
It was change, it was school. It was the annoying realisation they were different. That boys like them weren’t supposed to be into literature and ornithology. It was everything. It was life.
“It’ll all work out.” He instinctively tried to reassure his pal.
“They want me to stop boxing, too,” Stevie whined.
“It’s shit,” Aiden sympathised.
“People are shit,” Stevie replied darkly. “I wanna learn to knock the stupid smiles off their faces.”
“You can already do that.”
“I wanna learn to hit harder.”
“Well, don’t hit me.”
“I’d never do that.”
“Good, ‘cos I’d have to hit you with a rock to make it fair.”
Stevie smiled. They both knew he’d never do that either. “You comin’ back to mine?”
Aiden nodded gratefully and they started to run. Small children again, the gathering storm clouds temporarily forgotten.
7
The Trust was started by a group of ruthless investment bankers. They claimed to be in it for the money but what they really craved was power. They believed the rumours. Tim Berners Lee’s Global Information Highway would prove to be a real game changer. A real kingmaker.
They held extremely high opinions of themselves and extremely low opinions of everyone else. They believed theirs was a God-given right to all the best things life could offer. The suffering of others they considered a price worth paying.
Their first acquisition was a factory in the North. The place was allowed to fall into decline. The staff were tricked out of redundancy pay. Assets were stripped out and sold off. Using substandard materials, the land was redeveloped.
They repeated the trick again and again, destroying lives every time, but the profits rolled in.
Once they’d built up the necessary finances, they branched into commodities. If you lacked morals this was practically a license to print money. They targeted third world countries and tied naive villagers into long-term contracts for raw materials.
Once they controlled supply, the price and the profits rose exponentially. This money was invested in the next phase of the Trust’s expansion.
Processed food was the new game in town.
Contracts were won to supply prisons, schools, and hospitals.
Advertisers were paid small fortunes to entice ordinary people away from the stove and towards the microwave. The Trust employed teams of scientists who worked out the precise combination of sugar and salt to make a product irresistible.
In a few short years, the Trust controlled 70% of what was eaten in the country. Public Health was not a deciding factor in how they ran the operation. Profit margins were all that mattered.
Next they moved into the hospital bed market. Competitors were swallowed up at a phenomenal rate.
In a short space of time, nobody else was large enough to fulfil contracts for health providers. They ruffled a few feathers along the way and there were court cases. But it all worked out in their favour.
Newspaper owners who stuck with them through the lengthy period of litigation were suitably rewarded afterwards. It became a symbiotic relationship.
Within a decade of conception, the Trust were the largest company in the FTSE 100 and still growing fast.
Greedy new members came aboard.
These included politicians more influenced by money than morality. Whose loyalty was to the bottom line not the constituents. Such men were going to be invaluable in the days ahead. The current laws were written for analogue. The dawning era would be digital. New legislation was going to be needed. Having policy makers on the board of directors would ensure these laws went whichever way the Trust hoped.
Taking advantage of cutting-edge technology would allow them to bypass the current outdated political system.
They realised that one day computers would be commonplace.
In head office, a young man addressed the board. He had only been at the Trust for a year. Now here he was in the most executive of boardrooms, trying to explain computers to, in his opinion, a group of doddery old men.
“So, in the future, all business interaction will be conducted through a network of computers. Machines capable of talking to each other and doing the sums in a fraction of the time it would take a human.”
Blank faces stared back at him. So he continued.
“And information will be stored within the computer. People will be able to access their files from anywhere in the world.”
There’ll be no paperwork?” someone asked doubtfully.
“That’s right.”
“Seems unlikely.”
Somebody else tutted at the back of the room.
The young man ignored it and began to wrap things up. “And that concludes the presentation for today, gentlemen. Are there any questions?”
“How do we control this?”
Nobody will have overall control.”
“That’s preposterous, why would we allow such a thing? Let’s outlaw it.” He glanced down at his notes. “This, Global Information Highway, nip it in the bud so to speak. I don’t like it. It’s subversive. I want it outlawed.”
“Unfortunately, the technology has already been developed, sir. The scientists in question have acquired the necessary patents and bequeathed their work to the human race in perpetuity and for free. This is happening whether we like it or not, and control has been relinquished, forever.”
“I don’t like it. People have newspapers and television for information. It’s a perfectly good system where the content is easily controlled. Why can’t they be satisfied with that?”
“People like the idea of being able to communicate directly.”
“But we will know what they are saying to each other? At least assure me of that.”
The young man tried a different tack. “As I was saying just now, sir. There was recently a landmark case. The judges have allowed encryption.”
“Encryption.” He spat the word from his mouth as though he’d never come across it before and didn’t like the taste of it.
The young man wanted to scream. He’d explained all this not five minutes ago. Fortunately for him someone else stepped in.
“Naturally, we are appealing the court’s decision. Trying to make encryption illegal for the masses, sir. If we can’t stop this thing, we can at least stop people messaging each other privately, for free.”
“That’s preposterous. It would allow our enemies to join forces with no effort whatsoever. Any reasonable judge should be able to see that’s dangerous.”
“If the judicial system find against us again, I propose we employ this young man’s two-pronged assault.”
“The old boy smiled a little at the suggestion.
“Run it by us again,” he said.
The young man smiled nervously, and wiped sweat from his forehead. He wasn’t going to get away so soon after all.
“As I say, currently no laws exist around the new technology. For example, it would be simple to discredit anyone we choose. And they would have no legal recourse.”
“Were we to lose the appeal for example, it wouldn’t take much to portray the judiciary as ‘enemies of the people’ whilst publicly throwing doubt on their narrative every step of the way.”
“Question their narrative?”
“Yes, sir, with all guns blazing.”
The chairman smiled. “Kindly elaborate once more.”
“If they claim the moon is made of moon rock, we flood this world wide web with documents, photographs, letters, anything. All claiming it is cheese, or granite, or even soap, it doesn’t matter. What matters is reaching a point where confusion reigns. Doubt is cast far and wide and the facts get lost in the miasma.”
“World Wide Web?’
“It’s what they are now calling the Global Highway, sir.”
“And we can use this World Wide Web to spread false messaging?”
“We can, sir.”
“Is anyone likely to cause a nuisance?”
“There are a handful of fanatics, sir. Kids really. They managed to win the encryption case despite no financial backing. They blindsided us on this, but we know who they are now. We do not anticipate any surprises in future.”
“Fanatics, you say?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Fanatics make me nervous. They never know when they are beaten.”
“They are only fanatical about computers, sir. We are not talking hardened revolutionaries here. They see themselves as moral crusaders, that’s all. They got so obsessed with the public’s right to privacy they started a campaign. It was unexpected and the public took their side.”
“They must be shut down.” The chairman smiled unpleasantly. “Let this be their last taste of victory.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I want you to find a way to close down this World Wide Web. One day we might have to.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It would be marvellous to achieve full automation though. Imagine if we could manage without workers.”
“Yes sir.”
8
At the dawn of the digital age, encryption meant nothing to the vast majority of the public.
Thank God for one student who understood it perfectly. His name was Robert Jenkins or RobBob to his friends, and he was outraged the government wanted legal authority to read his emails. He realised this was just the beginning— that digital communication was an excellent alternative to chopping down all the trees. He failed to see how electronic mail was any different from the postal service we all know and love. The continuation of privacy or encryption was imperative.
These new-fangled computers might actually do some good. But only if the common man was allowed encryption. Who was going to communicate anything meaningful if they thought the authorities were reading it over their shoulder?
One of the oldest enshrined laws in history The right to privacy was under attack.
RobBob was a true pioneer. He was in at the very beginning. He understood the world of computers was about to explode, and society would never be the same again. He also realised no rules had yet been written. How could they be? The equipment had barely been invented. Until governments caught up, this was as lawless as the old Wild West.
People were going to make mistakes. They needed privacy.
He joined forces with a handful of geeks. They took on the best lawyers at the government’s disposal and won.
RobBob had no idea his opponents weren’t really the government. Nor that his victory had cost the Trust billions of dollars. He was just an idealistic student who didn’t want people reading his emails. He didn’t know how the world worked.
Shortly after the court case, the police pulled him as he left his dealer’s house.
Two years for possession of narcotics and a further six months for intention to supply illicit drugs. It was an eighth of hash for God’s sake. He’d said he was going to share a joint with his girlfriend. No wonder he felt bitter. No wonder he took it personally. As he languished in prison, he reflected on his naivety.
He realised now what they’d meant when they warned him about making enemies in high places. Now he realised, with two years staring at four brick walls to look forward to.
At the time, he hadn’t listened. He’d simply trusted that he was doing the ‘right’ thing and it would all work out for the best. He learnt the hard way. Next time, he wouldn’t be so stupid.
RobBob was intelligent. He needed stimulation. So for two years he sat in his cell, reading about revolution, learning about crime, and festering. He wasn’t being rehabilitated he was being self-radicalised.
Meanwhile, it was fair to say activists were rubbing their hands together in glee at the prospect of long-range secret communication. At last something to even up the struggle a bit.
9
Two years passed.
Aiden and Stevie were up before the headmaster again.
“You have been specifically told not to venture to the far end of the playing fields during lunch recess,” the headmaster reminded them.
“There’s sparrows nesting down the bottom bank,” Stevie explained, gesturing towards the neglected shrubs beyond the rugby pitch.
“You’re blaming the fauna for making you misbehave?”
Stevie shrugged. “I’m just telling you why we was down there.”
“You are an insolent child, are you not?”
Stevie shrugged again and rolled his eyes for good measure.
“Do you even know what insolent means?”
He shrugged again.
“I do.” Aiden offered.
“Was I talking to you boy?”
“I thought you was talking to both of us.”
“I was addressing Mr. Williams, but now I’m addressing you. Why are you constantly up before me?”
Aiden looked him right in the eye. “I dunno.”
“We prefer being outside, sir,” Stevie explained.
“Are you a soldier?” the headmaster asked.
“No, sir,” Aiden answered solemnly.
“No chance,” Stevie muttered.
The headmaster shot him a sideways look.
“A professional rugby player perhaps?”
“I hate rugby,” Stevie mumbled.
“Stupid game,” said Aiden.
“Get out!”
They slowly walked in the direction of the classroom. Knowing they were expected to rejoin their fellow pupils but dragging their heels.
“I hate it here,” Aiden muttered.
“Me too,” Stevie agreed. “Jimmy Johnson said their woodwork teacher’s a right laugh.”
“I know, an’ we get Christian Brothers from the 18th century. They never tell us the truth about nothin’.”
“Why are we going back?” Stevie asked.
Aiden stopped and looked at his pal. “I dunno.”
“Let’s bunk off,” Stevie suggested.
“Yeah,” Aiden agreed in a heartbeat.
They were inquisitive-minded, intelligent young men. They’d been promised learning, knowledge, and bright minds to pick. They loved those things; the very prospect had made them giddy with excitement. But they’d been lied to, let down, misinformed.
Nobody wanted to feed their insatiable curiosity. They just wanted to fill their heads with outdated nonsense.
And just like that, they were making a choice that would affect them forever.
They strolled in silence through the empty school corridors; climbed the perimeter wall and headed for the city centre.
They removed their school ties, put their collars up, and felt deliciously naughty.
The top end of town was crowded with housewives and young mothers pushing prams. Despite their half-baked attempt at disguising themselves, they attracted enough curious looks to feel conspicuous. They kept moving to the bottom of town.
Stevie poked Aiden in the side.
“Look,” he whispered, nodding ahead. And there was an element to his tone that Aiden had never noticed before. It was somewhere between awe and confusion.
He had spotted some youngsters. Not schoolkids but close to their own age.
They were perched in a colourful row on a low wall outside a record shop. They had a giant ghetto blaster belting out the fastest tune either boy had ever heard.
“Punks,” Stevie whispered.
“Yeah,” Aiden agreed.
They settled self-consciously on the same wall, albeit maintaining a wary distance.
They observed the uncouth, loud, scruffy, music lovers and were deeply impressed.
These people did not give a fuck.
Neither of them had ever heard anything like it. This was not music you’d ever hear on Radio 1 or the tunes that came out of Beverley’s room.
This was new, loud, obnoxious, interesting. It spoke to them the way it spoke to misfits and disillusioned teenagers the length and breadth of the land. They identified immediately and nothing would ever be the same again.
Aiden was tapping his foot.
“You like this?” Suddenly right in his face, asking a question, and demanding an answer was a girl.
He nodded.
Her friend came alongside her. She was wearing a black leather jacket covered in studs. Her hair was jet black with flame red tips. The boys were well impressed.
“He likes The Clash.”
“Do you?” the second girl asked, slightly aggressively he felt.
“Yeah.” he assumed that was the band he and the whole street were being forced to listen to.
“Turn that rubbish off!” screamed a young hipster walking past with his pals.
“Yeah, its crap,” added another.
The punks ignored them. The hecklers moved along. The music stayed.
Aiden was amazed. How did that not end in violence? It went against everything life had taught him so far. He was even more impressed now.
“Dickheads,” one of the punk girls muttered.
“Yeah,” Stevie agreed enthusiastically.
She smiled at him. “So,” she thrust her chin forward, “why aren’t you at school?”
Stevie shrugged and went bright red.
“Why’d you think we should be at school?”
“Aw, ain’t he cute.” She patted his crimson cheek.
“Yeah,” her friend agreed.
“Can I keep him?”
“Course you can.”
“What’s your name?” she purred.
Stevie was way out of his depth. This girl was toying with him the way a cat does a mouse. “Stevie.”
“An’ who’s this?” She nodded her head towards Aiden.
“Aiden.”
“What’s your name?” Stevie asked.
“Easy tiger.” She giggled.
It was the sexiest thing he had ever heard.
She looked them both up and down as though making a decision.
“I’m Nikki,” she said, “and this is Karen.”
“Nikki with an i,” she added for clarity.
“Two i’s then?” Aiden said, slightly pedantically he realised, but he couldn’t help himself.
“Yeah,” she smiled at him. It was a kind smile.
Nikki with an ‘i’ wrapped an arm around Stevie’s neck and messed up his hair.
“Nikki two i’s, that’s me.”
Both girls laughed so the boys joined in. Nervously, enthusiastically, with a hint of wonderment and way, way out of their comfort zones.
Karen sat down alongside Aiden.
“So you like punk?”
“Yeah, what I’ve heard so far,” he said— meaning what they were listening to right now.
“What else do you like?”
“I like readin’.”
“Readin’?”
“Yeah.”
“Me too.”
Meanwhile Nikki plonked herself down next to Stevie. She was so close she was almost on his lap. He’d never been this close to a girl before. She threaded her hand into the crook of his arm. “Do you like readin’ too?”
“Not really.”
“Me neither,” she confessed. “I’m more of a do’er. You know, a hands-on kind of girl.”
Stevie wasn’t sure what that meant, but he thought she was flirting with him. He couldn’t believe his luck. Just slipping her hand into the crook of his arm had brought the old captain to attention, so nothing else really mattered.
He sneaked a glance at her. She was smiling knowingly. She squeezed his hand.
“So what do you do?” she asked. “You know, when you’re not reading?”
“I like birds.” He regretted it as soon as the words were out.
“Oh, yeah?” She squeezed his hand harder and laughed.
He was on the verge of being mortified.
“I bet you do.” She poked him playfully in the ribs.
My god, if this is what I’m missing when I’m at school I’m never going back. “The feathered kind,” he added.
“Yeah of course, budgies and robins an’ that.” She squeezed his hand again. She might as well have been squeezing his cock the effect it was having on him. “Not the other kind?” she asked quietly.
“Yeah, course!”
“You’re going red.”
“I’m not.”
He looked along the wall. Nobody was paying them a blind bit of attention. His dick felt like it was going to burst through his trousers.
“I like your necklace.” It was all he could think of.
She smiled and wrapped her arms around the back of his head. “I like you.”
Karen was jabbering away at Aiden. He nodded here and there but didn’t understand half the words she was saying.
They were sitting in a row, facing a record shop. Literally staring at the giant display window. They couldn’t help but notice when a member of staff appeared behind the glass.
“What’s he doing?” Nikki wondered aloud.
“He’s taking down a poster,” Stevie pointed out.
Nikki squeezed his hand hard. “We can see that!”
They watched the employee unroll a giant poster and in no hurry whatsoever, tape it to the window.
The poster contained all the usual information—
Tickets available here.
18+ only.
The name of the venue, the time the doors opened, the date (Aiden worked out instantly it was a Saturday) and across the centre in large neon green type, most importantly of all, the name of the band, The Clash.
“Wow,” muttered Nikki. “They’re coming here?”
In the late 70s/early 80s, music actually mattered. It had outgrown its innocent teenybopper beginnings and was not yet all about the money.
Technological developments produced cutting edge recording and amplification techniques. The sound quality was unlike anything that had gone before.
Record companies were making so much money they were prepared to give musicians time to refine their art.
Mix in the squat, dole culture where wannabe rock stars could bounce off each other, and some meaningful tunes were being hammered out. New stuff, experimental stuff, stuff your parents hated, stuff that actually dictated your direction in life.
Bands like The Clash were creating a new future. A whole generation of deprived kids were being told not to settle for the crumbs on offer.
Up and down the land, thousands were determined to help themselves to a slice of the actual pie. Take ownership of their shit, mundane, boring life and change it. This seismic shift occurred on an industrial scale, and it terrified the establishment.
However these were violent times. It was risky to stand out from the crowd.
If you were a punk in a Teddy boy club or a mod in a biker bar you were in big trouble.
Aiden always tried to avoid casual violence. Stevie on the other hand had loved a good fight since the very first time they met.
He’d been a promising boxer but never got on with the discipline required for the ring.
Street brawls on the other hand required no rules.
If he thought it was going to kick off, he didn’t bother with questions or warnings. He only had one modus operandi. Punch first, catch them with another as they fell then he and Aiden would be running away before anyone could retaliate.
Kids in the 70s knew no better. Violence was not only tolerated it was seen as manly.
Besides if the occasional punch in the mouth was the price to be paid for membership to the punk tribe it was worth it.
They were young. Life on the edge was exciting. They didn’t stop to consider the possibility of falling off.
On the way home from first contact with Nikki, Stevie couldn’t hide his glee.
“Did you see her?” he asked for the umpteenth time.
Aiden smiled. He usually only saw his pal excited when he’d just beaten the shit out of someone.
“Yeah.”
“That is one sexy girl.”
“Yeah I know.”
“I’m going on about her too much aren’t I?”
“It’s OK.”
“Karen seems nice as well.”
“Yeah.”
“What’s the matter? You don’t fancy her? Maybe you should find a girl like Nikki. Did you see her legs?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m gonna marry that girl.”
