Misspent Youth

57. THE WATCHERS

AS WITH ALL AVALANCHES, it started with the smallest breath of motion. Jeff had made the decision way back when he was lying in his bed at the Brussels University Medical Centre. It might have come from shock, or anger, though he preferred to think of it as rooted in youthful idealism. Jeff didn’t blame Dr. Sperber, but he’d been around long enough to know how the information would be used, twisted, sanitized, controlled, released in a way that left Brussels devoid of responsibility. That was the way of all government and politicians; it was never their fault.

People the globe over received the txt, and either frowned or sighed at the umpteenth piece of spam to sneak through their interface that day. Ninety-nine point nine percent ordered their computer to delete it without even glancing at the message heading. Of the tiny number who did use the hyperlink, none canceled it. Instead they started to txt their friends and family. The professional media caught up with the story a few minutes later.

THE USUAL URBANE CALM of the anchorman behind the Thames News desk was visibly shaken as the breaking story was whispered into his earpiece. He smiled nervously at the camera, and said: “We now take you to a live personal feed.”

IT WAS THE DISTRIBUTED SOURCE NETWORK that Jeff had helped to make possible through memory crystals that allowed his broadcast to happen. The little camera in the manor’s study was sending its images into the datasphere, which immediately made it available to anyone with the correct hyperlink code, of which there were hundreds of millions. Simply by accessing it, they made themselves part of the source. It was impossible for anyone to switch off the interface of millions of people, especially if their identity and location were unknown.

The Brussels commissioners, through Europol, might just have had the authority and technical ability to cut any physical land lines to the Baker manor. But Jeff knew that. There were a dozen different live mobile connections linking him into the datasphere through various routes.

Whatever happened in his study would now be played out to the bitter end.

AS THE SAYING GOES, nothing spreads faster than bad news. Ten minutes after Jeff began the broadcast, over eighty thousand people had accessed the feed. Five minutes later the number had jumped to three hundred thousand.

Prime Minister Rob Lacey finally saw what was happening at the twenty-one minute mark. He was brought out of a strategy meeting with his election team into an office with a big wall-mounted screen—it had been an intense session, the London Riot was acting like a millstone around his campaign. For a minute he simply stared at the scene, listening to Jeff’s quiet voice talking calmly and rationally to his rising global audience. Every word was a needle-sharp accusation aimed right into the heart of his credibility.

“Get him off!” Rob Lacey shouted at an aide.

“But, sir…”

“Off! I want that motherfucker shut down!”

ALAN AND JAMES SAT on the plump couch in Alan’s living room. Both of them stared at the giant screen on the wall opposite. The way it was set up, the angle of the study camera, made it seem as if Jeff was sitting in the room with them. Neither of them had spoken for the last fifteen minutes.

In the corner of the screen a small call-not-accepted icon flashed repeatedly.

IN OFFICES, workers tended to cluster around the cubicle of whoever had accessed the feed first. Silent crowds watched the unfolding event with a guilty fascination.

On the streets in cities and towns, people gathered outside any shop or pub that had a screen interfaced with the datasphere. Many pedestrians wearing PCglasses simply stood still in the middle of the pavement as the lens display played the images.

Jeff’s study was just the primary scene; there were a number of other cameras in the manor that were supplying images to the datasphere. Thirty minutes in, and five million people watched as Europol officers Krober and Cherbun approached the door to Jeff’s study. Sue and Alison Baker stood outside, along with Graham Joyce.

“Please,” Krober appealed, “stand aside. We need to go in.”

“I’m too old to move,” Graham said. He brought his fists up in a boxer’s stance. With his white hair and stooped shoulders he looked quite pitiful standing in front of the two fit young officers. “Come on then. I don’t suppose it’ll take you long enough to bash an old fart like me out of the way. Did you bring your biggest truncheon, sonny? Do you like the sound it makes when it cracks bones in half?”

“Mr. Joyce, this is not good,” Krober said.

“Come on.” Graham jabbed out with his right arm.

Krober barely had to move to dodge the attempted blow.

“Leave my house,” Sue said. “Both of you. All of you. Get out. Now.”

Krober and Cherbun looked at each other, neither knowing what to do next. Lucy Duke arrived, cursing her heels as she ran. Her eyes searched around until she found the camera high up on the wall; she grimaced at it. “Enough,” she snapped at the Europol officers. “For God’s sake.”

“We have our orders,” Krober insisted.

Lucy winced at the phrase. “Don’t make this any worse.” She appealed directly to Cherbun. “Think!”

Cherbun nodded with slow reluctance. “As you wish.”

THE AUDIENCE OF ELEVEN MILLION now included the cast of Sunset Marina. They stopped shooting their latest plotline twist to gather in the studio canteen, where a big screen played a news stream. Karenza started sobbing as she watched Jeff with his soft smile. “I hate them,” she told the bewildered cast and crew. “I hate all of them.”

ONE OF THE MANOR’S OUTSIDE CAMERAS picked up the Jag as it swept into the drive. Tim and Annabelle got out. Twenty-two million people watched them hurry inside.