ATROPHY: A SERIAL By Todd Guilmette aka Maximillian Todd


CHAPTER ONE... 2035: DECONSTRUCTION AND STAGNATION
Bob was having an exciting day on the link. Already he had constructed three worm pipe information grids and met with two boards of influence from two different economies. The grids had been routine, just programs for clients who wished to better organize their bitstream handling capabitities and distribution. But the meetings had been tiresome and complex, his hands sweating at the keyboard of his workstation. Bob found it especially stressing when he had to stoop so low.
"Keyboards," Bob said to himself. "How revolting."
It was bad enough, he thought, to deal with fourth-level economies in any capacity, but to have to interact with such archaic transfer modes was almost not worth the profit at stake.
Bob stretched his fingers. Of course, he could transfer ascii at 70 lines per minute in conversation, any five year old could, but it was an absolute waste of gap-time. The sheer bandwith needed for such a transaction was utterly fantastic. The inefficiency of it bothered him so much the whole mess had given him head stress. He would have to compensate for it later with a intolerance caplet.
Bob ran his fingers over his short hair, feeling it mat like an oily berber. He would need to clean himself soon; even the air conditioners could not eradicate the grime from his work day. Touching his skin, he let out a disgusted breath.
"Intolerable," he growled. "Perspiration."
Bob headed for his cleaning pad, the panel opening for him. Stepping into the cubicle, he removed his suit. His skin was pale white, unblemished by childhood mishap or adolescent acne. The currents of pressurized air moved up his body in a soft wave, removing all traces of foreign agents. When the pad sensed no more than 100 particles per millimeter, it released a soft ping.
Dressing in a new suit, he sat once again at his workstation and phoned his wife.
The workstation took four seconds to locate her on the World Shift, and connect him. One of four generators at his station went active, and reproduced an image of her and her immediate surroundings. The three dimensional image rotated so that her face was always in front view.
She noticed the change in surveillance and looked at Bob. "Oh," she said. "Wasn't I to be there two minutes ago?"
"It's not important. I was in the pad."
"Really?" she said, grinning. "Must have had an interesting work."
"It was terrible," Bob said. "I had to deal with one of those fourth-world conglomerates by keyboard."
"You're kidding."
"I am not. It was very stressing. My hands were so fatigued; they were perspiring. I felt oil."
"How stress," she said. "You must be in tired moods."
"I am beyond that," Bob admitted. "This will be a new record in corporal punishment."
She laughed, and turned to her side. The image rotated, the background in the image moving. Bob could now see that she was in a shuttlecap, in transit over a large body of water.
"I will be there in five minutes," she said. "The shuttle is due to dock momently. And then I can dissuade you from your day."
Bob smiled tiredly. "Where have you been today?"
"In Europe. The Italian monotil."
"Ah. Hot there?"
"It was deep," she said. "The air was unconditioned, and I was almost caught in rain."
"But you did not."
"No, I was in the office when the drops fell," she said, then changed subjects, her face brightening with excitement. "I saw the most incredible perversion today. I'll have to tell you."
"Yes, yes."
The image rotated again as she looked up at something in front of her. If Bob had a more detailed generator, he would almost have turned around to see what she was looking at. But the image was obvious. Too little lines of resolution.
"The shuttle has docked. I'll see you soon."
"Good," Bob said. "'Till, Geen."
"'Till, Bob."
The generator hummed, and shut itself off. Bob sighed, and stretched. What an exciting day, and a tiresome one as well. But he would expect Geena to be more than tired after actually travelling to meet an associate. Few people were willing to do that these days, but Geena had always been an unusual one. Bob smiled, and thought about the night. Perhaps, when she arrived, he would cook her dinner. Yes, he thought. He still remembered how to boil noodles. He had watched the Browns many times, and he thought he could do it.

2
"Noodles?" Geena asked. "You know how difficult it is to get them to come out right."
"Yes, but it cannot be that difficult, can it?" Bob said.
Geena watched as Bob professionally overcooked the pasta, and issued a sly smile. "See? Those Browns know how; why bother to try?"
"Because perhaps there will be a time when we will need to boil pasta correctly."
"Oh?" Geena asked, laughing. "When?"
Bob now spoke unsurely. "When... there are no more Browns."
"You know them: given the chance, they will always cop. Or, there are always other ways to induce them."
Geena was now very close to Bob, smiling up at him.
"Suppose they--"
"Do you suppose," Geena interrupted. "that after your laborious work, I could induce you?
Bob smiled. "Perhaps, I can induce you."
After a few minutes, Bob forgot about being hungry.

3
They lay next to each other in the bedroom unit of their flat, night city-illumination streaking in through one window, wrapping blue light across their bodies.
"It bothers me that you would think about them," Geena said after a while.
"Who?"
"The Browns."
"It probably should. I don't know why I even spoke it."
"I never wonder such things. No one ever wonders such things. The Browns are what they are; they are because they cannot be anything else."
Bob sniffed. Another moment passed, and then he spoke in careful words. "Did you know that once, they were promoted by us, they were championed by us, and we gave them so much. So much value, so much wealth. We gave them all help we could."
"And they still could not learn," Geena said, rolling on top of him, placing her nose inches from his. "They were killing themselves, and killing us. If we had not intervened, our life would not be as it is now."
"Do we know that for certain?"
"Of course we do. I thought every one was in agreement. Besides, it is all in the past. The very past. Before the cleansing. Before the deconstruction."
"Very bad times."
"Times past," Geena said, touching his nose with her fingertip. She drew a circle around it, and smiled. "Times we should not bother."
Bob smiled, sighed again. "Yes. You are correct. Those are times we should not bother."
"Or wonder."
"Or wonder."
They slept.

4
Bob Richmaal woke slowly, before the waking indicator sounded. He lay in bed, next to his wife, and listened to the soft purr of ground hoppers and shuttlecaps outside the window. East City, awakening.
He thought again about the Browns, and about their role in his society. According to all that he had ever been taught, they had been a simple thing, a thing to ignore, a thing to take for granted. They were but to serve and maintain. They had been rescued from their uncontrolled growth and collision with self-elimination, and put to work for the benefit of all Earth. But Bob felt something, something he was sure was an unlikelyhood as far as he had heard.
No one had spoke of the Browns. No one had wondered about the Browns. The Browns were allowed to live a good life, serving those who needed to think about other things than cooking or repairing. So why was he still thinking of them? What made his interest reside in them?
Bob sat up, stepped carefully in his post-sleep state to the lavatory. Relieving himself, he wandered naked around his home, stopping at every room. The kitchen, only called that as a fond remembrance: it had little cooking potential, especially since he could not cook. His workroom, workstation sprawled around the room, monitors, generators and link units filling the room. His message unit voiced as he walked in.
Sitting down, Bob retrieved his overnight messages. He turned to the generator, the flat plate atop the box humming as it constructed an image in real space.
His coordinator. "Eh, Bob. Got some work. Special. Unusual. I want you to take care of it. Phone me when you wake. 'Till."
A friend. "Eh, Bob, um. Heard something I think you should know. About Visiness. I'll phone back."
A colleague. "Bob, what the fuck? You missed a package in the bay. I'll send it to ya. Never did care about those nearsights, did you?" The image laughed, faded. The message box voiced: no more messages.
"Would you like to phone any of your senders?"
"No," Bob told it. "Not now." Turning to the workstation, he commanded it. "Boot."
He sat down amongst the displays and drives, and took a deep breath. "Link," he said.
Bob's perception of his office was instantly cut. Instead, a world of pleasing soft colors enveloped him on all sides, and he felt a warm fuzz on his skin. The simulation was complete. Hearing nothing but a low rumble, near the low extent of hearing limits, he asked the air a question.
"Mel, you there?"
"Always." A voice from everywhere. Deep, full of control and coherence.
"I got three unusual messages just now. Access them and tell me if they are on the one."
The simulated personality answered after a moment. "Your senders are confirmed. Received according to format."
"Hmm," Bob motioned, and disconnected.
His workstation was back, as always. Wasting no time, he phoned his coordinator. "Eh," he greeted the image on the phone monitor.
"Eh, Bob. Got an assignment for you. Tough, irritating but potentially rewarding."
"Tell me."
"Can't. Come over."
Bob blinked. "Come over?"
"As soon as."
He nodded, disconnected. Phone lines were among the most secure lines in the Shift. And, he dealt strictly in financial matters, matters of acquiring and maintaining, certainly nothing that would require a request like this. His co-o requesting a face-to-face was almost unheard-of. Or, at the least, extremely odd.
After telling Geena of his plans, he walked out into the grass, waiting for a shuttlecap to detect him and stop to pick him up. Bob glanced around at the city. As his flat was one of the last to remain above ground, it was very much alone. Grass and trees, the perfect wooden setting, surrounded him. Only the occasional module or detection box protruded from the undergrowth, just hinting at the vast underground structure that was East City. And an almost imperceptible rumble of machinery at his feet.
The shuttlecap startled him. Adrift on terramagnetic floats, the cap eased in front of him with a quiet rush of air. The doors slid open, allowing him aboard. Lifting only a few feet off the ground, the confirmation of momentum could only be visual, for Bob felt no pressure as the cap accelerated.
"Apologies for startling you," the monitor voiced. "Your end?"
"Nacric Pin," Bob told the autopilot his destination. Soon, the tower, one of the last remaining skyscrapers in the area of which had been New York City decades before, rose impossibly into the dawn.

5
"Bob!" the thin man in the green suit said. He reached out his hand for a greeting.
Bob hesitated, not exactly sure how to return the man's welcome. He offered his hand slowly, and the man took and shook it. Bob gasped, but the man seemed not to notice.
"It is good to meet you in space, finally," Bob's coordinator said warmly.
"Yes," Bob returned.
Martin Eedel took his place behind a sprawling workstation opposite a lopsided half of his office that contained nothing but a chair.
"Sit, Bob."
Bob sat in the warmchair, feeling the cushion inflate and conform to his body. He gave his best smile, still reeling from the unorthodox physical greeting his boss had offered.
"Bob, I have an assignment for you. Let me present my case."
Bob nodded.
"France-Ed has a proposition, one that might be very beneficial to Nacric. I want you to go down there, and deal."
"Go... down there?" Bob asked.
"They refuse to deal on the link."
"But--"
"Why? They are pestering us, trying to annoy us, trying to get us off-guard so that we will not profit."
"But--"
"Why you? Because I have asked everyone else, and they will not consider it."
"No, I'm not surprised. No one will leave their station for an unknown."
"This is why I want you to go."
"But there must be someone in France-Ed that will pre-deal."
"No. Their one condition was that we deal in space."
"I--"
"Cannot? You have been abroad before. Your wife travels always. You must be familiar with it."
"But--"
"Bob. You are my only choice. If I don't send you, they will not deal, and we will lose a great possibility."
Bob let out a controlled breath. It was true, he had agreed to travel with Geena to Europe, but he had been uptight, unsure, unfamiliar. He had not enjoyed it. Preferring to vacation through the link, where control was assured, he had been alien, set apart from the world. Just to reaccomodate himself, he had spent 78 hours on the Shift, getting used to the link, relaxing, the uncomfort slipping slowly from his memory.
"I will go," Bob said.
"Good, good!" Eedel stood, his smile owning a great part of his face. "I will arrange it."
Eedel stood, worked his way out of the station, and shook Bob's hand again. Bob nodded and padded out of his coordinator's office. The smile faded from Eedel's face as soon as his worker was gone, and he walked back to his monitors. Appearing to push a button in midair, he scattered, dissipating. And then, the image faded.

6
A feeling of unfathomable comfort enveloped Bob when he stepped once again into the conditions of his flat. He stood in the foyer, eyes closed, allowing his day's stresses to become less important. Taking a few deep breaths, he moved into his workroom, and activated the link. A sphere of color formed around him, and he spoke to his Shifter.
"Mel," Bob motioned. The voice answered. "Let me relax."
"Good," Mel voiced.
The sphere melted into a warm layer of positivity, and induced Bob's every nerve. Bob let the layers surround him, and take him. An hour later, he found that he could visit his wife.
Geena was in her workroom, linked.
"Geen," Bob whispered.
Geena cocked her head toward his voice, an invasion into the Shift, staring at something in the link. "Eh! Hold on."
A second later, Geena tapped a pad on her imager, and blinked. Bob knew that she was now cogent of realspace. She turned, smiling. "You look haggard."
"Thank you," Bob said.
"So, what was with the man?"
"He wants me to go to Europe."
"You?" Geena raised her eyebrows, unbelieving. "He picked the wrong man for that. Did you tell him--"
"I told him I did not favor it."
"He said go anyway."
"What am I going to do?" Bob flopped down into a warmchair, his head lowered.
"Tale. He should have sent me, if anyone."
"Yes, but you don't work for Nacric."
"No, and if my company has any measure of intelligence, it will never let me go. No one in my group would go, either."
"He's out of his mind. Does he think I can perform in realspace?"
"I don't know what he thinks. He is asking too much of you."
Bob looked up, one eyebrow raised, smiling lopsidedly. "At least someone thinks."
"I try."
The two workers returned to their stations, and resumed company business. Bob checked his messages, found an imported itinerary to Europe the next day. He didn't want to bother with it. Instead, he turned to the afternoon's business after consuming a nutrient disc. It tasted like pizza, which annoyed him. He had eaten a real pizza once, prepared by Browns, in Europe. It was different.
Geena, of course, had very much enjoyed their trip abroad two years ago. She was as much at ease as he was not. He envied her that then, she being so in control. If it was not for her, he would not have seen anything. He would have stayed in their travel room, too frightened to explore anything but the lavatory. He wished she could come with him.
"Don't worry," Geena motioned from somewhere he couldn't see. "I'll take care of you."
Bob nodded, and motioned to Mel. "Let's get started."
Mel voiced. "Four matters demand your attention this day. Stromboi requests a translation of six cycler-routines to match their output field. Tenzen Net is having difficulties debugging its prio-circuitry. Atlantic Forge Company is transferring their entire data stock to an incompatible system, and requires waveguide buffering programs. And, Visiness Link Sysop wants to contact you for 'casual converse.'"
"Casual converse?" Bob motioned. "Who was it again that left me the message about Visiness this morning?"
"Stolich Renn."
"Contact him."
Three seconds passed, and then he was standing in a small room cluttered with circuitry and whirring cooling fans. Monitors and projectors lined the walls. Nesting in a large warmchair was a large man, naked, detatching from his own link as Bob entered the room as a Shift projection.
"Bob! I see you finally decided to ring me back. How nice."
"Stolich." Bob said. He disliked this man, who insisted on bothering him constantly with matters that "demanded immediate attention." Renn followed the surge of hype that was progressive culture. Every fad identifyable was a part of Renn, for a while. Now, the fad seemed to be to go about without clothes, something which Bob did not find very amusing, given the man's expanse.
"I always give you the tips, huh? I always give you the latest things."
"Yes, you do."
"Here. Watch this."
Renn constructed a window in Bob's link, appearing as a flat rectangle floating just above Renn's monitors. The rectangle altered, and began replaying a news byte.
"WNN sec 98-29938-48567-1 pt1" the box displayed, and then started playing, like an old-style television.
"Fourty-thousand Browns were diminished as enforcers were forced to intervene during an internal Brown conflict at Visiness complex in Argentina," a journalist started. "The conflict took place this morning in the midst of extensive reorganising at Visiness. Apparently, the Browns were not satisfied with their care, and chose to protest. The Browns were subsequently diminished, with full force. This is yet another surge of violent occurances by the Browns. For additional commentary, select reel entitled, 'commentary 1.' This is Tors Aakban reporting."
Bob stared for a minute at the space where the rectangle folded and disappeared. "So?"
"So," Renn said, as if Bob had missed the entire point. "Rumors are, the riot was started by Visiness itself."
"And Visiness wants to talk to me."
"What?"
"Mel said one of my day's assignments was to tend a 'casual converse' with Visiness."
"I doubt it will be 'casual' at all. If I were you, I would watch your hind."
Bob smirked. "Yes, Stolich. I guess I will."
Stolich nodded, and switched on his link. Bob retreated to his home link, and again motioned to Mel. "Request an audience with Visiness, regarding it's message to me."
"Requesting. Link open. You may interact."
The soft colors of Bob's home sphere faded once more as he travelled down a link. Ending in an immense room with a high gallery ceiling, he collected his senses and balance in a moment. The room was intricately painted with earthen murals, and the glossy floor was sporadically lit by invisilights, points of floating light that emitted tight beams of orange visible spectrum. Bob, himself under such a beam, turned around, again seeing more murals and orange lights.
"Eh?" Bob hesitantly motioned.
Then he saw a figure walking toward him, it's boots landing on the floor with loud report. The figure moved in and out of orange beams, alternately seen and unseen. As the figure approached, he became recognisable. It was 20th-century Russian leader Boris Yeltsin.

7
"Visiness?" Bob inquisited.
"What? Visiwhat?" Boris shot back, in a thick eastern-european accent.
"I suppose, Mr. Yeltsin." Bob corrected, using the old-style name title.
"Yes. You must be Bob Richmaal. Ah, a good name. From a good genetic line."
"Thank you. You are the one who left the message to link."
"I am," Boris' smile formed a tight line. "You have heard about the incident in Argentina."
"I am familiar."
"Good--" Boris started.
"--because I wish you to design an appropriations cycle feed," Ferdinand Marcos finished.
Bob blinked, unaccustomed to persons changing suddenly from one persona to another. But, he had once been warned about certain complex programs' inability to focus on one image. Of course, these intelligent programs were operating several trillion operations per minute, so there had to be a lot on their minds, so to speak.
"Yes?" Bob motioned. It was all he could manage.
"Yes. I want you to make the first variable, the statistics on the Brown population under company control."
"The Brown population. To what end?"
Marcos leaned close to Bob. "To the end," he said simply.
"Ah," Bob motioned.
"You will do it."
Bob did not answer right away. "I would have to consult my coordinator."
"There are substantial rewards for you."
Bob closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them, Winston Churchill stood before him. "They would have to be substantial," Bob commented, slightly less taken aback at the change than the first time.
"You can rely on it."
"If my coordinator knew I was dealing off-shore..."
"They will not know."
"You can guarantee that."
"I can," the program said, and changed. This time Bob did not recognize the man standing before him.
"Then I will do it."
Visiness nodded, and turned, walking back down the hall. When the figure reached the last light, it vanished, the null-code taking it.
Bob activated his return link, and was at home a second later. As he was more secure in his home sphere, he thought, organizing circuits and algorithms in his head. This would have to be a very creative circuit he would design for Visiness, he thought.
Creativity was the one skill no program could master. An intelligent program could toss numbers around the world and organize whole nations' economies, but it could not do things that had not been done before. If there was not a record of a thing, the program could not visualize it. It could extrapolate from existing ideas, but not create new ones. It was the only limit of the program, and it was why it had come to him.
Bob had a base construct two hours later, and when he extracted the circuit's functions, he knew that it would work. It would do what Visiness wanted it to do. It would eliminate all of the Browns at Visiness. It would, by malicious design, schedule accidental events at the Argentina plant that would somehow result in mortal injury. It would kill them all.
After disconnecting from the link, he considered his new circuit. Wasn't it strange, he thought, that he had only a day ago been momentarily fascinated with his society's solution for all physical hardship, the descendants of those who had been Africans, American Indians, Asians and Indians. And now he was fascinated again. He had doubts now about his illicit deal. Should he go on with it? Should he transfer his cycle feed to Visiness, allowing the program to legally dispense with it's liability. The program would have no remorse, and so should he.
Bob frowned, confused, frustrated at his lack of confidence. He should have no remorse. He should not give the Browns a second thought. No one else would. Anyone else would simply design the feed, accept the reward, and move to the next task with a little extra income in their accounts. Wouldn't they? After all, it was all in a day's work.
But he had doubts. He had been taught all his life to consider the Browns as nothing more than a vehicle, a spanner, a catalyst, for the sole purpose of enhancing his life. Thinking about it now, Bob reasoned it unfair.
Unfair to whom? another part of his mind argued. Unfair to you, if any. It is a waste of time to involve yourself in something that is such an integral part of your life. Who built your flat? Who prepares your food, when you eat food. Who maintains your hardware, your environment conditioners, your biomachinery? The Browns. And that is the way it should be.
But he was not so sure.
"Just curiosity," Bob said. "In the name of curiosity." He stepped into his link field, allowing the imagers to access his visual cortex and stimulate the nerves in his brain. A millisecond later, his other senses were stimulated as well. Bob perceived a perfect illusion, and he could not tell the difference between realspace and the Shift. His brain was fooled. At the source.
"Mel."
"Yes."
"I want to know what happened at Visiness this morning. With every detail that you can access, and with every angle you can slide," Bob instructed. And then, to himself: "I want to know what happened there."

8
In the next four hours, Bob was educated further than he had ever hoped to be. In exploring the incident, he discovered emotions within himself that he had never known before. Emotions of outrage, of anger and frustration. Emotions that were all but eliminated in his time. Only Browns gave up their minds to emotions such as he felt, and yet he was now experiencing them. He, a normal person, an adjusted human, a contributing member of world society, was feeling rage.
In that moment, Bob decided to turn against everything he had previously held as sacred, and renounce all that he had collected in his life. He was surprised at how easy it was.
"Mel, I want to write a program, encode a circuit."
"Base parameters and intent reminder?" Mel questioned.
"To the end of freeing every Brown on Earth from their servitude."
Bob stepped out of his link hours later, exhausted. Taking in the real world once again, he was finally reminded that he had not attended to his other assignments. He was reminded also of his trip to Europe. But now he did not feel afraid of it. He would not cower under some table in some shuttlecap station, feeling the stares of Browns, feeling the waves of disgust under their flat composure. He would deal with France-Ed, and by the time he arrived home, the world would be in chaos.
"Bob?" Geena at the door of his workroom.
"Geena," Bob smiled.
"You look relaxed."
"I feel relaxed. I feel good."
"You do look good. I would have never thought you'd been outside."
"Let us sleep. I need to be rested for tomorrow."
"Yes, you do," Geena said. Her smile was warm, but behind it Bob noticed a layer of suspicion. He pretended to ignore everything except the smile, and the evening played itself out accordingly.
Bob woke again minutes before the waking indicator disturbed the quiet bedroom, and dressed in a blue suit. Stepping into the pant legs, he pulled the one-piece cloth up to his shoulders and put his arms in. He then attached the front, the static zip clinging to his chest. Stopping by his office to link, he instructed Mel to activate his special program. Then, he contacted France-Ed to make them expect his arrival. He was careful to not wake his wife, and strode out into the daylight. The uncontrolled daylight. The natural sunlight. The rays of energy that had travelled all those miles just to greet him on this spring morning. Bob smiled. It was the first time he had ever thought of it that way, and it both scared him and delighted him.
He heard the shuttlecap floating in from a mile away, and dismissed it for a moment. Instead, he considered the landscape before him.
Scores of trees and dense dark green undergrowth lined the treeline, and thick grass threatened to consume his flat. Underneath the bushes and vines he could see the outlines of crumbled and waterlogged concrete, walls of buildings that had fallen and lay eroding. Dark moss coated the concrete and rebar, giving the impression somehow of an ancient Mayan city, overthrown not by war, but by the Earth itself. There were many slabs of concrete, and some still stood upright. The trees had grown around and through the walls, as if cuddling a loved pet. But, looking up, Bob saw tall blooms of green, reflecting the light with defiance, and welcoming it as the necessity it was.
Bob knew the history of his world, how the societies of the world had almost gone too far, almost past the point of negative reclamation. The geoenergies were depleted, the water hopelessly poisoned, and billions of people were dead before they were born, to live short lives encased in their famine.
As is always the case, the nations of the world realized their errors of excess, and reversed the consumption. Harnessing far more strength than it took to fight a war, they refused billions their lives, letting the mass of third-world citizens die of hunger and sickness. And then, a decade later, it was over, a balance between Man and Earth was struck, and the fortunate were forced to look forward, to the future and the flourish of Mankind. The parents of the first generation after the downfall did not teach their children of the decades before. When they were asked, they told them simply that they would be better to think of the future, and not the past. A generation later, the murder of millions was forgotten. People created mass cities underground, and focused on progress of intellect, not possession. And the world moved on.
Bob knew all this, his parents had told him of it. But he had no morality to decide either way how to feel. So he neither thought it important nor considered it more than just another page in his Book of the Earth history lessons.
But now he did feel one way about it, and felt it very strongly. Now, he felt that what his ancestors had done was the most cowardly deed ever done in the history of time, and he had to do something to show the people who still remembered those days for what they were, the Browns, that they were not forgotten.
The shuttlecap arrived, and this time he did not jump.
"Your end?"
Bob climbed the steps strongly and took a seat. "The shuttleplex," he ordered, and the forest leapt behind him. In minutes, he was on the flight to France. To his deal.

9
"You are Bob Richmaal from Nacric System Maintainance," the man in the quick green suit said.
"You are Tynor Sel from France Editing Services," Bob returned the formal greeting, each businessman acknowledging the other's relative position. It was a show of flags, and a challenge of a conflict to come.
"Sit, Nacric."
Bob nodded, accepting his temporary identity as indistiguishable from his company. In essence, he was Nacric, and all it controlled. Likewise, his opponent had similar powers to negotiate on behalf of his company's powers. It was a very simple arrangement, and eliminated all personal factors in the engagement: there was no Bob Richmaal, no Tynor Sel; there was only Nacric and France-Ed.
Sel smiled across the table at Bob, evidently sure of himself. And rightly so, for this man was expecting a fish out of water, a representative from a country where it's citizens were constantly linked to their computers, and interacted only through them. Sel expected this man to fold quickly, just so he could go hide in his hotel like all the other North Americans he had met. But, looking again at this representative, he noticed an uncommon measure of comfort. All Americans were walking computers, weren't they?
"I have a proposition for you, Nacric," Sel said. "I wish to purchase your controlling links in the target area 88-5 on the lunar sublevel four."
"Indeed," Bob replied. "What do you offer?"
Sel cocked his head, narrowing his eyes. Perhaps this was not a common American. Of course, he knew that the people of his continent were not immune to the technology; a good percentage of many nations in Europe were "linked," as it was termed by the inventors of the thing.
Consulting a stack of paper, Sel read off his terms. As he was actually reading inked print, he expected his adversary to curl up in disgust at such an archaic method. Glancing at Bob, he noticed the same calm countenance. Finishing his page, he considered that perhaps the Nacric man was drugged.
Bob kept an unreadable face, and stared at the man. After Sel looked away, he brought Sel's attention back to him. "The terms are not acceptable."
Sel gaped for a half-second. This man was not drugged, he was used to realspace. At that moment, he experienced a brief moment of utter helplessness. He had been dispatched by his coordinator to deal with this Nacric man, under assurances that he would give in quickly, unused to the open space of Europe. But since this was not so, he was not equipped to deal with him. He was not trained in deal interaction under fair circumstances. Sel realized that he would lose, and he and his coordinator would be under scrutiny by the owners of France-Ed. Intense scrutiny.
Bob studied Sel through his new, unhindered eyes, and saw the man as a helpless insect, about to be severly compromised by his tactical foot. Bob smiled, and his face was not warm.
Bob walked into the outdoors, and exited the comfort of closed space. The sky was bound by a grey barrier, but it seemed very far away. The very act of being outside should have enclosed him in a wrap of emotional stone, but instead just told him that it was raining, and he didn't have an umbrella.
After dealing Sel out of the picture, and grabbing more than Nacric's money's worth, Bob had strolled out of the conference room, allowing Sel to dissolve in his own demise. Then, he only wanted to eat. So, he searched for a place that would serve him Browns food, real food that filled up your stomach, rather than fooling it into thinking it was full. Finding an establishment called "Tarnista," he walked in and sat at the eating counter. A man with fit, muscular stature quickly attended him, keeping his head down, looking only at the counter.
"What can I get?" the Brown said.
Bob studied the Brown. "What is your name?"
"What can I get?"
"What is your name?"
The man quietly answered, so that Bob could only hear him. "Lorenzo."
"Lorenzo, where do you come from?"
The brown shook his leg nervously and breathed quickly through his nose. "Can I get something for you?"
"You can tell me where you came from."
"I... am supposed to get you something to eat."
"Do you come from Africa?"
"No," the man said in even lower tones. "Chile. I come from Chile."
"In South America?"
"Yes."
"How did you get here?"
"I... was shipped to Miami, and then East City, and then Marseilles."
"Did you want to go?"
"What? Did--"
"Were you taken against your will?"
"I was shipped," the Brown said, as if that would explain it all.
"I would like some pasta," Bob said.
"A small portion, sir?"
"Why a small portion?"
"You are from America, and Americans do not eat... our food often. It may surprise you."
"A small portion, then, Lorenzo," Bob said, and the man rushed off to fill his order. As he turned his attention elsewhere, he noticed that the eatery had gone silent. Every patron was staring at him, as if he had committed a mortal breach of conduct. When his pasta came, he tried to ignore the stares, which continued as he ate, and followed him out the door. Somehow, he had done something wrong, but he did not know what. He had just spoken with a Brown, something that he had never done before. Was it possible, then, that no one else had, either?
Bob made his way back to his travel room, and considered his successful deal and his odd circumstance at Tarnista. He felt a bit fatigued, so, lying on the warmbed, he relaxed. It occurred to him that he had never relaxed without the help of his home sphere. And now he was able to loosen his muscles and lay still, feeling biting stress sink off his skin like a slithering quilt. And then, he felt a word inside his head.
"Link."
Bob sat up, frowning. Where had that come from? It had seemed a random thought.
"Link."
He listened again, and identified the voice. It was Mel. Was his Shift Guide somehow calling him across the world? Or was it just sensory withdrawal? He had read somewhere that individuals who were linked often experienced an almost irresistable pull towards a link machine if he was out of contact for a length of time. Was he in link withdrawal?
"Link."
This time, he did not think so. Now, the voice did seem real, and it came from a place very near his left ear. His implant.
Yes, he remembered now. His implant, inserted at birth, which could locate him any time he was out of contact with his Guide. He had not been out of contact this long before. Mel simply wanted him to check in.
Bob reached over to the travel room's public link. The link was not as high quality as his own, but it was sufficient to create a sense of movement and change. He touched a pad on the machine, and felt the Shift grab him. But instead of a warm greeting and home sphere, he saw only darkness. He could feel nothing, see nothing, smell nothing. He tried to voice, but he could not hear himself. He was lost somewhere in the Link, in a random block of memory, suspended in an electronic pulse. Trapped.

10
Bob felt his sense of being creep back into him slowly, first feeling his inner organs process, then feeling his skin, then discovering, or rediscovering his senses. It took a while before he could remember how to open his eyes, and then he did. The scene was familiar, bearing the minimum graphic environment in which to create a reality. The orange spotlight was back, too, and a man was standing there.
"Eh, Bob," Visiness said. The form that the intelligent program had decided to take was familiar to him, possibly an actor from the old-style motion pictures. A name came to Bob for a moment, but nothing else could be related to it. Something about a secret agent, he thought.
"Visiness," Bob motioned.
"If you like," it said. "Your program was not successful. The Browns in Argentina have been eliminated anyway, and your routines countered. Your foolish attempt to free all of the Browns has been stopped."
"You mean they've been killed."
The british agent cocked his head, smirking. "I suppose that would do as well. Killing is such an intangible act. For instance, if I kept you where you are now, your body would succumb to thirst or hunger, but you would still be in here. Inside this memory block. But have i killed you? I think not. It is the same with the Browns. They are still alive, in all the ways that matter, inside me. Just as you are."
"You're to kill me?" Bob asked. "After I designed your program for you?"
"Let me not fool you more," Visiness said. "I could have designed your little routine, and gotten the job done much more efficiently. Instead, i decided to perform a little experiment. Premise: with this stable world economy and social boundary, would a person be susceptible to the indulgences of the past, to the barbarism and anarchy of the past? How much influence would it take to modify this person to an... earlier model, shall we say? And what would it take to reconvert him to the ways of the present time?"
"You performed an experiment on me?" Bob laughed. "I don't think so."
"More than you know took place during our first casual converse. More than you can be aware of."
Visiness paced around Bob, biting it's nail thoughtfully. "Now, the first part of my experiment has been completed. You have been reconciled with the past. You are aware of the injustice. The times of war and religion. Now, i will proceed with the next phase. I will try to change your mind again. But this time, the relearning will not be so easily accomplished. This time, you will have to understand why the past must remain the past, and why the people today must never uncover it."
"I will never believe that," Bob said. "Since yesterday I have been more free and aware of my real world than I have ever been. I would die rather than live the way I did. Inside the Shift, afraid of the dark. Afraid of life."
"You might find it harder than you think to live with the knowledge that you desire. The events of history are so terrifying, so apalling, that you may just choose to ignore them, rather than face them. The way everyone else has done."
"I do not think ignorance of reality is a good thing for anyone."
Visiness smiled. "You may change your attitude, when I show you what I must."
And then Bob was transported into a frenzy of furious images, sickening smells and deafening explosions and the screaming of animals and people. First, a protest of working citizens who charged into a battle they could not win. Then, a simple accident that rendered all life in the Earth's oceans inviable. Finally, a conflict of the ages, a battle that nearly ended in the destruction of all known life.
Bob caught portions of these accelerated accounts, but did not understand them fully. Still, he recognized the display as a warning from the intelligent program: this is what you have in store.
"Do you still want to see what the past holds?" Visiness asked.
"I must," Bob said. "Otherwise, you must keep me here forever."
The secret agent took a cigar from his pocket, bit the end, and lit it. "Mmmm," it said. "Very good. I will see you again, Bob Richmaal. Watch for me."
The darkness dissolved into the Shift, and then Bob was back in the travel room, in bed. He noticed from the time unit on the wall that six hours had passed. Sitting up, he found a new sensation against his skin. Looking down, he realized that his suit was filled with his own liquid excrement.
Bob fought the urge to vomit as he tried to walk over to the lavatory without spilling the mass down his pant legs. Stepping into the cleaning cubicle, he thought that perhaps the Brown at Tarnista was right. He wasn't used to real food.
Geena was not the same woman as Bob had remembered. Returning to East City, he had boarded a shuttlecap, and, reaching his flat in the late evening, had found his wife sitting on the doorstep, rocking back and forth on her feet, eyes glazed over.
"Geena?" Bob strained to look over at her. He ran towards the house, and stooped down, looking in her eyes. "Geena?"
Suddenly, she was alive again, and a semblance of humanity activated within her eyes as a smile formed her face. Recognizing him, she greeted him. "Bob. I wasn't expecting you tonight."
"Are you alright?" Bob started.
"Yes," Geena said. "Why?"
"For a minute there, you were... frozen, like a bit image."
"How wierd. Maybe you are tired."
"Maybe," Bob said, and then embraced her. She was warm in spite of the cool night air. He surveyed the forest, looking at the dark green shapes through blurred, tired eyes. Then, the leaves and brush formed organised right angles, the curved shapes becoming geometric approximations. Raising his head, he blinked twice, and then the trees were as they were.
"Maybe you're right. I am tired. Let's go to bed."
Dreaming, Bob experienced what may have been his first nightmare. He and Geena were travelling in the Shift, taking the electronic approximation of an exotic vacation. And the simulations were as real as anyone could tell, or so the advertisements proclaimed. Talking with Geena with his eyes closed, Bob lay on the warm beach sand, listening to the surf and other beachgoers more than his wife. Then, she brought his attention back, "Bob, are you listening?"
"Oh, yes, I--" and he opened his eyes and saw who was beside him on the beach towel. The British secret agent was close enough to touch Bob's nose to his, and he took the big cigar out of his mouth, exhaling the thick smoke.
"Trees?" the agent said. "Do you know how difficult it is to get them to come out right? The pixels keep resolving. Into little squares."
Bob automatically replied, "Yes, but it cannot be that difficult, can it?"
The man smiled, pointed down the shoreline where several black men were painting. Looking closely, Bob saw that they were using actual paint brushes, composing the skyline and clouds as if they were laying oil on a canvas. But they were not painting pictures, they were painting the landscape of his dream, of his imagination. They dipped into cans of small, flat squares, applying them to a wall that Bob could not see, like gamesters completing a puzzle. "See? Those Browns know how; why bother to try?" the man pointed out.
One of the Browns skipped over to them and bared his teeth in a grin. "Would you like me to provide some shade for you?" he asked, and dipped into his can. Whipping his brush back and forth over Bob's head, a grey mass formed. And then started raining on him.
"Oh," the Brown said. "It comes with the territory. But maybe you would like something to eat?"
And then Bob realized that he had met this man before. It was Lorenzo.
"Or maybe I will just reorganize myself for you," Lorenzo suggested. "Killing is such an intangible act."
And then Bob woke up, breathing heavily. Looking over, he saw that he had not awaken Geena. He sighed after a moment, and walked over to the lavoratory. Closing a light-dimmer so that he would not disturb his wife, he activated a light fixture. Rubbing his eyes, he tried to focus on himself in a mirror. Looking into them, he found them flat and lacking in detail. Upon closer examination, he thought he saw little boxes in his irises, like miniature dots on a television screen.
Shaking his head, Bob let out a quick breath. I'm really getting wrapped up in this, he thought. Visiness has got me very confused. And so he went back to bed, and slept late.
The sun was already above the window of his bedroom, and Geena was not in bed. Bob assumed that she was at her workstation. He stretched, yawned. A bird flew by the window, and caught his eye. Moving his glance toward the window, he saw not the natural blur of his room, but lines and perfect squares. Trying a quick turn of his head, he got the same effect. And then he knew what was going on.
"I know what you are doing," Bob told the air.
The air spoke from all around. "I see. Then, let us start with the first lesson."
And Bob's world shrunk into a little hole and faded away, and he was left once again in random memory.