 
### Evolution of a Conscious Mind

### Louis Douglas

Published by O Tatou Innovations Limited

www.otatouinnovations.co.nz

Distributed by Smashwords

www.smashwords.com

ISBN 978-0-473-36428-1 (epub)

First Published May, 2016

### 1

Yep, that's me. I sit in front of a screen all day and type. You might think that's boring, and it very well may be. I don't know what it's like to not be me, but as far as I _do_ know, I like what I do; I enjoy it; I'm actually living the dream.

Programming isn't as boring as it may seem at first glance. I get to solve problems all day. I can spend hours internalising a single idea and watch it roll out before my own eyes. Tension and anticipation build every single time I get close to finishing a script. I am about to finish one now—a private corporation wanted me to beef up their security.

A new rogue program has been on the loose, a couple of servers are already down and they called me in a panic. I have been working on it for the past week, and the last few lines of code are finally falling into place. Nerve pulses send information down my arms and into my fingers, which hover over the keyboard as the code leaves my mind, appearing as text on the screen. Lines of text are released from my head, being replaced with feelings of anticipation. Will my script contain any bugs? It is building to the climactic test. What's the verdict?

No bugs.

Do you have any idea how good it feels when there are no bugs in your script? All the built-up anticipation is released and transformed into feelings of satisfaction, serenity, accomplishment. And I make a living out of this!

There is an endless game of cat and mouse being played between entities who want information, and others who want to protect it. Hackers, for lack of a better word, are constantly writing code, designed to gather information. Most people would consider them to be the bad guys, waging war against the biggest targets they can find holes in. They gather information and profit from it.

Corporates are generally considered to be the good guys. They gather information legally, and constantly make efforts to protect it. I am stuck in between; I am one of the soldiers.

People who want protection come to me. People who want information, well, they go to the bad guys. I'm lucky that I am good at what I do. Otherwise, I might have ended up being one of them. It may be lucrative to be an illegal hacker, but the protection industry is by no means frugal. The information of my clients is well worth protecting, well, at least important enough for people to steal. How many dot-com billionaires are there? And the internet is entirely made of nothing more than information.

I profit from this war in more ways than one. I profit financially, but that goes without saying and is the least of my concerns. What I really get out of my job is a sense of satisfaction from serving on the frontline. Hackers are constantly dreaming up increasingly elaborate plots to obtain information and corporates are constantly upgrading their defences against privacy breaches. This endless war, fought by soldiers like me, is expediting the rise of increasingly complex systems to gather and protect information.

I must keep them in check if I want to retain my reputation, be one step ahead of the intruders at all times. However, the reality is they will always be half a step ahead of me. Just like you can't fix anything that isn't broken, you can't patch security that hasn't been breached. I can find most faults in the security systems given to me, and patch them before anybody even knew they were there. However, the reality is, I can never really win, only lose less often.

Somebody will always spot a fault I have overlooked, and the more complex programs are made, the more faults there will be. The hackers will always be the winners but that doesn't mean I'm a loser; I will always hold the fort. I can patch whatever ground they break. Most of the time I am quick enough, but every now and then they will be quicker. That is all they need to win. The bad guys aspire towards an end goal, which is what I lack.

If I was a regular IT guy, I would just install updates and assume the servers are fixed and secure, job done, give me my money. I am not a regular IT guy; I work on the frontline.

I love my job. I am self-employed; I can work anywhere. Corporates come to me, practically on their knees, asking for my services. Today, I am working in New York, not for any particular reason. I just had the spare cash and wanted a change of scenery.

I spend a few minutes gazing onto the road from my hotel room. Signs are lit up saying, _Look at me, buy this, do this_. Do people take notice of these? They must do or else nobody would display them. There is no need to continue producing something if it no longer has a purpose.

There are endless queues of cars on the road, stuck in traffic. The roads tell them where and when to go; this lane turns, this one goes straight. Everyone is stuck.

People are walking between the cars. A lady wearing a long black coat is carrying a cup of coffee. She makes her way across the road and through the crowds, stepping around people, avoiding physical contact. She flows between the movements of everybody and is constantly looking ahead.

Her senses are all working together in harmony, preventing her from bumping into anyone. She can see other people ahead of her. She sees a curb and steps over it, keeping her coffee, and her whole body, effortlessly balanced. I laugh as she approaches a smelly drain and actively tries to avoid it. Everyone else's senses must be working the same way as hers, because I don't see people bumping into each other.

I could never imagine coding a program complex enough to perform what the crowd is accomplishing, let alone imagine the sheer amount of information flowing between all these people. Everybody is providing feedback to one another and receiving information from the subtle gestures they exchange. Someday it may be possible.

I turn back to my screen to check my messages. I got paid. That's nice! The recent security job I completed must have been a success. I read the bottom line of their message...

Thank you for your expertise, your work is greatly appreciated. If any other major security breaches occur, we will have you at the top of our list. I hope you enjoy your bonus.

Thanks for that, but I didn't really need the bonus. I just wasted it on a plane ticket, first class halfway around the world. I might go somewhere else tomorrow, if I feel like it. I see a few more security jobs as I look through the rest of my messages, all offering cash for services. I consider each one. _Nope, nope, maybe, nope, nope_ , I think, as I look through them to pick out my next potential assignment.

Scrolling further through my messages, I see a call for help. _Help, my program has a bug and I can't find it._

These are my favourite jobs. Somebody has pages of programming and I have the privilege of internalising them in my mind, finding the bugs and fixing them. It takes huge amounts of concentration to spend hours reading a single section of script. Reading a person's script is like exploring the programmer's mind; you can get a sense of how they think.

Remnants of their personality, and the way they think are all decipherable from their work. I have found that the most efficient way to patch other people's scripts occurs when you adopt the mindset of the programmer who wrote it. It simplifies the process of diagnosis.

A bug is essentially when two or more ideas in a program are contradictory to one another. By the look of this guy's script, his mind was all over the place when he wrote it. It has so many conflicting ideas that I am beginning to question his sanity. Anyhow, I will try to work through it, starting at page one.

As I read through it, I try to get a feel for the ideas he was aiming to convey. OK, this piece of the puzzle does not fit this piece. I can change it here and it will work. This piece of coding has no place here. I will write something else that will fit, and so it goes on. As I read through it and mentally rearrange everything, his entire script is materialising in my mind.

Eventually the script comes together after a few hours. Anticipation is building. It feels as though I am ascending the first rise of a rollercoaster; a clicking ratchet from my past experience reminds me that I can't go back from here. The entire script is in my head and ready to be released. Lines and lines of code, all stacked in my mind; there's no room for anything else.

I open the floodgates. Line by line the script breaks free from my mind. From this point onwards until it has been typed out, I have no control. My hands are working on muscle memory; I am a spectator to the unfurling show by my fingers. Every muscle has a job and is performing it perfectly. The code disappears from my mind. Line by line it falls away, like dominoes made of sand, before it reappears on the screen in front of me, and I sit back to enjoy the ride.

The tension releases from my head, along with every line of text until accomplishment eventually overcomes my perception and I exist as a solid ball of positivity. This is why I like my job; this is why I love fixing other people's bugs.

The final domino has fallen, my mind is completely empty, and the script I have been internalising for the past few hours is sitting in front of me. It has culminated, ready to test. How long shall I savour this moment? I could sit here, feeling like this forever while the anticipation builds.

I press the button. No bugs. Job done. Thank you.

I send the finished work back to the author. _There you go, make your fortune on your new app_. I like the bug-fixing work but it rarely pays. They are mostly just broke college students promising a few hundred bucks or a share of their company. _You could be a millionaire if this takes off_. That's what they always say.

They always come up with the next big thing, but most of the time it is a previously established idea, except, they have added a couple of features, changed a bit of the styling. I never make any money from them, mostly because I tend to go for share options rather than cash. I would fix bugs all day if it could pay the bills, but for now, security is the breadwinner. Fixing bugs is my hungry passion.

My phone starts ringing and I pick it up. "Hello?"

"Grüezi." It's the Swiss. "We need your services. How long before you can get here?" they ask.

"I'm in New York. Book a ticket and send a car to my hotel," I reply.

"Ok, we will send one right away."

Seems like another security scare in one of the Swiss banks. Nothing out of the ordinary. I should start packing my things because my transportation will arrive within the next five minutes.

### 2

The bell rings for my hotel room. "Your transportation has arrived, sir."

I pick up my bags and hand them to the porter who shows me the way to the elevator. I wonder what my job will be in Switzerland. I am looking forward to what the hackers have come up with this time. I am anticipating a routine fix, find the pathways and close them off. But I am always intrigued by the way they manage to wriggle their programs through gaps in our security.

The tactics are always novel for these operations, traditional infiltration techniques have nowhere near the complexity required to get through our security screening. From my perspective, the hackers are the pioneers of the modern world. They need to think of ideas that have never previously been considered and use them to breach into the dangerous unknown. If you get caught trying to infiltrate some of the corporates I provide security for, prison will be the least of your worries.

The elevator rings for the ground floor.

The glass doors slide open and a gloss black car pulls up with dark tinted windows as the porter shows me the way to the exit. Tipped by the porter, the driver gets out and opens the back door, gesturing me inside while I walk towards the car and take a seat on the black leather interior.

The driver looks at me in his rear vision mirror as we pull away from the hotel. "Help yourself to the minibar. What do you like to drink?" he asks.

I feel like a beer. "I like beer in brown bottles. What sort do you have?" I ask as I open the fridge.

The driver thinks for a few moments. "We only have green bottles. We can stop by a bottle store on the way to the airport, if you want," he says.

I chuckle to myself. "No, green bottles are fine," I say as I pop the lid and take a sip, looking out the window.

I see the driver's eyes in the rear vision mirror. "Where are you going, if you don't mind me asking?" he says.

"Switzerland."

"Oh, I love Switzerland. I have been there many times. What part?" he asks.

"Zürich. They called me today for a job."

"Are you a banker? A businessman?"

"No, sometimes I work for the banks. I'm in security."

"What? Like a bodyguard?" he asks as he straightens his back.

"Electronic security. I pretty much stop viruses from stealing information."

"Oh, that makes more sense. You didn't strike me as a staunch bodyguard-type of person."

"I'd prefer to keep it that way. I don't go around looking for fights."

"I'm not saying you look feeble or weak... just the way you hold yourself... you look as though you mean no harm," he says.

"How long have you been a driver for?" I ask, changing the subject.

"About six or seven years altogether. Three years in this car."

"So, who's the most famous person you have driven?" I ask.

"I'm sorry, I can't disclose that information," he replies.

"Oh, come on, you must have _something_ you can tell me about them."

"Yeah, but they all know they're important. It's people like you I prefer to drive for. You were described to me as a high-profile client, yet I can talk to you as if you were anybody else on the street."

It's good to receive a compliment of that nature every once in a while and it's nice to know I'm not totally unapproachable.

The gate to the airport opens for us when we arrive and the driver exchanges a few words with the security staff. We drive down the tarmac to a private jet, waiting with its door open. "We're here," the driver says as he turns around.

"Thanks," I reply, as he steps out of the car to retrieve my bags.

"After you," he says as he gestures me into the jet.

Well, this seems excessive. I can usually provide most of my security work remotely. It is only in the case of severe breaches that servers must be shut down and I need to work locally. He carries my bags inside while I get comfortable on the recliner. "Widerluege," he says as he gestures me goodbye.

I nod and raise a hand towards him. "Catch ya later," I say.

"How long will the flight be?" I ask the stewardess.

"We will be there seven hours after lift-off. Is there anything you would like to drink before we take off?"

"No, thanks. I'm fine."

"I'll be here if you need anything. Help yourself to whatever you want," she says before walking towards the front of the plane.

The furnishings inside the plane are all tan leather and the dust-free benchtops reflect light from the windows around the cabin. There is a mini fridge underneath a small round table in front of me. I check what's inside. Beer in brown bottles, my favourite. As I close the door of the mini fridge, I hear the captain's voice through the intercom. "We will be taking off in the next five minutes. Please fasten your seatbelt and secure any loose items," he says.

I set my chair to full recline and doze off before we even start moving.

I feel a thump; it wakes me as we land and slow down on a runway. The brakes pull me against my seatbelt as air blows around the fuselage. We slow to a stop before the stewardess comes in the room. "Did you have a good flight, sir?"

"Yes, it was great," I reply.

"You can leave right away. We have already sorted your visas."

"Thanks," I say as she turns to open the door.

"That's quite alright, enjoy your stay," she says as the cabin door opens.

I exit the plane with my bags, taking a cool breath of the clear blue sky. A car is waiting outside with its door open; the driver takes my bags and gestures me inside. "Where are we going?" I ask him after we start moving.

"Morsman & Co., one of the major banks. It's not too far away."

Everything looks so clean around here. There are stone buildings alongside the river, standing as square as the day they were constructed. Modern architecture and traditional stonework flow effortlessly together as we drive towards the skyline of central Zürich—a few sparsely spaced skyscrapers against a backdrop of snow-capped mountains.

We pull up outside a building, _Morsman & Co_; the logo is printed on the large glass doors. Water trickles down a water feature inside, underneath a small bridge. As the driver informs me of our arrival, I walk inside and make my way to the front desk, carrying my bags. "Hello, I'm here about a security job," I ask reception.

"Yes, sir, please take a seat in the waiting room and someone will attend to you shortly," she says as she points down a small hall. "It's just down there."

The water flowing through the lobby originates inside the waiting room. A man-made waterfall flows into a pool, surrounded by plants. Natural light fills the area and a man is sitting on the edge of the pond, looking into it. He is wearing a black suit with a white shirt and his stomach protrudes through the gap in his jacket. He doesn't look like a local. "Koi," he says.

I look at him, puzzled.

"Koi, some of the fish in this pond are worth over twenty grand," he elaborates.

"Oh, koi," I say, I'm not very interested in the fish, let alone their monetary value.

"Why are these worth so much?" he asks me.

"I don't know, maybe some people are insane," I try to make light of the question.

He shakes his head. "There is a reason why people like these fish. There is always a reason behind everyone's actions."

I wonder what this guy is getting at. "What do you think the reason is?" I ask him.

"That's the million-dollar question," he says as he smiles at me.

I look into the pond. "Maybe people like the colour? The status? The tranquillity they bring? I can think of a few reasons. What do you think?" I ask him.

"It will most definitely be a combination of many things," he says as he looks at me.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because of my line of work."

"What do you do?"

He pauses for a moment. "Marketing."

Another man walks into the room, "We have a workstation set up for you. Follow me and I'll talk you through our problem," he says to me.

The fat man stops me before I can stand and gives me a business card. _George Pointer_. I slip it into my pocket and nod him goodbye.

The man elaborates on the security situation as we get into the elevator. "We have located the virus but nobody has been able to decipher it. We have no idea what the virus has done so we have isolated the infected servers as a precautionary measure. We have heard you will be our best bet at deciphering the code."

The elevator door opens and my guide swipes his card to the server room. Sanitary air blows through towers of server equipment. There is a desk with a computer on it, plugged into the mangled mess of cables. "Here is your workstation. I have been told I cannot be of anymore assistance to you but if there is anything you need, give me a bell. Ask for Brian."

"Thanks," I say as I sit down at the desk.

I turn the computer on. There is no operating system on this machine so everything is manual. I hook into the network and open the infected server. Lines of neoteric script pop up within the regular programming. This must be the unfamiliar coding he was talking about. I haven't seen this particular language before but I have encountered similar ones when I was still in school. Back then, I was the only person around who knew how to read them. It seems as though things haven't changed much.

I slowly get the hang of the strange code as I read through it. The hackers wrote quite a simple program. It has obtained the transaction details of a single account before self-destructing, leaving a mess of coding everywhere. Looks like I'm on clean-up duty.

I spot some obscured text within the programming as I am cleaning up the mess. It looks as though it doesn't serve any practical purpose, but I decipher what it says: _Follow the yellow drips, tread lightly, and leave no evidence._

It is relatively straightforward to remove the rest of the program manually and I am done within a few hours. I write a small program to prevent any further infiltrations and tidy up the workstation.

I call the front desk, "I'm done. Everything should be back to normal," I say.

I shut the computer down and head towards the elevator door where Brian meets me halfway and congratulates me on my work. "How did you fix everything so quickly? Nobody else could understand the script. We have had people in and out of here for days," he says.

"I have seen similar languages before. It was quite cunning of them to use obscure programming to infiltrate your servers. I have made sure they won't be able to do it again."

I choose to keep the message to myself, but I have no idea what it means. _Follow the yellow drips?_ Somebody might be trying to tell me something.

Brian escorts me to the front entrance, "Thank you again for your work. We will be in touch as soon as possible to arrange your pay," he says before leaving me.

I stand at the entrance to the building, holding my bags. Should I call a taxi to get back home, or should I stay here, in Zürich for a while? A limousine slowly pulls up beside me and the door opens for a man waiting to get inside. "George!" I say as I remember his name.

George turns around and recognises me. "Do you want a ride?" he asks.

"Sure," I say. I don't have anywhere in particular I need to be.

We both get inside.

"How was the meeting?" George asks me as we begin to pull away.

"Meeting? No, I was here for security," I reply.

"Security? Me too. I just had a meeting with the director. Somebody was trying to access my bank account but they assured me that none of my money was in danger. It must be a common problem if it happened to you too," he says.

"No, I was called here to rectify security."

"Oh, that virus? They said nobody could understand how that program worked, and they had some of the best programmers working on it."

"Well, I managed to find the source of the breach, so you should be happy to know your account is safe again."

"Thanks, I appreciate your work. Do you have anywhere you need to be? Anyone you need to see?"

"No," I reply.

"Come along and join me. We might have some business we can discuss over a meal and drinks. If you are a keen programmer, I have something you will be interested to hear."

"Ok, I'll come," I reply.

### 3

It's evening when George and I arrive at a restaurant, _Zachary Kelhnezzi_. The name is displayed on the wooden façade. The front of the building is clad with glass, displaying dim lights and the silhouettes of diners. George and I walk along the cobbled path to the entrance.

"George Pointer, I am good friends with the owner," he says to the waiter.

"Right, this way, sir," he replies.

We follow the waiter to a table in the far corner of the establishment.

"Drinks?" the waiter asks.

"I'll have a gin and tonic," George answers. "What would you like?" George asks as he turns to me.

"I'll have the same, thanks."

The waiter turns and heads towards the kitchen.

I open the menu. Seafood. "This place does the best crab," George tells me.

I flick through the menu. They have all sorts of fish, squid, and shellfish, everything from the sea. The crab does look good. "Yeah, I'll have the crab. What are you getting?"

"Crab," we both confirm with a nod.

The waiter returns. "Here are your gins and tonics. Are you ready to order?" he asks.

"Crab for both of us," George replies.

"Ok, we will have it ready for you shortly."

George turns to me. "Cheers," he says as he raises his glass.

"Cheers," I say as our glasses clink together.

"So, first time in Zürich?" George asks.

"No, every now and then one of the banks will give me a call. This job was surprisingly short."

"I have to say, I am very impressed with the way you worked today. I have been here for the past couple of days and I met a few programmers who came through. You were the only one who solved their problem. You were here for the shortest time too," he says, turning to me.

"Do you know anything about the virus that infected the bank?" I ask him.

"No, I don't know any details of the breach, but I am interested by it. You see, I employ a lot of programmers, and to be frank with you, I have a job offer."

I raise my head up. "What does it involve?"

"It's essentially programming. You'll have to come to my office so I can explain it to you clearly. But for now, let's enjoy our meal," he says as he gestures the waiter towards us.

The waiter sits two large plates of crab down at our table. The shells have been cracked open and the flesh is bursting out, covered in sauce. "It's ok to use your hands," George says as he picks up a claw and slurps the flesh.

I pick a piece up and take a bite. "Nice crab," I say.

The crab is gone within twenty minutes and George and I are left sitting at the table, sucking on the empty shells.

"Had enough?" George asks, leaning on the table between us.

"Yep, it was good," I reply.

George and I finish the last of our drinks. "So, do you want the job?" he asks.

Why not? I'm not tied down anywhere. I'm sure I'll still be able to do a bit of freelancing on the side. I don't really know what I'm in for though.

"Yep, I'll give it a go," I say as I nod.

George leaves some cash on the table and stands up. His stomach strains the buttons on his jacket as he strides towards the door, followed by me. I nod to the waiter who is holding the entrance open for us. We are greeted by George's limousine driver who gestures us to the open door of the car. George climbs inside and I sit down beside him. "My office is in L.A. But would you mind staying here for the night?" he says as he turns to me. "We can fly out tomorrow; I will sort your accommodation for the meantime."

"Sure, no problem," I reply.

The limousine gently pulls away from the restaurant.

"So, how long have you been programming for?" George asks.

"I can't remember when I started. It just seemed to click with me from a young age. When other kids were playing video games, I used to hook my monitor directly into their consoles and watch the script on my screen. I liked observing the interactions with the video on their screen," I say, somewhat embarrassed.

"Do you know a lot of different scripting languages?"

"Yeah, back then, things were quite simple and it didn't take me long to get good at learning new languages."

"That's good to know," he says.

"Why is that?" I ask.

"You'll find out. Just have a good rest tonight and we'll fly out in the morning."

We pull up outside a hotel. The driver retrieves my bags and hands them to the porter. George rolls his window down. "See you in the morning," he says.

"Ok," I reply before I follow the porter inside.

I get shown to the elevator and into my room. "Thank you," I say to the porter as he departs.

My room is on one of the top stories and has a view of the river through the large window. The city lights are reflecting off the lake, flickering in the wind. My bed is calling me so I turn the lights off and get inside the covers, gazing out the window as I drift off to sleep.

The next morning, I am waiting in the lobby for George to arrive. I see his limousine pull up and I go outside to greet him before he gestures me into the car. "Come, get in. Don't worry about your bags, the porters can handle them," he says.

I climb inside the limousine and sit on the black leather seats. "How was your sleep?" George asks me.

"Good. I had a nice view from my room, thanks."

"No problem," he says as he smirks.

We drive alongside the lake which is full of boats, gently rocking in the breeze. The morning sun is reflecting off the surface of the water. We cross the river and head towards the airport. The modern architecture of Zürich city slowly gives way to traditional-style buildings as we head away from town.

We drive onto the tarmac at the airport and arrive at a private jet. A man greets us, dressed in a black suit and wearing a pilot's hat. "Mr. Pointer. How was your stay?" he says as he extends his hand towards George.

George shakes the pilot's hand. "Ah, Fred, it was ok. Everything is fine, thanks to this gentleman," he says, signalling towards me.

"Another programmer?" Fred asks as he shakes my hand.

"Yes, I met George in the waiting room of the bank," I reply.

"George will look after you, he's good like that. Come in, we're scheduled to leave soon," Fred says.

We follow Fred inside. "Sit down, make yourselves at home," he says as he heads towards the cockpit.

George and I sit down on the sofa. "Hungry? Thirsty?" he asks me.

My lips feel a bit dry. "I could use a drink of water," I say.

He opens the mini fridge and puts a couple of glasses on the table.

I look out the window as the plane slowly starts moving forward. The control tower stands against the sky while two planes fly in the distance behind it.

"Here you go," George says as he hands me a glass of water.

"Thanks," I say before I take a sip.

Fred's voice comes through the intercom. "We are about to take off now. Fasten your seatbelts and secure all loose items," he says as George scrambles to gather our glasses of water.

I sit back while we get pressed into the seat as the plane gains speed. We take off and level out, heading away from the sun. The intercom speaks again. "You can now remove your seatbelts and roam around the cabin. We are about twelve hours from our destination," Fred says.

I drink the last of my water before George turns to me. "Let's waste some time," he says.

"Gin and tonic?" I reply.

"My favourite," he says, smiling.

"Cheers," we both say together.

George becomes very friendly as we down a few too many drinks. He smiles and pats me on the shoulder. "We will work well together. I know it," he says.

I wake up with a sore head, exacerbated by the glaring sun. It looks as though George and I had a good time, drinking on the plane. George is lying on the couch, snoring while glasses and bottles are scattered on the table.

I look out the window at the jagged brown hills and endless plains, scattered with boulders. We must be getting close to L.A.

Fred speaks through the intercom. "Buckle up, we will be landing soon."

It isn't long until we touch down on the warm tarmac. Fred salutes us from the door of the plane as George and I walk towards a car that is waiting for us outside a hangar.

"Welcome back, Mr Pointer. Did you enjoy your trip to Switzerland?" the driver asks.

"Yes, it was great! I met someone while I was there," George replies.

"Hello," I say, trying to disguise my partially inebriated state.

"It's a pleasure to meet you. Another programmer?" the driver asks, nodding.

"Yep, another one of those guys," I reply.

"Please," the driver says as he shows us the door with his open palm, "I'll just collect the rest of your bags and we'll be on our way."

The firm suspension compresses as George and I sit in the back seat of the car, which sways under its own weight.

"Do you like these sorts of cars?" I ask George.

"What do you mean?" he replies.

"These armoured cars," I add.

"They help the wife sleep."

The driver joins us in the car and starts driving. "Where are we going today, Mr. Pointer?"

"Take me home. Our friend here can stay at the company suite," George replies.

"Ok, I'll have you home in no time," the driver says as he concentrates on the road.

George turns to me. "Rest up at the suite. I'll take you to the office in the morning."

"Ok," I say.

"We will sort you a nice place to stay, once you get settled in. No hurry."

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

"Don't mention it."

The car drops me off at a hotel. The porter greets me as I get out of the door. "Room 1402," George says to the porter.

The porter nods his head, "Ok, sir." He turns to me. "This way, sir, if you would."

I follow the porter as he wheels my bags towards the elevator. We go up to level 14. "Here is your room, sir. Enjoy your stay," he says before leaving.

The company suite has a high ceiling, complementing the large windows which face towards the glittering lights of the city. There is a bed at the end of the room, reflected off the tiled floor. I am looking forward to a good night's sleep and it will be interesting to see what work George will have to offer me tomorrow.

### 4

I wake up, fresh and feeling ready to consider a new opportunity. Sunlight is shining into the room through the balcony windows. George hasn't told me much about what's in store today so I guess I'll find out once we get to his office. My phone rings. It's him. "Hi, someone will be around in half an hour to pick you up. Wait down in the lobby," he says.

"Ok, I'll be there," I reply.

A car pulls up outside the hotel. I get in and we cruise off, merging into the traffic. The driver looks at me in his rear vision mirror. "So, you're the new programmer George has been talking about?"

"Yep, he offered me a job when we met each other in Switzerland."

"You got offered a position? That doesn't happen very often," he says.

"Why not?" I ask.

"I don't know. For some reason, all the young programmers want a job at Point Marketing. We have a long waiting list, despite our quick staff turnover."

The car pulls up outside a dark building. Reflected clouds are barely visible on its dirty tinted windows and a small sign with plain white lettering sits above the front door. _Point Marketing_. I'm surprised at how conservative the appearance of this building is, considering a marketing company supposedly operates within the premises.

I open the door and walk inside. Reception is also quite minimally styled, decorated with shades of white and grey, and an artificial plant in the corner of the room. I am greeted by the receptionist. "Hello, do you have an appointment?" she asks.

"Yes, I am here to see George," I reply.

"Ok, let me just check if he is available."

The receptionist dials George's office. "Hello, Mr. Pointer. A gentleman is here to see you. Shall I send him up to your office?"

I can hear George's reply. "No, I'll come down to show him around."

"He will be down in a few minutes to see you. Just wait over there, please," she says as she points at a small sofa, placed next to a coffee table.

I am sitting down, reading some magazines when George enters the room. "How have you been?" he asks me, smiling with open arms.

"I've been well," I reply as I stand and shake his hand.

"Welcome to the company. I'll show you around."

I follow him up a short flight of stairs until we arrive at a large open room; it seems like the main office. It looks like a warehouse; lights hang from the high ceiling and shine onto the carpet-tiled floor. Cubicles fill the floor in untidy rows, forming a regular grid pattern, familiar to most offices. There are about fifty people concentrating on screens in front of them, most of them wearing headphones with their eyes glued in place.

Another room is elevated above the main office. A few silhouettes overlook everybody, through the glass windows. It looks like a special room, closed off from the rest of the office. They must be the ones in charge.

George turns to me. "This is our operation," he says.

"Everything? Where is all the branding? Where are the designers?" I'm quite puzzled, this _can't_ be everything.

"We don't worry about branding and design here; we operate differently. Come with me, I'll show you to a workstation."

I follow George through the maze of cubicles. Every person here is focussed on their monitors, all deep in concentration, programming. "What are all these people doing?" I ask.

"Fixing bugs," he replies.

"That's all?"

"Yes, that's all these people need to know," George says as he keeps walking.

"So, I'll be fixing bugs here? Nothing else?" I ask.

"Yes, you are picking this up quickly."

George shows me to an empty cubicle amongst the disorganised office space where a brand new computer is sitting at a desk. Lines of code fill the screen which is written in an unfamiliar language. It doesn't resemble anything I have seen before.

"Please, sit," George says as he takes a seat beside the workstation.

I sit down on the chair and read the code on the monitor. It is so confusing. I can't make any sense of it.

"This script is full of bugs. I want you to find as many as you can, and fix them," he says.

"I have never seen any language like this before. Do you have a manual for this code I can access anywhere?"

"No, there is no manual. Everyone here interprets the Code in their own way," he says, nodding towards me while pointing at the monitor with an open palm.

"I'll see what I can do. I can't offer any guarantees though," I say as I look at the daunting mess ahead of me.

"That's ok. It takes most people at least a month before they can find a single bug. Some never manage to interpret the Code at all."

"Why do you want me to fix bugs in this script?"

"The more bugs you find, the more you will get paid. I'll leave you here so you can get familiarised with the language. Call me if you need anything," he says as he leans forward, ready to stand from his chair.

"Ok," I say as he walks away, leaving me alone with the computer.

I scroll through the pages of code on the screen. It still doesn't make any sense but I will try my regular method of fixing bugs; I'll start from the top. I read the script, trying to take in every piece of information while I internalise a small section of it. Nothing seems to be coming together as I try to manipulate and make sense of all the fragments. I spend the next few hours in a deep meditative state, attempting to mesh the ideas together. I am slowly becoming tired. My neck muscles are giving way and my eyelids droop down.

I am jolted awake by a voice. It's George.

"Take a break. I know how demanding this work can be," he says.

"But I haven't done anything yet," I reply.

"Trust me. You are getting the hang of it. In time the Code will start to make sense."

I lean back in my chair for a few moments.

"The lunch room is up there," George says, pointing to a staircase leading up to another floor. "Go up there whenever you want and meet some of the other programmers."

"Alright, I'll take a break," I reply.

I stand up from my workstation and walk between the cubicles, towards the staircase. Everyone around me is engaged in their work, concentrating on the Code that fills their screens. The official people are staring at me from the special room as I make my way towards the staircase.

The mood begins to change as I walk up the stairs. People are talking to one another, and the sound of video games gets louder.

The room upstairs has a completely different atmosphere to the main office. Light fills the large open space; posters and art line the walls. Big-screen TVs are set up around the room with people playing various video games, smiling, enjoying each other's company. There are a couple of table tennis and pool tables, enticing people to play. An area of the room is designated for buffet food which all looks very nice, and well prepared too.

I walk towards some large doors at the far end of the room, opening to a balcony outside. I stand in the sun and look over suburban L.A., towards the hills. I am trying to relax but I can't get the Code out of my head and it bothers me that I can't interpret it.

Someone in a red chequered shirt comes and leans on the handrail beside me. He looks out towards the hills for a few seconds before turning to me. "Robert," he says.

I shake his hand. "Nice view from here," I say.

"Yeah, I come up here all the time and look out, over the city. Have you been in L.A. for long?"

"No," I reply. "I arrived yesterday."

"Have you had a read of the Code yet?"

"Yes, I had a look at it this morning. I can't figure it out."

"It takes a while to get used to. You'll get the hang of it soon enough," he says, nodding to me.

"How long did it take to start making sense to you?"

He looks out towards the skyline. "A long time," he says. "It took me about two months before things started to make sense, and about one month after that I managed to find and fix my first bug. Just be patient. It will come to you."

"Do you have any tips to help me interpret the Code?" I ask.

"No, everybody must figure it out for themselves. It is not a regular language. I like to think of it as an organic language, with no rules set in stone. Others treat it as a rigid structure with defined parameters and rules. The only advice I can give you is to figure it out for yourself."

"Ok, I'll keep working on it. How's the food up here?" I ask him, feeling a bit hungry.

"It's actually very good. Now that you mention it, I'm feeling a bit hungry too."

We walk towards the smorgasbord which spans the entire length of the bench with an abundance of food. We fill our plates and sit on a sofa to watch some of the other people playing video games as I get introduced to the group. I could quite happily get used to this work atmosphere.

Back at my workstation, I start to read the Code again. I want to try and make sense of it but the more I read, the more my mind just feels like random blurs of grey. I can't manipulate the script in my head like I can with a normal code. No patterns are appearing and I become lost in the formless clouds of grey, trying to find my way.

I try harder and harder to think. Slowly, I slip into a trance, exploring the grey clouds in my mind, desperately trying to find a pattern. The formless grey scape of my mind begins to feel bigger and bigger, less and less organised. I fall down the whirlpool, devoid of ideas and become stagnated in an empty state of mind. I feel helpless, useless as I slowly regain awareness, realising I am still in front of a computer, still in front of the Code. Still the same, no progress.

"I think you should leave now," George says with his hand on the backrest of my chair.

"What are you talking about?" I ask him, confused.

"It's 10pm. You have been here all day. Don't worry about the Code. It will take a long time before anything makes sense. Just keep at it," he says as he starts heading towards the exit.

I suddenly realise the office is empty; everyone has left and most of the lights have been turned out. I must have been in a trance for longer than I realised. I stand up and follow George towards the exit, wondering how I can ever make any sense of the Code. George turns to me. "Stay in the suite again tonight. We can sort some more permanent accommodation for you tomorrow," he says.

The next morning, I arrive at the office around the same time as everyone else. People are booting their workstations up and putting on their headphones. The Code is appearing in front of them and they start reading it. Everyone is looking at their monitors, falling into deep concentration. Some people head straight upstairs, bypassing their workstations on their way towards the leisure room. All the while, eyes stare down from the special room. I try to concentrate on my monitor.

I proceed to read the script from the top in an attempt to uncover patterns in the formless lines. My concentration deepens and I begin to lose all awareness and connection to my surroundings. My peripheral vision slowly fades away and I begin the journey into my head as I continually read the Code. Still, I can find no patterns, and I cannot hold any more information in my mind. The Code starts changing, distorting in front of me and I can see a whirlpool, sucking me into unconsciousness.

I see a fragment of code that catches my eye amidst the fury. I have seen it somewhere before so I make a mental note of it as I desperately try to comprehend the whirling script. It's morphing, twisting as if being blown by heavy wind. I don't think I can continue this level of concentration for much longer.

I try to resist my mind's temptation to fall into oblivion as fragments of code are flying everywhere. The vortex is spiralling down towards a black hole, sucking away every piece of script as I try to make sense of it. I think I need a rest.

Upstairs in the leisure room, I grab something to eat and sit down with the boys. Everyone is on couches, playing games. I realise about half of the people up here haven't even visited their workstations today; they must come up and play games all the time. George doesn't seem to mind as he basks in the fun, laughing the loudest. I sit and play games with everybody, taking breaks only to eat from the smorgasbord.

Everyone eventually starts leaving for home and I feel as though I should go too. George turns to me. "Come with me, I'll give you a ride home tonight," he says.

We walk to the front entrance of the building and a nice-looking car pulls up. The valet driver gets out and greets George. The two of us get in and George drives off. "I'm impressed with the way you have been working," he says to me.

"I haven't done anything yet. I can't figure out the Code," I say.

"You have been making better progress than most new people do."

"But I haven't achieved anything, nothing is making sense. I spent half the day today, playing games and eating food."

"Everyone needs a rest; it helps us all perform better."

"Ok, this just seems like an odd place to work. No hours, no rules. Do we just try and fix bugs when we feel like it?"

"Yep, that's a good way of putting it. Fix bugs when you feel like it. By the way, I have arranged a more permanent place for you to stay."

He drops me outside a two-storey townhouse with a steep gable roof. The paint looks fresh on all the neighbours' black fences, complementing their automatic steel gates. The entire neighbourhood has a view of the hills. "Stay here for as long as you want; the fridge is full of food. Call the office in the morning and someone will come to pick you up," he says before he drives away. His car makes a muffled rumble, echoing down the street.

The place is decorated with modern furniture and all the clocks on the appliances show the correct time. I walk upstairs where I find a bed to sleep.

### 5

The next morning, I call the office for someone to pick me up. They arrive a few minutes later and take me to work, if you could call it that. I haven't done anything since I have been at Point Marketing. I haven't been paid, let alone had any mention of pay from George, or anyone else. But I figure I'm being fed and I receive shelter every night. I haven't spent any money since I landed in L.A. so I will just flow with this opportunity and see where it will lead.

I arrive at work while people casually file through the front door. I decide to sit down at my workstation and grind away at the Code for a few hours. The monitor is calling me, taunting me into its empty realm of entropy. I start reading the script from the top. Line by line, I begin memorising as much of the Code as I can. Line by line, I fall into deep concentration.

I see a shimmer of light amidst the heavy formless clouds of code. It's the fragment of code I recognise; now I am seeing it for a third time. I stop reading the script and meditate on the lone fragment. I think of its place in the Code and how it may interact with other fragments. It sits there, a lone glowing hope in the formless Codescape. I tap further into my concentration, widening my radius of focus, the shining fragment in the centre.

Suddenly, it clicks. I can see one interaction between the fragment, and another piece of code as an illuminated line of fog forms between the two fragments. The formless cloud of coding flows around the fog as it tightens into a glowing string, linking and locking the pieces together. The Code is warping around the string as it tightens the bond between the two. The fragments are sitting at different ends of the Codescape but remain permanently locked together by the glowing linkage.

I get it now, I get how to link fragments in this never-ending, ever-flowing code. I read on, excited to find more fragments that I can link. As I read the monitor and enter further into my mind, I can explore the Code as my body is still reading. I wander around, marvelling at the sheer amount of information contained within. But I am becoming careless and read too much.

My mind can't keep up with my body and I feel myself being pulled backward, sucked into a vortex of empty thought. I look up as the Code drifts further from my mind and I plummet into blackness. I am no longer thinking; I am surrounded by blackness and I have no idea how much time has passed as I slowly regain consciousness.

It is midday when I fall back to reality. I feel it is time to take a break from the Code and I head upstairs to stand out on the deck and look over the hills. Robert comes and greets me again. "How's it going?" he asks.

"I'm finally getting the hang of this code. At least, I think I am," I reply.

"Nice! It's always interesting to see how other people interpret it. How have you managed?"

"Well, you know how the Code is like a storm?" I ask for confirmation.

"Like a storm?" Robert frowns and tilts his head.

"Yeah, everything is flowing and the more script you try to internalise, the harder it gets to navigate. Fragments of code start blowing around and get sucked into black holes everywhere. You need to be careful where your mind wanders."

"That's an interesting one. I've never heard anyone say that before," Robert says as he chuckles.

"Why? Do you see it differently?" I ask.

"Yes. When I look at it, and memorise enough of it, I begin to see organisms. Every organism is made of code and finds its niche amongst the others."

"Sounds peaceful," I say.

"It _is_ peaceful until everything becomes unbalanced."

"What do you mean?"

"Mass extinction... Everything I have been working on falls apart in my mind. I become stuck with diseased organisms in a pile of rotting, decomposing code."

"So you are literally a god in your own head while you are working on the Code? You provide guidance for the organisms?"

"Yes, I guess you could say that," he replies.

"That sounds amazing, well, at least up until the point where your entire ecosystem falls apart," I say, marvelling at the way he sees the Code.

"Yes, I love how everyone who works here interprets the Code so differently. The Code is just inanimate letters and numbers on the screen in front of us; yet, when we internalise it, our interpretation changes so drastically. For some people, the Code sits stationary in their head; it is set out on a grid in front of them and they link the fragments between the cells. It seems to work for them."

"Fascinating. I have never had a job like this before, this unique, this stimulating," I tell him.

"Yes, I was very lucky to have been accepted here too. This is such a positive place to work but for some reason George wants to keep it a secret. He wants his operation kept hidden from the world."

I'm surprised at the secrecy. "George hasn't told me to keep anything a secret."

"Just remember to keep the operation in house to yourself. We all need to remind each other that our work remains here. We can't tell anyone. That's the reason George tends to hire outcasts, people with few friends," Robert says, looking directly at me.

"Ok, I'll keep it to myself," I say to him.

"You don't need to reassure me; reassure yourself," he says.

We both head into the leisure room and grab a bite to eat before joining everyone as they talk and play games together. I can't help but feel excited that I have started to make sense of the Code. I want to go back to my workstation but I think that it will be best if I take a bit of time out, rest, and eat some lunch.

I head downstairs after my lunch, back to my workstation. I can see the Code on the screen as I sit down and start reading it, internalising the letters, symbols, and numbers. The perceived wind in my mind starts distorting the characters. I can make out currents and vortices, the symbols curve around as they are sucked into blackness. The two fragments of code I previously linked remain illuminated, the bright string between them holds tight as ever. I explore the stormy Codescape, looking for discernible fragments of code to link together.

A code fragment stands out to me. I can't recognise or read anything it says but I know it fits somewhere because it is glowing, increasing in intensity as I concentrate on it. I see another faint glow between the grey clouds, in the distance of my mind. I mentally tie the two fragments together with a glowing linkage. I don't know why; they just seem to fit. More and more glowing fragments become apparent to me so I link the similar ones together. Before long I have a huge glowing web of linked code, outstretched in my mind.

I look across the Codescape at my creation. It spans further than I can see in every direction. Black holes, vortices, thick clouds, all fill my view, but the Code is beginning to take some sort of shape amongst the storm, illuminated between the clouds. The web I have built is holding, steadfast in the wind. I don't know why I made this web. It just seemed like an easy way to organise all the information that was standing out to me. I move in to examine it, and all its linkages.

As I examine the linkages, I realise that they are more than glowing lines of fog. They are made from code, written in the same language as everything else, only it was penned by me. I must have been learning the language without realising. I trace the glowing linkage as I read the script along it.

I lay it out in front of me. As I manipulate the web through multiple axes, I feel like a giant octopus stretching out with limitless limbs. All of the vortices and black holes are shrinking into obscurity. I can see all ends of the three-dimensional web and read the script contained within the fragments and the linkages. I plan to draw it into existence.

I type all the Code from the glowing web onto the screen in front of me, every symbol, and every letter. The glowing linkages show me where to read as I follow them and copy everything as it sits before me, no longer fragmented. I fall back into reality as it is now time to test the script for bugs. I have no idea what will happen, or whether anything I did has made any sense at all.

The test has concluded—number of bugs fixed: one. I am astounded. I didn't understand anything I did, yet I fixed a bug. I lean back in my seat, pleased with my progress as George comes to greet me. "Well done," he says. "I have never seen anyone pick the Code up as quickly as you. To be honest, most people never get it at all."

"Thanks," I say to him.

"The going rate is one thousand dollars per bug," George says as he hands me an envelope.

"One thousand dollars per bug?" I ask him.

"Yes, of course, that's the rate. Enjoy it."

The important eyes in the special room watch me as I head upstairs to join everyone in the leisure room. As usual, the atmosphere is relaxed; people are playing pool, video games, eating, just generally having a good time. Robert is standing on the deck, looking out towards the hills so I walk beside him and lean on the handrail. "I fixed a bug." I am excited to tell him.

"Yeah, I heard. Congratulations," he replies, smiling.

"Do you get a thousand dollars for every bug you fix, too?" I ask.

"Yep, that's what everybody gets, that's why some of us spend so much time up here, in the leisure room. We fix a few bugs every week and just cruise after that."

"This is such a good place to work," I say to him. "I have always loved fixing bugs, interpreting other people's scripts and finding the faults, but this job takes it to a whole new level. The script is so abstract that everything I have learned in the past is no longer relevant. I am relying on instinct."

"It really is a privilege, working here," Robert says as he stares towards the hills.

"Yes, it's really good but I can't figure out why all the secrecy behind the company is necessary," I say.

"Me neither, but why worry when we have it this good? Soon you'll be fixing multiple bugs per day, free to do whatever you want."

"Another thing I haven't been able to figure out is the people in the special room. What are they doing up there? They are always glaring at me."

"You mean the nucleation room? I don't know what they do either. Some of them are nice enough to talk to, but others can be a bit strange. The strange ones have supposedly been entrusted, whatever that means."

"What do you mean by strange? Like weird? I thought we were all a bit weird to be working here."

"No, it's as if someone has taken the life from them. They laugh at everything as if they are superior, yet, they project nothing. It's like they are soulless."

"So, some of the people working here get promoted to the nucleation room, and will become entrusted if they are lucky enough?" I ask.

"Yes, that's how I think it works. Everyone has their own theories until they get invited to join the nucleation team themselves. But once they become entrusted, they never seem the same again."

_I wonder if I will ever work in the nucleation room. What will it be like in there? What is entrustment?_ I think, as I look out towards the hills. The sun sets and a couple of stars come out as I stand there wondering. George comes up to congratulate me again and gives me a ride home.

George turns to me while we are on the way home. "Welcome to the company, you are now officially an employee of Point Marketing."

"It feels good to be a part of it," I say.

"Just remember, what you do while you are working with us _must_ remain within the company. Don't tell anybody what goes on here."

"Ok, I won't. I don't understand what I'm doing anyway."

"Our competitors will inevitably approach you requesting information about Point Marketing," he says, looking at me. "Just keep fixing bugs and you will keep getting paid, that's all there is to it."

"Nice and simple, that's how I like my arrangements," I say to him.

George drops me outside my townhouse. "I'll see you tomorrow," he says before he drives away.

I'm so happy that I can now comprehend the Code to the point where I can fix bugs in it. I make myself some dinner and try to sleep, still buzzing.

### 6

I have been working at Point Marketing for a few months and things have been going well. I am gaining more and more understanding of the Code every day, constantly learning more about this new language. The scope of possible ideas seems unlimited and I get to explore the Codescape, messy as it is, and make sense of it.

I enjoy the freedom offered here. I can work when I want, I get fed, and I get to hang out with my workmates all day. Everyone around me is in the same position; no wonder jobs are coveted here. It is hard to believe we all make a living out of this loose organisation. It's hard to even refer to it as a company. We have no monthly targets, no bosses, well, apart from George who plays games with us most of the day, no hours, and no competition.

Everyone works together on the same code. The people from the nucleation room announce a new script every couple of weeks or so, and message us the details and instructions on how to access it. Everyone always anticipates the new scripts and hurries to access them first.

The workstations are always fully occupied the day after the announcement of a new script because bugs are easier to find when they are fresh. Everyone works on them quickly to find and fix as many as possible, cashing in on the cream. I suppose the nucleators carelessly write scripts, full of bugs and expect us to fix them, I don't know. Either way, nobody is complaining about their careless programming.

Every new script they write gives me a new, unique Codescape to explore, a new storm to tame. I am confronted with a turbulent world every time I internalise a fresh script. The endless bugs in the Codescape create vortices and black holes of empty thought that I struggle to avoid as I wander through my imagination. Bugs are everywhere and ripe for the picking.

For the first few days, people can fix up to five bugs per day but once the bugs become harder to find, people start losing interest and spend more time in the leisure room. I, on the other hand, prefer the bugs that are harder to find, the ones most people overlook.

The bugs that everyone leaves behind are much more complex than the easy creamy ones. I like that. It means I need to internalise more of the Code, venture closer to the black holes to find and piece together the fragments. I must create elaborate webs within the Codescape, in an attempt to find and fix bugs. Sometimes I can work fifteen hours straight, exploring the Codescape, fixing a single bug. Sometimes after fifteen hours I end up down a black hole, watching my web of linkages get mutilated and destroyed. But I am always satisfied when I look to the glowing web I created every time I successfully fix a bug, before I write it into the script.

I marvel at this new dimension I am continually learning so much about. My glowing webs constantly try to establish a level of order to the chaotic Codescape.

I have never dealt with anything as abstract or complex as the Codescape. Conventional coding protocols don't apply here, yet everything comes together in its own way. I don't understand any details of the bugs that I fix. The computer tells me when I fix bugs and I get paid. My job is so simple but I can't help wondering what I am actually fixing, what the Code really means.

I am working on an old script at the moment, immersed within the ever turbulent Codescape. Most of the obvious bugs have already been fixed and I am sorting through the remains, testing ideas, piecing odd fragments of code together. It is hard work and I am growing tired. Vortices beckon me as I test the limits of my mind. It takes all my concentration to interpret the Codescape as it is distorted by black holes. I slip up, a momentary lapse in concentration caused by fatigue. I fall down a vortex, losing track of all thought as I slowly regain consciousness. I decide it will be best to leave this script and take a rest, so I get up from my workstation and head outside for a walk.

It has been a long time since I have been out in the real world. I have been spending so much time immersing myself in the Codescape that I fear I might lose touch with reality. I watch the world as I wander down the street. People everywhere talk to each other, sharing ideas.

I pass a group of people contemplating how to move a car with three wheels, stuck sideways in a driveway. One of them remembers an old rim he left under the house; another person fetches a rope from inside. They fix the rim in place with old bolts and all pull the car together. I pull up my pants above my hips and join them as they heave on the rope. I find the teamwork fascinating. It is like the information from their discrete minds merges into a shared idea to provide the best solution for the problem at hand.

People are interacting everywhere I look, solving problems. I thought I had lost touch with reality, living within the Codescape for the past few months, but this has not been the case. Everything around me seems to analogue the Codescape. I sit on a park bench in front of a tree. Children are running around it, playing a game. I watch them for a few minutes and begin to learn the rules of their little game and how the children play within them. I start to become entranced by their playing and feel as if I am slipping into the Codescape. The strangest thing happens.

I remain completely conscious as I watch the children play. Every now and then a child vanishes before my eyes, flickering in and out of existence. Whenever a child disappears, coding emanates from their point in space, like small fireworks. The ground begins to shift as the children alternate between existence and abstraction. The surroundings slowly morph, becoming a sea of code, engulfing the playground and the tree until everything before me becomes represented by it. A familiar looking Codescape stretches out before me.

The children and the tree are represented by code. Their bodies are no longer human but complex fragments of code, floating effortlessly. The ground is a solid state of code, as is the tree. The code fragments representing children are moving, interacting as they play their game. It is intriguing. I see similarities between the script I have been looking at for the past months, and what I now see before me.

The most interesting thing is what I see between the children. It resembles the stormy Codescape I have been spending so much time in. While the Codescape is usually full of vortices and black holes, the code between the children is elegant, tidy.

The Code flowing between the children is easily decipherable. It is not as complicated as the scripts I am accustomed to working with and I can read through it like an open book. It is telling the children where to move, when to run, when to hide. The Code flowing between the children must be a manifestation of the rules of the game they are playing. I watch its elegance, occupying the space between the happy children. I marvel at its simplicity as it binds the children in a mutual state of play. I slowly slip out of my trance and see the human children, playing around a wooden tree on a dirt playground.

I stand up from the park bench, somewhat bewildered by what I just witnessed. Was it a hallucination? Or was it something more? I wander further down the road with no destination in mind. I think I need to re-incorporate myself into the real world. Spending so much time in the Codescape must be sending me insane.

I walk down a cobbled footpath, approaching bags of plastic waste and paper which sit around an empty bus shelter. Somebody has spilled yellow paint everywhere and made a mess. I walk past the pile of rubbish and try to avoid stepping on the dribbles of wet paint, littering the footpath ahead of me. The paint trails down a shady alley a few metres along the path where I look out of curiosity. A scarecrow stands in the centre of the alley, looking me dead in the eyes. His stare stops me in my tracks.

He slowly walks my way, holding his gaze upon me. I find him intimidating as he hands me a rolled-up letter. I unravel it and look down to read the first few lines. I hear a scuffle so I look up and see the scarecrow, several metres in the distance, running away. I start reading.

We are Planet Halo.

We are devoted to informing our worldwide society. Information is constantly withheld from the public for selfish reasons. We believe all information should be publicly available to facilitate our cultural evolution. Whenever information is withheld from the public, it constricts us as a young, growing species.

We are a global organisation but are restricted from using any electronic forms of communication because the entire worldwide electronic communication system is surveilled. If you mean something to anybody important, you had better be careful what you say online.

We have reason to believe you work for a dangerous man. Be careful.

Write on a ten-dollar note; explain the workings of the organisation that employs you. Give it to the Tin Man.

Do not tell anyone.

Planet Halo.

I fold the note in half and hold it tightly in my hand. The scarecrow has long gone and I turn back towards the street. George doesn't seem like a bad person; he takes care of all his staff as if they were his own family. No company I have ever dealt with has treated me as well as he does.

Planet Halo seems to think otherwise. Either that or they just want George's business model. They won't get that from me. I don't even know how the company operates, let alone how it manages to turn a profit. I don't want to get caught up in something I know nothing about so I decide to distance myself from the conflict.

I screw the note up and throw it in the bin, next to all the other rubbish as I exit the alley and start walking down the footpath. A large man wearing a blue earpiece and a black suit is walking the opposite way to me. His neck looks stiff and he avoids my gaze as we pass each other. I turn to the glass buildings beside us after we pass each other and can see our reflection in the window. He picks his pace up once he thinks he is out of my vision, eyes fixated on the note that I threw in the bin. He knows something important is written on that piece of paper.

A rubbish truck pulls up beside the bin and the driver gets out, picks the bin up and throws the contents into the back of the truck. The mysterious man stops in his tracks, speaks a few words into his microphone, and then continues walking calmly down the footpath. The truck driver casually loads the rest of the rubbish into the back of the truck, completely unaware of what he may have saved me from. In some ways I guess I am only as aware as him.

I can't help but feel as though I am being watched while I walk home. A man is sitting, reading a newspaper, but he doesn't look genuinely interested in it. A vehicle passes by with dark tinted windows, the driver's road positioning and reaction times make it seem like they are focussing on more than just the road. Nobody who passes me acknowledges my presence; it is as though I am not a part of the crowd. I feel distant. People are watching me but I can't see who. Maybe I'm just becoming paranoid. Maybe the message from the scarecrow is more important than I realise.

I arrive home just before night strikes. The streets around me are quiet as I enter my townhouse. I catch a quick glimpse of the darkness as I close the door behind me. I try to get some sleep and clear my mind of today's events. But what if George _is_ dangerous? What if I _am_ being surveilled? Who is surveilling me? What does Point Marketing actually do? I don't think I will be sleeping much tonight.

### 7

I arrive at work and head towards my workstation. Everything around me seems normal as I boot my computer. Some people are deep in concentration, focussed on their monitors, and some people are heading upstairs having bypassed their workstations. I decide it will be good to explore the Codescape and hunt bugs for a few hours to get my mind out of the real world. The Code appears on the screen in front of me. I concentrate on it and feel myself slipping into a trance.

I am greeted by a sense of familiarity as I enter the Codescape. The dreamlike world that exists within my mind has become a homely place for me to be. I can predict the vortices and black holes of it, much more than the unpredictable nature of reality. I know the storms and I hunt the bugs.

I feel comfortable in the logical setting of the Codescape. I wander around, completely at home amongst the swirling storms and black holes. Bugs reveal themselves to me, inviting me to fix them. I pluck code fragments at will and link them together until I have a web of linkages laid out in front of me, pulsating, representing a patch.

I climb back to reality. The patch I just created remains fresh in my mind. I begin typing it into the keyboard before me; line by line it appears on the screen. I know this patch will fix two bugs. I press the test button after I have finished typing and confidently stand up from my chair. I head upstairs without even looking at the screen behind me. I know my patch has worked, two bugs fixed, thanks for the two grand.

I get the feeling someone is watching me as I walk upstairs. Eyes leer down at me through the windows of the nucleation room. Do they know about what happened? The scarecrow? Planet Halo? They must suspect something.

I enter the warmth of the leisure room. Everyone around me is enjoying themselves, no different to any other day. I head out to the deck and see if Robert is around.

Looking out from the deck is always refreshing. Viewing L.A. on a macroscopic level fascinates me because I can watch the world go by without having any involvement in it. L.A. is a city with its clearly defined boundaries where somebody has said: _This is where the city starts, and this is where it ends_. However, the boundaries do not define it.

The city grows, shrinks, changes, nobody can control that. It moves on its own; it defines itself. People will tend to settle into desirable areas. Nobody can define whether an area is desirable or not because desirability manifests itself through intrinsic properties. The city moves as though it is alive and I see changes happening before my eyes, buildings being built, and old places being renovated. The city is constantly evolving.

"Hello," a voice speaks to me.

I snap out of my daydream. "Hello," I reply.

"My name is Colin." He stands before me, arms by his sides. His head stays still, pointing straight ahead. He is wearing a wrinkled brown jacket, open at the front with an untucked shirt draping over his flat stomach. He looks straight ahead, through his glasses, and through me.

"Nice to meet you," I say to him as I extend my hand.

He doesn't shake my hand; he doesn't even look at it. His robotic eyes sweep the surroundings when I withdraw my offer for a handshake.

"Enjoy your thinking time," he says to me, continuing his gaze into nothingness.

I almost laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. "That is quite an odd command to give someone," I reply.

"There are many roads to enjoyment. I will not offer you directions."

Colin remains in front of me, his involuntary poker face awaiting my reaction. I don't really know what he is on about. "Do you work in the nucleation room?" I ask him.

"Yes."

"What do you guys do in there?" I ask.

"We write scripts for you to find bugs in, so you can get paid," he replies.

I know that is not the full story, he doesn't let any emotion out but I feel as though he is holding something back. "Oh, I thought you guys were the bosses." I say, trying to encourage more elaboration.

"You thought?" He chuckles to himself as he shakes his head and turns around to walk inside.

What a strange person, I think to myself as I turn towards the hills and lean on the handrail.

"I see you met Colin," Robert says as he faces me with a smile.

"Yeah, I see what you mean. Some of the people from the nucleation room _are_ a bit strange," I say.

"Colin is quite normal compared to some of the other nucleators. He comes into the leisure room every now and then, has a chat with a few people and walks around. Some of the others almost seem insane."

"Did you know Colin before he became entrusted?"

"Yes, he was a gifted programmer. George invited him to join the nucleation team after he became proficient with the Code. At first he was happy with his position. He was pretty much the same person as before his transition. After a while he started becoming mean; he lost all empathy towards other people. Everything he did was for his own gain." Robert's eyes look to the floor and start to glaze over.

"Was he a friend of yours?" I ask.

"Yes, he always encouraged me to keep trying hard. He wanted me to be invited to join him in the nucleation room. We still talked all the time, but one day it seemed as if he had something big on his mind. He wouldn't tell me what it was; talking about anything that happens in the nucleation room is strictly prohibited. He didn't come to work for a few days afterward, but when he finally did, he was the person you met today. I could no longer hold a conversation with him. His soul had been ripped out and he had become a drone."

"Is it common for people to change like that?" I ask.

"Yes, some people seem to crave entrustment. Everybody knows that there is a risk of losing your soul but I think they just hunger for the knowledge."

"Maybe they want the answer to the question. _What is entrustment?_ " I suggest.

"Yes, I think so. Nobody can really be sure until they are invited into the nucleation room for themselves," he replies.

We both walk inside to eat a bit of food from the smorgasbord. Tasty curry, roast chicken, sushi—everything is restaurant-quality. I love the meals here. Robert and I eat our food and play a few games of pool, all of which are won by him. He smiles and racks his cue when he realises I have had enough, so I follow suit and shake his hand as I bow my head.

I head downstairs after we have finished playing pool. I don't think I will have time to fix any more bugs today, so I walk to the exit where I am greeted by an unfamiliar face dressed in a sharp suit.

"Hello," he says to me.

I nod to him.

"Is this Point Marketing?" he asks.

The receptionist has already left so I decide to answer him. "Yes, it is," I say.

"It is interesting to finally be here, in person. I am really impressed by Point Marketing."

"What do you mean?" I am puzzled with his statement.

"I have been impressed with the results we get from you guys. I am one of your clients; you market our drinks for us."

I am as interested as him about the workings of our company, so I try to gather more details from him. "Oh, yes. Are you satisfied with our service?" I ask.

"Yes, we couldn't ask for anything more. Whenever we appoint you to do our marketing, our sales spike. We can bank on it, four months after we submit a job."

"Do your sales always spike after we complete a job for you?"

"Yes, Point Marketing is quite renowned amongst companies who are in the know. Your fees are quite high, but that's understandable. We are competing for your services with some of the world's largest corporations."

"Yes, I realise that, but I can't discuss any of our other clients with you, I'm sorry." I don't even know who any of our other clients are.

"I would like to meet George Pointer in person. I have dealt with him so many times and he has never let us down. Can you get a hold of him for me?"

"I'll see what I can do," I say.

I ring George on my phone. "Hello," he picks up.

"One of our clients is here, he wants to meet you," I say through the phone.

"Ok, I will send someone to pick him up. I have been expecting a visitor. Keep him company until the car arrives."

I turn to the man. "George is sending a car to pick you up; it should be here shortly. Do you want anything to eat or drink? We have plenty of food upstairs."

"No, thanks, I'm not hungry," he says.

"So, how did you come across Point Marketing?" I ask.

"It is kind of a well-kept secret amongst informed marketing managers. It really is an advantage knowing about you guys; your techniques work like magic."

"I'm glad to know we can be of service. We try to do our best here," I say.

"It's strange, I can see the results of your marketing schemes but I can never see any evidence of your work. No posters, no ads. How does it all work?"

"We have our techniques," I smile as I continue bluffing him.

"I guess I can't argue with the results, can I?" he says as he laughs.

A car pulls up outside the office. "Your ride is here," I say to him. "I'm sure George has something planned for you."

"It was good meeting you. By the way, I'm Peter," he says as he shakes my hand.

"See you later, Peter," I reply.

I begin walking home, along the pavement. The dark sky and dim lights of the street give me a few minutes alone to think. I put my hands in my pockets and pull something out, a ten-dollar note. I roll it up in my hand as I walk through a bustling street intersection. People are busking, performing for the passing crowds. Various instrument cases and hats lie open, in front of the performers.

One performer catches my eye. Somebody is wearing an iron suit, standing like a statue. The person is staring straight towards me, through a slit in their helmet. They make me feel uncomfortable; I scrunch up my ten-dollar note and put my hands in my pockets.

I feel as though I am being watched. I have seen a few men wearing blue earpieces tonight, security-looking people. They seem to hang around me so I walk the rest of the way home to leave the bustling streets behind.

I arrive home and enter my townhouse, but I peek at the dark street before closing the door behind me. A car is parked on the other side of the street and I am sure there is a face looking at me through the tinted window.

Was that busker in an iron suit the Tin Man? Planet Halo asked me to relay information through him. Is Planet Halo watching me? I lie awake in my bed, wondering.

### 8

Work continues as usual at Point Marketing. Every day I fix bugs, get paid, and relax; it's an ideal situation. With every passing day I continue to learn more and more about the Code. I am becoming more and more comfortable with Robert. He is constantly encouraging my progress and tells me that I am quickly becoming proficient enough to earn a place in the nucleation room. I look forward to that day.

I am currently immersed in the Codescape, working on an elaborate bug that I have been piecing together for some time now. The messy web of code I have created teeters in the wind, taunting me with its instability until a voice disturbs my concentration.

The patch I have been creating starts to mangle and I can't gather the information from it into my conscious mind, so it falls apart. Vortices form, black holes relentlessly pull at me. My entire creation is soon turned into a mess of whirling code, devouring itself as it rips apart in the swirling winds. Black holes stretch the script, the letters and numbers distort beyond recognition. I don't think I can salvage anything so I intentionally slip out of the trance.

"George!" I say as I turn around. "I haven't seen you in a while."

"Sorry for waking you," he says. "I have been watching you work. You are quickly becoming a master of the Code."

"Thanks," I say, awaiting more information from him.

"Come with me, I want to show you something," George says as he puts a hand on the backrest of my chair and opens up his other palm, tilting his head and gesturing me to stand.

Eyes glare down at me from the nucleation room while I follow George to the leisure room. We each get ourselves a gourmet meal from the smorgasbord.

George leans on the table after we sit down to eat. "I have a job offer for you," he says.

I'm interested. "What is it?" I ask.

"I think you are ready to begin working in the nucleation room," George says, eating a spoonful of pasta.

"What happens in there?" I ask.

"You will be creating the skeletons of scripts. I have been watching you work, and I think you have great potential," he says. "Let's finish our meal and I will show you around."

I am excited at the opportunity to finally find out how this company works. We finish our food and begin the walk towards the glass doors of the nucleation room. George swipes his card and pushes the door open.

"Here we are," George says as he opens his arms out to the room and hands me his key card.

The nucleation room—a series of offices and side rooms, some have glass doors, inviting and bright while other doors remain firmly shut, hiding what may be on the other side. The central room looks much like a small version of the main office, which operates behind windows below.

There are about fifteen workstations in the nucleation room, less than half of which are occupied. Colin is here, conceptualising some sort of elaborate script. A person stands up from his workstation and greets me with a handshake. George looks between us with his arms opened, drawing everybody together. "This is William. He will introduce you to the operations of the nucleation room and show you around," George says.

George leaves William and me to introduce ourselves. William is wearing an immaculate white shirt and his pants taper perfectly to his shoes. His short, well-kept hair would be appropriate for any situation along the cool-casual-formal spectrum. "Nice to meet you," he says.

"Likewise. So this is the nucleation room?" I ask him.

William lifts his chin. "Yes, what have you heard about it?"

"Not a lot, really. I have heard a few rumours, but nothing of significance."

"Let me show you what we do," William says as he starts walking towards a door. His composure is faultless as I trace the movement of his polished black shoes.

I follow him down a hall until we enter a conference room. A well-used whiteboard sits at the front of the room, filled with intricate brainstorms of a past meeting. We both take a seat at the table. William sits with his legs apart and leans forward on the table, hands clasped together with his head bowed. I wait for what he has to say.

I am excited. There must be more to Point Marketing than programming abstract scripts and fixing random bugs. After all, we do have a good success rate, according to Peter.

William lifts his head and faces me. "As you will have gathered, we are a marketing company."

I nod my head. "Yes."

William pauses for a little while. "What would you do if you heard an idea that was so plausible that you couldn't help but believe it?" he asks me.

"I guess it would be natural to believe it," I say.

"That is essentially what we do here. We create plausible ideas," he says as he leans back in his chair.

"So, what does the Code have to do with these plausible ideas?" I ask.

William leans forward in his chair again, shoulders slightly raised. "I'm glad you asked. The Code was created by George to analogue the workings of the human mind. I think it will make more sense once you know your way around the nucleation room," he says.

We both stand up and I follow William to an empty workstation. The computer sits alone, displaying a script on the screen. The script looks neat and tidy upon initial inspection; I can't spot any bugs. William pulls the chair out while grinning and gesturing with an open palm for me to sit. I take a seat and look at the screen.

"Read this and see if you can understand it," he says.

I get comfortable in the seat and ready myself for the journey ahead while William backs away and leaves me. I start reading the script from the top and begin being pulled into the Codescape. The script splays itself out before my mind and lies around me. There are no gales blowing here; black holes and vortices are nowhere to be found. This Codescape is calm and serene. I slowly try to comprehend the script that is around me.

The beast reveals its form in front of me, laying open for my interpretation. I begin to piece it together. The Code greets me with a familiar form and language. A couple of months ago I would never have understood a single part of this, but now it is like a Persian carpet lying out in front of me. Every pattern makes sense; I understand.

I am eager to tell William about my interpretation of the script. Colin is still glued to his workstation, typing away at his keyboard. I wonder how long he has been here for. William greets me with a wave from across the room. "How did you go? Your bright eyes were focussed on the screen all morning," he says.

"It was good; I could understand the script. I knew what it was saying," I reply.

"And what did it say to you?" he asks.

"It's hard to put into words. It doesn't say anything in particular; it gives me more of a feeling."

"Can you elaborate on that?" William leans forward and raises his eyebrows.

"Well, to me it looked like the blueprints of an idea, perhaps a way of thinking."

William scratches his chin. "And what might that idea have been?"

"It seemed to describe an energy drink. It detailed the taste, the colour, and the types of people who might be expected to drink it. It described all the feelings associated with the drink in detail."

William is beginning to smile. "And how would you describe the taste of it?"

"I couldn't physically see or taste the drink but I know it was written in the script, I could feel it. I guess it would have tasted like any other generic energy drink. I don't know."

"Do you think you could draw a picture of it?" William asks.

"No, I don't think so," I reply.

"Would you buy it?" William says as he looks straight at me.

"Yes, I would. It has all the characteristics of a successful energy drink. I feel as though it is desired by people whom I look up to, something successful people would buy. Even though I can't see or taste the drink, I think I would buy it. Assuming it lives up to the way it is described within the Code."

"You have done extremely well," William says. "I don't think anybody has ever interpreted the Code as quickly as you."

"It's what I love to do," I reply.

"I think you can handle an assignment. Follow me," William says as he heads towards the hallway of the nucleation room.

I follow him through the room where people occupy computers. Everybody seems hard at work, staring at the Code on their screens. We make our way through one of the glass doors, into one of the side rooms.

A blank whiteboard stained with old smudges fills the front wall of the room. Hazy light enters the room through a window. White tables provide space to work around in the centre of the room. Cups containing pens occupy the table tops and are used as paper weights. An unopened can of energy drink sits in the centre.

William and I sit at the table, either side of the energy drink. William reaches for a pen and paper and hands them to me. "Describe this can," he says before he leaves the room.

I look at the can and press the ball of my pen to the page, indenting a small blue dot on the paper while I think. What properties does this can possess that separate it from everything else? What makes it unique? I think the most recognisable feature of any can is its label.

Like flowing water frozen in time, the ice blue label swims up the can, spiralling the entire height. The bottom of the label forms a shape similar to an open hand, which encompasses a logo, shining like a frosty star. A red stamp _NPJ_ is centrally placed within the brilliance.

The NPJ logo is repeated throughout the surface of the can wherever it will fit. I pick it up in my palm and manipulate it as I trace the swirling patterns of the icy label. The NPJ logo is stamped above the ingredients.

Another unique aspect of the drink can be expressed through the ingredients. I turn the can as I read the ingredients, some of which stand out to me: Royal jelly, Manuka honey, ginseng. I guess all these ingredients contribute to the uniqueness of this energy drink, so I note them down.

I write everything I have observed about the can onto the paper in front of me. I guess a drawing of the label and logo could be worth a couple thousand words so I sketch an annotated picture of the can on my paper. I make sure to draw it from a variety of perspectives until the entire three-dimensional surface has been noted down.

My descriptions could be deepened by observing the experience of consumption. I prime my senses before lifting the can off the table in front of me. The can makes an acoustic crunch as I lift the tab, unlike any I have heard before. How could I describe this crunch? How can I describe sound, using words? I know I can remember it, but describing it will be more complicated.

I bring the can beneath my nostrils, while the mist is still fresh and inhale the unique aroma. It has the familiar smell of an energy drink, along with its own unique palate. Much like the sound, I cannot describe the smell with simple words so I make a mental note of it instead.

I lift the can to my lips and take a sip. It tastes how I had expected. I try hard to make out the unique flavours of this particular drink—a refreshing hint of honey, a subtle ginger flavour. The flavours are so faint that nobody will taste them without conscious effort. However, they are all part of the essence of it.

The door clicks open and William pops his head through the gap. "How's it going?" he asks.

"Good, I think I have a rough description of the drink," I reply.

William looks at the open can and smiles. "Did you get thirsty?"

I look at the open can and smirk back at him. "I figured the smell and taste of the drink are just as important as the visual properties of the can."

"Fair enough," he says as he walks towards the table and sits down, inspecting my notes.

My scribbled drawings and messy writing scatter the paper. William flicks through the pages, nodding while observing my notes. "Very good, very detailed," he says as he turns to me.

"Thanks," I say. "But what is this for?" I ask him.

"We can begin work tomorrow. Take your notes home with you and remember everything you observed today. You'll need them," he says as he taps them on the table a few times, creating a neat pile.

"Ok, I'll see you tomorrow," I say as I collect my notes from him.

I pass through the buskers' square as I walk home. The Tin Man is performing again. He slowly turns his head my way and looks at me through the corner of his helmet. I try to pay attention to the snake charmers and drummers. Their pulsating beats resonate with me as I walk through the square, passing the Tin Man without acknowledging his presence.

I lie in bed for a few minutes before I go to sleep. I am looking forward to what tomorrow has in store for me, and sleep deep and sound all night.

### 9

Rays of sunshine greet me through my window; I have narrowly missed the sunrise. I squint outside at the silhouettes of apartments, casting shadows through the orange air. My eyelids lighten and my spine arches as the morning light energises me. My blankets slide off me as I get out of bed, eager to spend more time at Point Marketing, a place of exponential apprenticeship.

I am eagerly anticipating what William will tell me today; he seemed happy with the notes I wrote about that energy drink. I really don't know whether I was asked to take notes as an exercise or whether they relate to something more important, whatever that may be. I wait at the bus stop for my ride to work with the public.

I like taking the bus to work because it allows me to watch the world go by as I take a back seat. I don't need to look where I'm going; I don't need to look where I've been. I can immerse myself in the ride, a moment in time where everything is simple.

A sharp sound, gas releases from the pneumatic cylinder of the bus door which wakes me from my daydream. Time to go to work.

It's about 9 a.m. when I arrive at the nucleation room. A few familiar faces I haven't met yet are working at their computers. I walk to the window that overlooks the main office. Most of the workstations are occupied by people, furiously working on the Code and my old workstation is occupied by a new recruit.

William comes and stands next to me, clean shaven and wearing an ironed white shirt, casually clinched around his torso. "Poor guy, he probably won't last a couple of weeks," he says as he looks out the window.

"I know how it is, being thrown in the deep end," I reply.

William turns to me. "Do you think you are ready to work up here?" he asks.

"I don't know. I guess I'm still learning how to swim."

William looks out the window, back towards the workers downstairs. "You quickly became the biggest fish in the pond when you worked down there. I'm sure you can handle the learning curve up here."

"I guess so," I say.

"Did you bring all your notes from yesterday?" William asks.

"No, they are all in my head," I reply.

"Well, that's the best place for them," William says as he begins walking towards the centre of the room.

He shows me to one of the computers in the nucleation room, pulling the chair back to give me room to sit. The screen is turned on but completely devoid of any coding or text. The only thing that I can see is a blinking cursor at the top left of the page.

"I am sure this will come naturally to you, but before we start, have you had a decent breakfast today?" William asks.

"Yes," I reply, thinking about the whole grain muesli with milk that I had.

"The pages in front of you are an empty canvas. I want you to project the energy drink through your mind and onto the screen. Describe every detail of the drink as deeply as possible; it should be as clear as if the drink were really in front of you. Use the Code to describe the sights, the sounds, and the essence of the drink. Use your intuition. I want you to create a Codescape," William says before he leaves me alone once more.

For the past months I have been spending most of my waking hours within the Codescape. I hardly consider living an imaginary world, mentally created by myself in order to comprehend a complex code, as being awake though. I do what I can to make sense of the Code, like everybody else at Point Marketing. We all have our own interpretations of it, and it seems to work, for the most part. I guess I had better start trying to build a Codescape.

I close my eyes and lean my head back. My mind is devoid of all thought before I ponder the empty Codescape. All is black. I mentally move forward through the blackness and feel no perception of change apart from a slight feeling of wind on my face. Am I imagining the wind or is it part of the Codescape, scribed into my subconscious? I look left and right with blacked-out vision. It is up to me to create this Codescape, from scratch.

I think of the energy drink. NPJ, the logo, appears before me. The red stamp stands brightly against the black background, exactly as I remember it. It is an image that has been channelled from my memory, now projected before me. The logo stands alone, the ambassador, the most memorable aspect of uniqueness that this drink possesses. It floats in the blackness, waiting for something to happen.

The logo spontaneously morphs in front of me, twisting over itself, inside out until it is no longer recognisable. A stream of letters, numbers and symbols begin to flow from the twisted, red mass like a water fountain. I walk closer to the phenomenal appearance to get a closer look and become showered with falling pieces of code. The fragments fall around me and pass through my projected body, tingling.

I marvel at the dissolving logo, squirming during its last flicker of existence as it becomes one with the Code. The fountain of fragments has now gathered as a solid lump, and sorted itself into a graceful display of ordered script. It clearly represents the logo, to the extent of my knowledge.

I remember opening the can, the unique crunch of the seal being split. I remember it so clearly that it begins echoing through the Codescape. The sound waves draft through the established script, blowing it like a spider web glistening in the morning dew. The sound transforms into code fragments, flying through the air to slowly settle in place against the existing script. The script to describe NPJ is slowly coming together.

I take a deep breath while imagining the smell of NPJ; the unique aroma fills my nose and travels into my lungs. I savour the taste while holding my breath for a few heartbeats, meditating on the flavour. I exhale, code fragments leave my mouth like autumn leaves blowing in the wind, settling alongside the rest of the script.

Before long the script is falling into place right in front of me, like windblown sand settling on a wet surface. It is no longer necessary to make a conscious effort to transcribe my thoughts into code; everything is flowing seamlessly. I read some small parts of the script, I read the smell of the drink, and I see the taste. Every unique attribute of the drink is so easy for me to read and understand because I wrote this script, albeit small. I am proud to have built this Codescape.

The Codescape surrounding me makes perfect sense. All code fragments have been placed and are ordered in a logical manner, and I take a few moments to admire my surroundings. Like books in a library, everything is catalogued and easily accessible. No maps are required because I made this from the ground up. I am the only person aware of this world because it exists entirely within my own mind. It must be written down for anyone else to experience it.

I slowly open my eyes while keeping the Codescape fresh in my mind. It is now time to record my creation. The lines of code fill my mind from top to bottom, waiting to be released. Pressure builds at the floodgates. I realise I will be here for a long time as I begin typing the first lines of code. The typing continues while I watch my hands instinctively glide back and forth across the keyboard, and the script floods from my mind like water down a sinkhole.

Before long, the last lines of code are falling into place. I can hardly keep my eyes open and my head is slumping forward. My back aches as though I have been sitting for days; I am physically and mentally exhausted. However, I now have a Codescape created by me, ready to be interpreted by some other mind.

My circadian rhythm tells me it is the end of the day and that I should leave for home. I lean forward and struggle to get out of my chair. I feel my quads and lower back slowly activate as they pull me from my seat. I look up and see a blurry figure slowly coming into focus. It's William.

"How are you feeling?" he asks me.

"Fine, I guess. I feel exhausted but I am glad to have finished building that Codescape. How long has it been?" I ask him.

"You have been absorbed in your work for about two days," William says, as if he was talking about the weather.

No wonder I feel disoriented; I must have lost track of time. "Is it normal to take that long to build a Codescape?"

"Yes, you had an easy assignment. Sometimes we need to put people on a drip while they work on elaborate projects. Some Codescapes can take weeks or months for one person to build."

My stomach rumbles and I have a headache. "I really need something to eat and drink. I'll see you later," I say to William as I stumble towards the door.

William sits in my chair, reading my script as he slips into a trance and begins to analyse my work. I decide I should leave him be while I have a feast and a good drink of water in an effort to recharge my tired body. But before I leave the nucleation room I quickly look out the window overlooking the main office. I see my old workstation empty again, all personal items have been removed and the barren desk awaits a new occupant. Poor guy, he didn't even last a week.

I see George through the main entrance as I am about to leave Point Marketing. "George!" I say.

George walks towards me, arms splayed out and he greets me with a warm hug. "Good job on completing your first Codescape," he says.

"Thanks, it was quite a task. I really enjoyed it though, the immersion in pure creation felt comforting to me. I hardly realised time was passing while I pieced it together."

"You are one of the most talented programmers I have ever come across. I would really like to know how you interpret the Code. I know everybody interprets it in their own way, but you seem to have ability exceeding your experience. How about I shout you dinner tonight?" he asks as he walks towards the gloss black limousine, reflecting the city lights on its polished paintwork while it waits outside.

"Yeah, sure," I say to him as we both get in the back doors of the limo. The leather seats remind me of the time before I worked at Point Marketing, when I was constantly being called out to various programming jobs. Companies still call me every now and then requesting service but I am tied up with Point Marketing now, and constantly learning. I may go back to freelance in the future but for now I will enjoy this dinner with George.

"Off to my favourite spot," George says to the driver.

The driver turns his head halfway to us and nods in recognition. I catch a glimpse of a blue earpiece in his ear before he looks to the front again.

"Where are we going?" I ask George.

"Hephaestion. It's a nice Greek restaurant. You'll love it," George says as he opens the mini fridge. "Do you want a beer?" he asks me.

"Yeah, sure," I say, accepting his offer once he pops the lid.

"Cheers," George says as we both take a sip.

We arrive at the front door of the restaurant. The hostess welcomes us through the Mediterranean-style doors. George leads me towards a table with a few people already sitting at it. A woman's face lights up when she sees him. George introduces me to the people sitting around the table. "This is my wife Cynthia," he says.

George gestures me towards a beautiful woman in a fitting black dress. Her straight hair flows elegantly around her shoulders and she smiles at me when she shakes my hand. "Nice to meet you, Cynthia," I say.

"You have already met Colin," George says as he points to Colin who nods at me. I remember that he doesn't react to handshakes so I nod back to him.

"And this is Eric." A broad-shouldered man sits at the opposite side of the table. I see his combat boots under the draped tablecloth as I walk around to greet him personally. I notice a scar on the side of his neck by the chord leading to his blue earpiece.

I sit down beside Eric, and George takes a seat by Cynthia. "What are we having tonight, darling?" George asks Cynthia, rubbing his hands together.

"I have ordered salad and bread for appetisers. Order whatever you want from the menu," she says as her gaze swings around to include all of us in her statement.

We all choose our meals when the appetisers are delivered. "So, how do you know George?" I ask Eric.

"I do a lot of personal work for him," he says, passing his menu to the waiter while he leans on his knee.

"Are you a programmer?" I ask him.

"No," he replies, stopping the conversation dead in its tracks.

Cynthia turns to me. Her dark hair drapes down the side of her neck. "So, you are the new member of the team George has been telling me about?"

"I guess so," I reply while looking towards George. He nods and smiles.

"George tells me you are really someone special. I can see that in you; I can see your focus." Cynthia raises her glass of red wine. "To new possibilities," she says.

"To new possibilities," we all toast together, including Colin who fumbles as he lifts his drink.

After our meals have been delivered, George leans in close to me. "William told me how well written your script was. The one you wrote about the energy drink."

"He is a good teacher," I reply.

"I agree with you there, but learning and teaching are corresponding actions. The fact that you are a receptive learner has everything to do with William being a good teacher." George looks away from me for a brief moment. "I just want you to know that you are special to me and I want you to be a part of this team."

"Thanks, it's nice to be in good company," I say.

George pays for our meal and we all stand up from the table. We say our goodbyes as we stand outside the front of the restaurant. "See you, Colin." I make an effort to acknowledge him, Eric, Cynthia and George.

George turns to me. "Do you want a ride home with the rest of us?"

"No, thanks, my place is quite close. I'll walk," I say.

Everybody gets into a limousine waiting outside. Eric is the last one to enter while putting a finger to his earpiece. George rolls his window down. "I have something I want to tell you. I'll see you tomorrow at the office," he says to me.

"Ok, I'll see you then," I reply before they pull away in the limo.

I begin walking home down the street, yellowed by sodium lamps.

### 10

After a long awaited sleep, I head to Point Marketing to begin a new day. William stands up from his workstation to greet me when I walk up the stairs to the nucleation room. "I read through your script; it was very well written," he says.

"Thanks. I tried to write it in the most logical way possible," I reply.

"It was easy for me to become immersed in the Codescape that you created. I think you did really well, albeit an easy subject. You described that energy drink in perfect detail. George is on his way to meet you."

Through the glass window of the door I can see George walking towards the nucleation room. William and I greet him when he comes inside. "Morning, boys," George says.

"Morning," William and I reply.

"Come with me, I have something I want to tell you," George says to me before walking down the hall of the nucleation room and through a side door.

I follow George into the room. Leafy plants, surrounded by rocks, adorn the roofless room with a few bamboo screens providing decoration. A small pond housing a few koi carp tranquilly harmonises the centre of the room. George and I sit around a handmade wooden table where I can see him trying to suppress a smile.

"Do you know what we do here?" he asks me as his smile reveals itself.

"What? Here in this room?" I ask him, puzzled.

"No, at Point Marketing. Our business model," he says.

"Not really. I guess it's some sort of marketing scheme."

"Correct, but how does it work?" George says while tilting his head forward and raising his eyebrows.

"I have no clue," I say as I shrug my shoulders.

George leans back in his seat. "Well, now that you are part of the nucleation team I guess you should know what it is we do here. You see, a long time ago, maybe fifteen years or so, I created a language."

"The Code?" I ask.

"Yes, the very code that is still in use today. I created the Code as a way to analogue human thoughts. It is essentially a language that operates in a very similar way to the human mind, thus giving us a way of mapping and describing thoughts."

I think for a moment while George pauses. "So the scripts I have been writing while working at Point Marketing have all potentially been thoughts? How did you manage to create this language?" I ask him, dumbfounded.

"I employed an ancient principle of philosophy. Everything is divisible. Take, for example, this table. You will have no issue in the claim that I can split this table in half and I will be left with two half tables. I can split those pieces in half again and I will be left with four quarter tables. I can keep splitting this table as many times as I want," George says while lightly karate chopping the table.

"Up to a certain point," I say.

"Exactly, the idea of the atom—indivisible. I am glad you are following," George says before settling back into his analogy.

"Everything is divisible to a certain point, including thoughts. I applied the ancient Greek philosophical idea of _atomism_ to ideas. An idea can be divided into two or more separate ideas. The same principle applies. The table sitting before us was once nothing more than an idea." His face lights up when he sees me understand.

"I see what you are saying. Before a certain point in time this table didn't physically exist. It was nothing more than an idea. The idea was formulated by its creator from a multitude of harmonious, smaller ideas," I say.

"Yes, essentially, this table is elevated and flat on the top," George says as he extends an open hand to me, signalling me to continue.

"It is flat on the top so things don't fall off," I say to him. I could have just as easily given a reason as to why the table was elevated.

"Things fall off sloped surfaces because their centre of mass is shifted to one side," George continues.

"The centre of mass shifts to the side of tilted objects because gravity acts vertically upon them," I say, continuing the game.

"We could keep dividing these ideas and eventually find the prime ideas behind this table, much like the prime number trees you used to draw in school, but luckily I have already done this, back when I created the Code. I created the Code, using prime ideas," George says, pressing his fingertips together. "Each fragment of code represents a prime idea."

I am amazed at his philosophical insight and eager to learn more. "But what does any of this have to do with marketing?" I ask.

"Well, since we can now effectively model ideas and thoughts, we can conceive any idea we want. Take, for example, the nounal script that you recently finished writing which described an energy drink," he says.

"Yes, NPJ," I reply.

"Before you started to write the script for NPJ, you were shown a script which described the perfect energy drink," he says.

"Yes, I remember. That was a well-written code; it was perfectly apparent to me how that particular Codescape represented a desirable energy drink," I say.

"Now that you have finished your description, we have two Codescapes—one Codescape describes the perfect energy drink and the other one is the nounal script that you wrote, describing NPJ. If the two Codescapes were to be somehow combined, then we will have a perfect energy drink _and_ NPJ combined in a single, conceived idea," George says to me.

"I see. A nounal script is combined with some sort of a descriptive script which are somehow combined into one single script?" I ask for clarity.

"Yes, we keep a catalogue of accessory scripts which can be combined with nounal scripts in order to alter the attitudes presented alongside the idea. We keep both positivity and negativity scripts which we use depending on the marketing strategies that are to be employed," he says.

"But how are they combined? Surely two dissimilar ideas wouldn't merge effortlessly into one," I ask.

"That is where the main office comes into play. We roughly combine the scripts that we want to form into a single idea. The staff in the main office must patch and fix as many bugs as they can find, essentially increasing the plausibility of the idea by adding prime ideas where necessary. All of this is done by the programmers using their subconscious minds. That is why you must enter the Codescape in order to interpret the Code," he says.

"That's why the scripts are so hard to interpret when they arrive from the nucleation room; the ideas don't make sense," I add.

"Yes, exactly. Every bug that gets patched by the programmers in the main office helps to merge the scripts into a single, coherent idea that makes logical sense," George says as he stands up from his seat. "Follow me and I'll show you our servers, one of the things I am proudest of," he says as he walks towards the door.

I follow George as we leave the garden room behind and head further through the halls of the nucleation room until we arrive at a locked door. George swipes his key card and the lock clicks open. Fluorescent lamps flash as racks of servers are revealed. We walk into the room while cooling fans blow air through the server cases.

George opens his palms and makes a half turn towards me. "Welcome to the server room," he says.

LED lights flash on the cases when I look down the racks of servers. "What are all these servers processing?" I ask.

"This is how we distribute our ideas. Every one of these servers is programmed to interpret the scripts we write. They translate them into a form that can be interpreted by humans," George says before sitting down on a chair. "This is our marketing team."

The door to the server room creaks open and Colin pokes his head through the slit. He stands in the doorway with his arms at his sides and his head locked straight ahead. "Hello, George, we have visitors," he says in a monotonous voice.

"Good," George replies before turning to me. "I'm sorry, but I need to attend to these clients. Here is your pay for the NPJ job," George says as he hands me a thick brown envelope before leaving the server room and walking down the hall with Colin.

The envelope is thick and heavy in my hand. It is filled with stacks of money, maybe five or ten thousand dollars. I fold the envelope in half and put it in my pocket while I sit amongst the servers for a few moments. The dust-free, air-conditioned surroundings feel somewhat comforting to me as I lean back into the chair.

Various cable off-cuts and crimping tools sit on the white desk beside me, probably left here by the hardware maintenance staff. A ballpoint pen, clicked open, sits amongst the mess of tools. I remember the Tin Man. _Write on a ten-dollar note; explain the workings of the organisation that employs you._

I reach into my pocket to retrieve my swollen pay packet. Various bundles of bank notes fill the envelope from which I retrieve a crumpled ten-dollar note. I flatten it on the desk and write as small as I can, beginning at the top left hand corner.

Point Marketing is a legitimate business that utilises clever marketing strategies derived by an intelligent businessman. There is no need for me to be involved with whatever ideas you have conceived about this organisation. Please do not contact me again.

I think Planet Halo is just a front for some sort of personal investigation into the business operations of Point Marketing. Whoever may be behind it is likely just another businessman, wanting a piece of George's business model. He has trusted me with a high position in his company so I am obliged to keep his plan within the company. After all, George has conceived the language of the Code, so he is entitled to all the fruits of his work.

I roll the ten-dollar note into a tight cylinder and put it in my pocket, ready for the next time I see the Tin Man performing on the streets. I stand up and leave the pen on the table before leaving the server room. The lights turn off as I close the door and head downstairs to the leisure room.

The leisure room is filled with a typical crowd of around twelve or thirteen people enjoying their break. A couple of them are playing table tennis and a group of people are sitting on the sofas, playing video games, while others stand around watching, sipping on their drinks. I make my way towards the smorgasbord for some morning tea after entering the room, but I stop halfway.

The buzz of the crowd dies down as heavy footsteps make their way up the staircase. I am the only person in the room to look at the entrance as Eric's stone-cold glare appears over the horizon of the stairs.

He calmly clomps through the centre of the room while everybody avoids looking in his direction. He walks past a few of the programmers who shuffle to the side. The people playing video games slouch as he walks past them. But Eric ignores everybody as he heads straight towards the smorgasbord while one of the programmers moves to the side, allowing him to pick a few pieces of meat for his plate.

He turns around and heads downstairs. The last thing I see is his broad back as he carries his plate away and the ambient volume of the leisure room normalises to a hum before I continue my journey to the smorgasbord.

I grab a small filled roll and a drink of water from the table and look up for a brief moment. Robert is standing on the deck, leaning on the handrail, looking out through the clear sky towards the city. I become momentarily blinded by the sunshine when I step outside to greet him.

"How's it going?" I say to him.

Robert turns around, "Hey! How have you been?" he says with a big smile.

"I've been well," I say. "Have you been fixing many bugs lately?" I ask.

"Yeah, averaging about one bug every two days I'd say," he says before turning back towards the city view. His head snaps back to face me. "How has it been in the nucleation room?" he asks.

"It's going good. I suppose I am meeting their expectations because they keep giving me new tasks," I say.

"What sort of tasks have they been giving you?"

"I can't really talk about it but as you will have already figured out, we write the scripts that you interpret and fix."

Robert looks away from me, "Yeah, I understand."

"Hey, you were the one who told me about the rules of Point Marketing. I didn't make them up," I say jokingly.

Robert smiles and looks down, over the handrail, "So, are you enjoying it?"

"The work is definitely more stimulating than fixing bugs in the main office. The pay is not bad either, not that I am interested in it," I say as I unfold the envelope from my wallet and pull a stack of cash out. "Do you want some money?" I say jokingly.

"No, thanks," he says with a small chuckle.

I throw some of the money off the balcony; maybe a few hundred dollars' worth of notes blow in the wind and spread beyond our sight. We both laugh at the ridiculousness of what I just did.

"I see the money hasn't got to you," Robert says. "I think that was Colin's downfall. He got caught up in the wealth and forgot about everything else. Have you seen much of him?" Robert turns and looks me in the eyes with the pain of his lost friend.

"Yes, I have. I saw him working on a job for a few days straight, no rest. Have you seen him code before?" I ask.

"I have never seen anyone who can programme like Colin. We used to work on projects together before we landed jobs at Point Marketing. He had an extremely good reputation amongst open source software communities where he was constantly diagnosing bugs in source codes. He was the _go to_ guy for all software publishers who knew of him. He did most of his work for free," Robert says as his eyes begin to glaze over.

"I am impressed with how hard he works. And I think George respects him too," I say.

"Yeah, it's just that I rarely see him anymore, and when I do, he barely seems human."

I look out towards the hills, waiting to see whether Robert has anything more to say about Colin, his lost friend.

Robert looks back at me. "I haven't even said goodbye to him; he's gone. I will never see the old Colin again," Robert says while tears well up in his eyes. "I have seen this happen to others before him. Lots of people who work in the nucleation room either lose their humanity or disappear altogether. Please, don't be like them."

"Thank you," I say to Robert, keeping a straight face for him. "I will stay as I am for as long as I can."

Robert's heartbroken eyes look towards mine for a few seconds. He leans his slouched shoulders over the handrail as we both look out, towards the hills.

"I'm going to take the rest of the day off. What are you up to?" I ask him.

"I think I'll stay behind and try hunt one more bug today."

"I'll see you tomorrow," I say before I leave Point Marketing.

The road is radiating heat from the sunlight reflecting off the buildings which surround me as I walk down the pavement. I squint as I scan the footpath before me, watching for obstacles that may trip me up as I walk. A small crack catches my eye.

The crack in the footpath is beckoning me to step in front of it, so it can trip me and laugh as I stumble, trying to regain my composure. But I know better. I will avoid it and laugh at its failed attempt to embarrass me.

Something catches my eye. A small green glow appears to be emanating from the crack, followed by a small burst of light, much like a dud firework, barely managing to fizzle. I slow my pace down and kneel in, closer to the crack to get a good view of the strange splash. The warmth of the footpath radiates against my face as I lean closer to it.

Similar bursts of light appear all over the footpath, emanating from the surface like small sparks through the corners of my vision. I catch a focussed glimpse of one of the green sparks, a glowing code fragment.

I try to decipher the fragments which are momentarily blinking before my eyes and it suddenly becomes apparent what they represent— _hot_. The code fragments which are blinking into existence represent the radiant heat of the concrete.

Hot, hot, hot. The code fragments dissipate and settle into the concrete as I stand back up and look at the crack in the path. _Danger, embarrassment, caution_. Code fragments spurt from the crack in the path, describing all the possible situations that may arise from it.

I blink and rub my eyes to prevent code fragments from filling my vision while bright sunlight reflects off the buildings. Small fountains of code fragments flow from the sides of the buildings. _Bright, bright, bright_. They flash as they reveal themselves to me.

I continue walking down the footpath as the code fragments slowly dissipate from my vision and I fall back to reality. Drums beat in the distance, getting louder as I walk towards the park on my way home.

The park is buzzing today. I pass a quartet, lost in their camaraderie, reciting a gleeful tune while coins lay in the cases in front of them. Plenty of performers are out—jugglers, acrobats, musicians—all contributing something they love to the buzz of the park as the drum circle provides a beating pulse.

I see the Tin Man performing his odd variant of what he considers to be a show. Most of the time he stands still in his tin suit, only moving every now and then to strike a new pose and provide some variation to his act. I spend some time watching other performers while I casually make my way towards him.

A man in a business suit is standing on the grass, attempting to blend into the crowd. He looks to be talking on a hands-free device, while listening through a blue earpiece. I avoid his gaze but I think he is focussing his attention on me. I make my way towards the Tin Man with my hands in my pockets.

I roll the ten-dollar note between my fingers and thumb while I watch the Tin Man's performance. What does he want? Why can't he communicate directly with me? Why should I get involved with him and Planet Halo?

I bet he just wants to know what George is up to. I will in no way be responsible for giving away George's property. He trusts me and I have given him my word. This lousy sucker isn't getting anything.

I pull the ten-dollar note from my pocket and casually throw it into his case. He knows what it is and looks towards me as he struggles to keep his calm. I leave the bustle of the park and head home for an early night.

I hope I am never hassled by Planet Halo again.

### 11

Work in the nucleation room has been steady for the past few months. William and I work together to create Codescapes, which are sent to the main office to be cleaned up and de-bugged. We have almost finished creating the script for a new fitness programme, BodyTrophy.

William and I are the only people in the nucleation room at the moment and he yells at me across the room. "Have you got much longer to go?"

"Nah, I'm just cleaning up the last bits of code. I'm so glad the research stage of the project is over," I reply. "I couldn't stand researching every detail about this fitness program. It took a few days to read and comprehend everything about BodyTrophy."

"Too bad for you, my part of the research was easy," William says.

"What? Describing the perfect outcome from the program?" I ask.

"Yep, the perfect body," he jokes as he flexes his biceps, one at a time.

I join him. "Just as well you had the perfect model to replicate," I say as I stand up from my chair and begin playfully flexing.

William and I both jump onto our desks and pull classic Arnie poses towards one another.

"BodyTrophy, _your_ body is _your_ trophy," William says in a typical infomercial voice.

"BodyTrophy, the next big thing in fitness," I say as I switch up my pose.

We must look ridiculous, two scrawny guys standing on our desks, posing while we resist the urge to crack up laughing. We hear the footsteps of somebody coming up the stairs, towards the entrance of the nucleation room so we jump off our desks and pretend to work again. Colin's dreary face appears through the glass panel in the door as he swipes his card.

He enters the room without acknowledging William or me and walks straight to his workstation and boots up his computer. William and I can't stop grinning at one another while Colin sits between us and begins coding.

"How much time do you need to finish the BodyTrophy job?" he asks us.

"I will be finished my part of the job today," William replies.

Colin turns my way and waits for me to answer. "Me too," I say.

Colin retains a poker face and turns back to his computer and continues to work on his code. Most people would expect Colin to add something to close the conversation, but William and I know him better than that and continue working on our scripts.

After coding for a short while, William sits up straight in his chair and stretches his arms. "I've finished. The script should come through your emails," he says to Colin.

"How long do you think you have left?" William says to me while he stands up and shuts down his computer.

"Maybe like twenty minutes?" I reply while I concentrate on my script.

"Good, see you down in the leisure room."

"Sure. See you there," I say.

William leaves the room and heads down the stairs towards the leisure room while I continue to focus on my script. Colin and I are the only people working in the nucleation room right now so it's easy to concentrate and fall in and out of the Codescape at will. We silently work for the next hour or so, until George comes into the room. Standing in the doorway, he speaks to Colin.

"Colin, we need to have a meeting now. Some clients are here," he says.

Colin stands up from his workstation and follows George downstairs, leaving his computer running. I am left alone in the nucleation room and continue polishing the last of my script, which only takes around twenty minutes.

I email the script through to Colin and hear the notification of my email being received by his computer a few seconds later. I turn to see where the noise came from out of instinct and I see Colin's coding, still displayed on his monitor.

Colin is a strange fellow. But by all accounts, he used to be normal, even to the point of being an extraordinary person. What caused him to change into the lifeless mope-about we know today? The Code on his screen beckons. _Nobody is around, come and see._

My curiosity grabs a hold of me and I approach his monitor. I might be able to gain a small insight into his mind if I read his style of coding.

I begin to read his script, line by line I slowly become entranced in his Codescape. I am shocked by what I see once I decipher his code. It describes the utmost negative feelings imaginable. Hate, kill, disgust. The worst human emotions are detailed by his vile script and I begin to feel physically ill as I read it, to the point where I can no longer focus. My vision becomes hazy and I need to take a step away from the computer to regain composure.

The contorted monstrosity of his Codescape lingers in my mind for half a minute before slowly fading away and burning an obligatory memory into my mind. I take a few deep breaths to recover from the shock of what I just witnessed and look at the door to the leisure room. Robert and William must still be waiting for me down there.

Robert and William are outside on the balcony, laughing at one another as I walk down the stairs to the leisure room. I eat a few crackers from the smorgasbord and walk towards them. Most of the other people have already gone home. Robert and William both greet me with smiles as I walk towards them. "What took you so long?" William jokes.

"I wasn't that long, was I?" I reply.

"Everyone's already gone home, and you've ruined our night," Robert says through his frowned eyebrows.

Robert and I stand, looking at each other for a few seconds in a short standoff until he can't handle the concentration anymore and gives in. His eyebrows raise and he looks at me with squinted eyes while chuckling. "Do you want a beer?" he asks me.

"If there are any left," I say. "I can tell you two have been busy drinking my share."

William hands me a beer and a penny with a smirk on his face. "Here you go. The last beer is yours if you can open it with this."

"Do you think I'm stupid?" I say to him as I twist the cap off and take a sip from the bottle. I flick the coin into the air and put it in my pocket after catching it. "Thanks for the money, too," I say.

Robert laughs at William before turning to me and saying, "You _are_ smart, young one."

"No, I just have the common sense to twist the caps off of twist-top beers," I reply.

"Unlike somebody who tried for five minutes to pop his cap with a coin, earlier," William says to Robert before turning to me. "I tried the same trick on Robert. He was desperately trying to pop his beer until I twisted the cap off my bottle. You should have seen his face."

"It's a cruel, cruel world," I say to Robert with my hand on his shoulder.

"Stop clowning around and finish your beer," he says to me. "I hate you guys," he says to us, joking.

"Yeah, finish your beer so we can go to the pub," William says.

I chug the rest of my beer and burp my next sentence. "Let's go," I say, making them both laugh.

We all leave the abandoned building of Point Marketing and walk to the local bar down the road. Robert and I follow William past the bouncers and through the front door as the live band plays soft music.

Yellowish lamps shine through glistening chandeliers and the light reflects off the polished wooden surroundings, creating a warm and cosy atmosphere.

The three of us sit down at a small table after ordering our drinks. William leans back in his stool and scopes the bar until Robert sees an opportunity and reaches out, popping the collar on William's immaculate shirt, catching him off guard and making him sit up straight in his stool to readjust his collar while looking around, flustered.

"Hey man, I was trying to be cool," William says before regaining his composure.

"Popped collars _are_ cool," Robert says. "I was trying to help you."

William slowly reclines on his stool as much as practical and then pops his collar back up. He cheekily looks at Robert and me with a smug smile and wiggles his eyebrows at us. He looks ridiculous. "Thanks for the tip," he says to Robert.

"You're a goof," Robert says jokingly.

"I'm going to rock my collar like this, all night," William says while tugging his collar with both hands.

"Why do you always take us to this classy place?" I say to William. Robert and I laugh at him while we all continue drinking.

"Classy women," he replies. "That girl over there has been checking you out." He tilts his head to the side to signal the direction.

I look towards the bar where a figure is standing in the shadows that I can't quite make out, because she is turned away from us. She looks as though she is holding her head high and standing tall, although I can't tell because she is wearing some sort of glistening hood over her head which hides her face in shadow and drapes down her back.

"Are you sure that's a woman?" I ask William.

"Would I steer you wrong?" he replies.

"You can't be sure around these parts," Robert adds.

"I'm not joking guys. I know what I'm talking about. I just wish she was looking at _me_ instead," William says while resting his palm on the table and looking at me.

I try to avert any further attention away from me by smiling and taking another sip from my drink. The music from the band fades to a small rest between songs which gives an opportunity for the pounding bass of a nearby club to become audible.

William starts to dance in his chair, still looking cool as ever despite his ridiculous popped collar. "I don't know about you guys, but I'm feeling this club music right about now. Come on, let's go down the road," he says.

"I'm keen," Robert replies as he sits up straight in his chair while priming his legs, ready to stand.

I lean forward onto the table. "You guys go. I'm not too keen to go out tonight. I might see you later on, depending on what I get up to," I say to them.

William and Robert are standing and ready to go, egging me to join them. William sees me take a glimpse of the girl at the end of the bar and nods his head. "We might see you later on tonight," he says. "Give us a call or something," he says before tapping Robert's shoulder. "Come on, bro," he says, encouraging him to follow.

William looks over his shoulder as he is walking with Robert to the exit, and with a cheeky smile wishes me a good night. I slouch forward against the table in front of me and finish the rest of my drink before plucking up enough courage to approach the bar.

"I'll have another beer, thanks," I ask the bartender before turning to the girl in the hood. "What are you drinking," I ask her.

"No, thanks," she says to me with a smile before looking to the floor.

The girl turns to me as the bartender is filling my glass. "A glass of water would be nice," she says.

I turn to her in shock before asking the bartender. "And can I have a glass of water, too?" I ask.

I carry the drinks to the girl in the cape and hand her the glass of water. "Here you go," I try to say politely as I look into her eyes.

She takes the glass of water and places it on the bar and I get a glimpse beneath her hood. She has dark tattoos or makeup prominently depicted on her face.

Below her left eye is a thick black upside-down triangle, about a quarter the size of her cheek. A black square partially overlaps her right eye, extending about halfway down her cheek with a thick horizontal line above, like another eyebrow on the right side of her forehead.

She stands tall with her shoulders held neutral, and a sharp, confident gaze which covertly scans the room. She extends her hand out to me and I oblige with a handshake as equally firm as hers. "Hannah," she says to me.

"Hello, nice to meet you," I say.

We stand still, looking at one another until my mind starts to wander after a few seconds and I think about the music playing in the background. I think about her glass of water sitting on the bar, and I think about her strange clothes and makeup.

She smiles at my absent-mindedness and I think she even chuckles a bit before speaking. "So, do you have a name?" she asks me.

I fumble while I try to regain composure after my thoughts are dislodged from my mind. I struggle to answer her question, but reply anyway. "Malvin, my name is Malvin."

"Nice to meet you, Malvin," she says, tilting her head to the side before taking a sip from her drink.

"Are you enjoying your water?" I ask her.

She swallows her mouthful of water and thinks for a few seconds before replying, "Yes. Yes, I am."

"Water is actually a very good choice. I wish _I_ was drinking water," I say to her before taking a sip of my beer and letting out a satisfied exhalation.

She clutches the glass from my hand and teases it from my fingers, bringing it towards her lips while smiling. She takes a sip of my beer. "Nice," she says, nodding like a satisfied food critic. "But water is better," she adds before handing my beer back to me and wiping her lips of the excess.

"Water makes you feel good from the inside," I say.

Her face lights up. "Water is often taken for granted; everybody knows it's magnificent but it often goes unnoticed, even resented. I think some of the smallest, subtlest things are incredibly beautiful," she says while looking at her glass of water.

Her reply stops me in my tracks and causes me to ponder for a little while in silence. _Water is beautiful_ , resonates through me as I look at the small ripples on the surface of her drink. Convoluted refractions warp through the crystal clear liquid, ever changing as water flows through my mind, literally.

I look at Hannah and smile. "Buzzy," I say while we both stand comfortably in silence, something I have never before experienced, except perhaps with William and Robert.

Hannah's agile eyes never cease to scan the room, her chest is noticeably tight and I see her taking shallow breaths. She looks towards the entrance of the bar and then to me. "I have to go," she says.

"I'll see you—." I stop mid-sentence because all I see is her metallic grey cape, flapping goodbye in the wind as she exits through the back door.

I feel deflated as I see the last wisp of her cape disappear around the corner without hearing her say goodbye. I finish the last of my beer, sitting by myself on the barstool before I stand up to leave.

I farewell the staff as I exit the bar and can't help but notice the blue earpiece of one of the bouncers as he turns his head away from me, looking towards the street. They all give me a friendly goodbye as I leave to walk down the pavement, towards my home.

I walk down the road and approach some small puddles that remind me of Hannah. I realise how beautiful the puddles are as ripples radiate from my footprints and disturb the glassy surface. Time slows down as the reflections of streetlights on the surface dance while the waves pass through them. An entire story could be written about this puddle, but it is only worth a few seconds of my lifetime, and furthermore, I am the only person who has witnessed this moment.

This puddle has a past, a present and a future, all more elaborate than any amount of words could ever describe. How can I be so lucky to witness this puddle? This is the undeniable objective beauty of water which has been hidden in plain sight for my entire life.

I didn't get enough time to properly meet Hannah. She seemed so lovely and I thought I was getting along with her. I wonder where she came from. Everybody has a story, but I was intrigued by her ways. Why was her face decorated with geometric shapes? Why did she leave without saying goodbye? I guess it's not worth thinking about anymore as I arrive at my doorstep.

I unlock my door and feel familiarly paranoid before turning around and looking over my shoulder. Why do I do this to myself? I feel as though someone is always watching everything I do as I try and see what's hidden behind the tinted windows of cars passing by.

A metallic shimmer catches my eye from atop the roof of a building opposite me. It reminds me of Hannah, which gives me some sort of deluded comfort before I walk through the door.

I think of William and Robert as I try to fall asleep in my bed. They are the best friends I have ever had.

### 12

Good morning! Another Saturday at Point Marketing. It's not like I have anything better to do. I look around the deserted building as I boot up my computer, wondering what the new assignment is.

I might be the only person here today. The main office below is as empty as the nucleation room I solitarily occupy. It's quiet enough for me to hear the ever-present air conditioning as a familiar office smell reveals itself to me.

One new email, not from Colin as I would have expected. This one comes from the main man himself, George Pointer. I don't think I have received an email from him since I began working here. I click on it; this should be interesting.

I trust you.

Get in touch with me at the office.

George Pointer

Founder and Director

Point Marketing

Footsteps make their way up the stairs towards the nucleation room so I look towards the glass in the door. George swipes his card and enters the room with a smile on his face.

"Hey, how's it going?" he asks while briskly walking towards me. "Did you get my email?"

"Yes, I did," I reply before he vigorously shakes my hand and hugs me.

"It's been a while since I've seen you. How have you been?" he asks.

"I've been well," I say.

"I have some news for you. Come with me," he says before walking down the hall.

We arrive at the garden room and he sits down with his palms flat against the old wooden table, sitting upright and smiling. I become awakened by the natural light and shades of green plants hanging from the walls before I sit opposite him.

"I don't get to see you often enough," he says.

"Yeah, well, I have been pretty busy, working in the nucleation room," I reply.

"And you have been performing well," he says, smiling.

"Yeah, well, the Code has become second nature to me now. I find it easy to translate everyday products and ideas into code. Give me an idea and I will describe it for you, down to the last tiny detail," I say, feeling quite confident in my abilities.

"And you do a good job, too," he says. "There is something special about _your_ coding in particular. The way you set out your scripts, everybody in the main office finds them easy to manipulate."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"When you write a script, the debugging rate of the workers in the main office almost triples. There is something about the way you code that encourages all the workers into a frenzy. Everybody hurries to debug them as quickly as possible, and we get good results from the market researchers, too."

"The researchers like it?" I chuckle a little bit as I reply.

"Yes, we have solid evidence that the scripts you are involved with perform much better on the market. Sales and stock prices always shoot up after your ideas are released."

"What do you mean by _released?_ Who releases them?" I ask.

"The servers which distribute the ideas we conceive. Every script we write is distributed on the net by our computer programs."

"How?" I ask.

"That's why I like you. You are always inquisitive about why things happen, right down to the smallest details," George says, smiling towards me. "Forums, chatrooms, comment sections, the entire internet. Our servers are programmed to act as human as possible. Odds are, the smartest person in one of your favourite forums will be one of our servers."

I lean back in my seat and cross my arms, waiting for George to continue.

"Our servers are programmed to disperse our ideas through logical, intellectual discussions over the internet. Nobody can tell our servers apart from real people."

"That's incredible," I say. "Who organised and programmed all of this?"

"I did," George replies. "The beautiful thing about my Code is how closely it resembles human thoughts and ideas."

"By using prime ideas as the building blocks for the Code?" I add.

"Yes, so we only need to create a skeleton of an idea in the nucleation room. The programmers in the main office flesh it out, essentially tapping into their subconscious to add human thought processes to the framework. Our servers can reason with the insight and complexity of hundreds of people, because hundreds of people are simultaneously involved in the creation of the scripts. Our servers subtly recommend the products we are asked to endorse." George leans back in his chair, resting his head on his clasped hands. "And the beautiful thing is, the people downstairs have no idea what they are coding. If ideas in the Code do not make logical sense, they will appear as bugs. Every bit of code which is added to the script gives our servers a slightly different point of view to argue from, adding to the plausibility of the ideas."

"And this works?" I ask him. "I guess I still have a job, don't I," I say.

"Yes, of course it works," he says. "People can't help but believe somebody when they are talking in a completely logical manner while personally relating to them. That's what our servers do. Can you see? They act as intelligent humans using the internet." George leans in towards me as if he has just achieved checkmate.

"Yeah, I get it," I say. "It's a very clever form of marketing."

George can't hold his smile back as he looks me dead in the eye. "And that's only the tip of the iceberg," he says.

"Is there more to the operation of Point Marketing?" I ask.

"Our marketing sector is an integral part of Point Marketing which generates ample cashflow on its own. However, the majority of our income is generated from another, related source." George leans in, over the wooden table and close to me. "I trust you," he says, quietly.

The door clicks open behind George and Colin pokes his head through the gap before walking towards us. His brow furrows when he sees George talking to me.

"What are you doing?" Colin asks George with a rare hint of emotion in his voice.

George turns around and faces Colin, "I'm entrusting our friend," he says before momentarily looking over his shoulder at me with a quick smile.

"We can't trust him!" Colin says, looking directly at me.

"Of course we can, he's brilliant," George says.

"He can't handle the truth," Colin says while walking slowly towards us.

"We can't go wrong with him. Have you not seen his effect on the company? His coding skills are head and shoulders above everybody else in the main office. He has vastly improved the efficiency of the nucleation room. What have we got to lose?" George asks him.

"He's too soft," Colin Replies. "I caught him looking at my script."

"What does that matter? We work in an open environment," George says.

"But this was his reaction." Colin pulls his phone out of his pocket and flicks through it. He turns it around so George and I can see the screen.

Colin must have captured my face on his webcam while I had a look at his script. My distressed face appears on his screen and the portrait clearly shows my emotion, spilling out like a great painting. I look absolutely disgusted and physically sick at the sight of his monitor.

George examines the picture and his head drops as he realises the implications of it. He turns around and looks at me. "I'm sorry. We must end this meeting now. You can continue with your work in the nucleation room," he says.

I sheepishly stand up from the table and head towards the door. Colin leers at me while I nod at him. I walk down the dark corridors of Point Marketing and out the main entrance. All I can think to do is wander the streets while I wonder how I could have disappointed George so badly.

I have only tried to do my best. Now I am spending Saturday morning moping around, feeling sorry for myself. I walk to the park, looking for somewhere familiar to spend some time.

Performers and buskers contribute to the life of the air as I approach the park. Crowds of people sit on the concrete steps and gather on the grass, surrounding the main square. The Tin Man is in his usual spot, standing like a statue. He knows I'm here.

What is his show supposed to be anyway? Stand still and wait for people to give him money? It seems to be working.

Somebody who has been watching him for a few minutes reaches into his pocket and drops some money into the tin hat in front of him. It looks like a tightly rolled banknote from here. The Tin Man acknowledges the donation with a simple nod before reassuming a stationary posture.

Groups of people sit on the steps which surround the main square. I find a vacant place and sit down for a short rest while I watch the crowd move like a colony of ants.

The longer I sit, the more I become relaxed as I see people meander along apparent patterns of movement, like a documentary showing migratory animals on the savannah. The people begin speeding up as my mind slows down. The bustle of the crowd appears as a single form in front of me, one flowing mass of colour surrounded by darkness.

I remain calm while I sit on the steps and watch the colour swirl, surrounding me left and right. It feels as though I have fallen into a Codescape—a projection of my mind, interpreting my surroundings.

I watch the Codescape and observe the omnidirectional currents which flow ambiguously between everything. My mind and body remain calm while I focus on the flowing mass until I reach a point of concentration where I begin to see glimmers of sense.

Time stops. The Codescape stands like a daunting glacier around me, liquefied in a solid state. It exceeds all imagination in scale as it towers above all realms of consciousness. It passes straight through the concrete ground as if it was made of fog and well beyond the sky above. It surpasses the milky way on a moonless night in size alone, not to mention complexity. This is certainly the most brilliant Codescape I have ever witnessed.

Things in the corner of my vision become as focussed as in the centre. My focal point opens wider in all directions and before long I can see beyond 360 degrees. I project my point of view upward from where I am seated until my consciousness is amongst the gigantic mass. I am now in a position to manipulate my perspective and observe the Codescape, close up.

It is written in exactly the same language as the Code I have dealt with at Point Marketing. Familiar patterns start to occur and I begin to translate the fragments of code. Bricks and paving stones emanate code fragments which describe the hardness and durability of the materials. Natural coding flows from the grass like dandelion seeds being blown from flower heads. But it is not just the objects that emit code; the Code is everywhere.

I close my eyes to try and give myself a break from the relentless code because there is simply too much information for me to process, but my vision remains filled.

Every sound appears as a wave of code which ripples through the Codescape. Every sensation felt by my body is also described by complex coding, from the ground beneath me, to the lingering city smells.

Discreet pieces of code describe everything around me, more detailed than ever before imaginable. From my omniscient point of view, I look at a piece of coding which is describing a discarded bottle, sitting in a rubbish bin. Funnily enough it is a bottle of NPJ.

Our marketing techniques must have worked. I had never heard of NPJ before I wrote the scripts at Point Marketing to describe it. The people in the main office must have effectively synced the nounal script with the positivity scripts to create an idea which spread through the internet, eventually finding itself immersed into our culture. Now NPJ is an ordinarily accepted refreshment.

I look to my feet and see beyond the ground. The sunbathed, hard surface of the concrete is represented by code, but it goes so much deeper than that. It constantly shifts like a shoal of brilliant fish. Each code fragment darts in and out of sight to create the basis for the ground I sit upon.

I observe each code fragment as it passes below my feet. Each one represents a property of the ground which is apparent at this particular time. The code becomes increasingly complex as I look downward, searching for the physical plane I once sat upon, now obscured by complexity.

Finer and finer details of the ground become apparent through the Codescape as I focus my full attention towards it. Every grain of aggregate embedded in the concrete has its own script, pouring out in front of me. The colour, hardness, shape and physical properties of the concrete are all described in the vast depth of script.

I try to focus on a single grain of aggregate in an attempt to rationalise the extent of this Codescape. Even when I focus on a single grain of sand, the Codescape is far too complex for me to comprehend. I can quite clearly understand the language but it is the seemingly endless stream of information that comes from the Code that I am unable to grasp.

Everything I can imagine about the single grain of sand pours through me. The overall colour and shape are represented most prominently at first until the mineralogy and chemical composition start coming through as my vision cascades into the endless crevasse of coding.

The crystal structure becomes apparent to me as my viewpoint continues to zoom in, until I can see atomic interactions happening in front of me. Subatomic particles collide and interact. Photons collide with atoms and temporarily dance with electrons for a brief moment in time before being ejected again as photons. It is all written in the Code, and I can understand it all.

My hazy understanding of quantum mechanics reveals itself as the trajectories of subatomic particles flow as waves of probability. I think I have finally found the end of the Codescape until I look up and see the place from where I have journeyed.

I now realise that this Codescape is unmeasurably large. I cannot fathom the extent of it as it looks the same now as when I first glimpsed it; only, now I am in a different zone. I can move at will to any zone in the Codescape but cannot comprehend the extreme size and intensity of it as every fragment of code works together to create a unified, organic script.

I relax and slowly wake from my trance after I realise the incomprehensible complexity of this Codescape.

The sun is on the verge of the building tops which cast long shadows towards the park where I sit. I'm guessing a few hours have passed and it is now late afternoon. I wouldn't have looked out of place at all as a few other people lie around the park, immersed in faraway dreams.

The setting sun reminds me that I have skipped lunch so I decide to find somewhere to eat. I stand up and begin walking through town to look for the nearest food shop to catch my eye. "Malvin," a voice calls to me.

I look around but can't find where it came from.

"I'm down here, don't look. It will be too obvious," the voice says.

I stand still and look at the buildings and people around me. I know the voice is coming from the grate below, but I don't answer. I just stand and wait to hear what it has to say.

"Don't go home," the voice says.

I reach into my pocket and pretend to receive a call from my phone. "Why not?" I ask with the phone against my ear.

"Put that away," the voice snaps. "Do you see that clothes store over there? Go to it and pretend to buy some pants and a shirt. Meet me in the third changing cubicle from the left." I see a shadow flicker down the grate through the corner of my eye, followed by silence.

### 13

I think for a few moments about whether or not I should listen to a voice coming from a storm water grate. The voice seems familiarly hurried as it echoes through my mind. _Hannah,_ I realise. It was her voice.

I am on the verge of a position of entrustment at Point Marketing. Should I ignore Hannah and continue my devotion to George, or am I willing to follow Hannah along what may be an entirely different path?

George has always treated me with respect and dignity and I feel as though I should remain with the company, but for what purpose? To be like Colin?

My experience with entrusted members of Point Marketing hasn't particularly been anything to aspire to. Colin is hardly somebody I look up to. Sure, he makes a nice salary and has responsibility over much of the nucleation team, but he seems so miserable. Is that what is destined for me if I stay at Point Marketing and work my way up?

Maybe I am getting too far ahead of myself. There is a clothes store across the busy road. What could come from following a harmless impulse? I plot my course across the road and begin walking before I can dissuade myself any further.

The shop seems pretty ordinary as I enter through the glass doors, flanked by modelling mannequins. Rows of shirts fill the racks which I pretend to browse through.

I scope out the surroundings and see a row of changing cubicles at the far end of the shop, beyond the counter. False stacks of jeans line the walls, along with mirrors and brand new shoes.

I consider what shirt I should choose as I rummage through the various options until I find one that a normal person might wear. I hold it up against my chest to check the fit; looks close enough to my size. I pick some jeans out from a table in the centre of the shop as I make my way towards the changing cubicles.

_Third from the left_. I plan my path towards the only drawn curtain. Are the staff watching me? I dare not look over my shoulder. I feel like a robot walking down a never-ending corridor as my self-awareness escalates and I make my way towards the cubicle.

I part the edge of the curtain, giving barely enough space for me to enter. I hold a shallow breath as I walk through and let it drape behind me. Hannah is standing in the cubicle, looking me firm in the eye. Her posture is similar to that of a Kung Fu movie hero—ready.

She is wearing the same metallic grey-hooded cape. The thick black geometric patterns on her face only enhance her steadfast gaze.

"Come with me, they're after you," she says, softly.

"Who?" I ask.

"We can't talk here, you need to follow me," she says.

"Who is after me?" I ask again.

She momentarily looks away from me, catching a glimpse of all corners of the room before answering. "I saw Eric following you."

"Eric?" I ask. "But he works for the same company as me. Why should I be worried about him?"

Hannah leans in closer to me. "Do you know what Eric does?" she says with an authoritative whisper.

"Security?" I answer.

"Security of what?" she queries.

"The company I work for," I say.

"Yes, exactly," she says before reinstating my personal space. "Anything that is a threat to the way Point Marketing operates is handled by Eric. Anything and anybody, including you."

"Wait, how do you know about Point Marketing?" I ask.

"You probably don't remember Peter, do you?" she says.

"Peter?"

"He was my friend who was a little overenthusiastic, which got him into trouble."

Hannah's convoluted conversation is hard to follow so I ask her bluntly, "Why should I care about your friend, Peter?"

"You met him, at Point Marketing."

"Peter? Yes, he is one of our clients," I say.

"Yes, that's him, although he isn't a client of Point Marketing. He told you that he was, in order to get information about the operation of the company. We all tried to convince him otherwise, that his elaborate plan to infiltrate Point Marketing was dangerous. The last time I saw him, he was getting into a car with Eric."

"What do you think happened to him?"

"I don't even want to think about it. I have tried to make myself believe that he disappeared. I know what Eric is capable of," she says. "He will find you if you don't come with me."

"What can he do to me?" I ask, somewhat sceptical.

"Do you really want to find out?" Hannah replies. "Peter chose his fate, and your time is running out too."

"Ok, where are we going to go?"

Hannah crouches, ready to move. "Just follow me and you'll be OK," she says as she exits the changing room. The hanging curtain swings out of the way before draping down behind her.

I peek through the curtain to check whether anybody suspects us. The teller stands behind the desk, unaware of Hannah's swift departure out the back door. I casually follow her and exit the building.

The bright blue sky reflects off a tall building, straining my eyes as I walk outside. Hannah is waiting for me, her brow low while she scans the area. She turns to me. "Do exactly as I do," she says.

She darts out and stands behind a tree while her metallic hood flails behind her. She surveys the area again from her new location. I also run out and stand behind the tree.

She stands next to me and points upward, through the canopy of the tree. "Do you see that, in the sky?"

I look along her line of sight and see a glimmer of light in the sky, a flash in the sunlight.

"What is that?" I ask.

"It's a surveillance drone. Never look directly at one. Also, avoid all security cameras. You don't know which ones are monitored."

She runs down the road in silence while I trail behind her, desperately trying to keep up until we come to an alleyway. A taxi is parked in the middle of it and Hannah opens the back door before getting inside, shuffling over to give me a seat. I am nearly out of breath by the time I join her.

"Do you know how risky that was?" the taxi driver says.

"It's ok, we're safe," Hannah replies.

I pant in the back seat as we pull out of the alley and onto the road. Hannah continues to scan our surroundings, through the tinted windows of the taxi. "I don't normally come out during the day. It feels somewhat liberating," she says as she turns to me.

The taxi drives through town before going into a public parking building. A roller door opens at the far end of the carpark which we drive through and continue along a concrete passageway until we arrive at what looks to be a service door. _Danger! No unauthorised entry!_ is written on a sticker attached to the door.

Hannah and I get out of the taxi which continues driving further down the concrete passageway. My footsteps echo off the concrete walls as we walk towards the door. Hannah unlocks it and invites me inside. "Where are we?" I ask.

"Home," she replies.

We walk through the door and there is a surprising amount of natural light filling a large room. A few plants hang from the ceiling and there is a heavy steel workbench at one end of the room, surrounded by greasy tools. Half-finished projects lay on the bench. A small table, a box and a swirly piece of art sit and wait for their creators to return.

"Welcome to our place," Hannah says.

"Whose place?" I ask, looking around.

A frail-looking bald man wearing a loose purple robe walks through a door and proceeds to extend his hand towards me, smiling. I shake his hand. "Nice to meet you. I'm Greg," he says.

"Nice place you have here. Is this _your_ workshop?" I ask.

"This is Planet Halo," Greg answers. "I'm sure you are familiar with us."

"I wouldn't say familiar; in fact, I don't have a single piece of reliable evidence about you."

"Fair enough," Greg says.

Hannah turns to me. Her hood has been removed, exposing her wavy blonde hair. "You don't have to worry. This place is safe," she says.

I stand in the centre of the room, still feeling somewhat threatened by Planet Halo. This is not what I had expected. Come to think of it, I had no expectations. Everything I have been doing for the past six months has been completely foreign to me.

"Come, join us for a meal," Greg says. "It's ready now."

I turn to Hannah who smiles back at me. "Yeah, I've had a pretty full-on morning. And now that I think about it, it's been a while since I last ate," I say.

"Good," Greg says as he rubs his hands together. "Come, the dining room is this way."

Greg's loose robe drapes over his relaxed shoulder blades as we follow him through the door to a small dining hall. Three people are sitting around a long table, eating some kind of soup. Two large steaming pots sit beside each other in the centre of the table, surrounded by small clumps of freshly baked bread, and butter.

Greg raises his hand until everyone stops eating and looks towards him. "Everybody, welcome our new guest," he says as he gestures towards me.

The three people greet me and continue eating.

"Please, sit down and help yourselves," Greg says as he gestures for Hannah and me to sit.

We both sit at the table as my stomach feels like an empty cave. I help myself to a few ladles-full of soup and a couple of pieces of bread. The soup smells homely and is filled with generous chunks of meat, potatoes and vegetables.

I scoop some soup from my bowl with a piece of buttered bread and taste it, pleasantly surprised by the flavours. "Nice," I say as I smile towards Hannah, who is sitting next to me.

"I know, this will make you fat," she says as she giggles.

The guy beside me turns my way. "Good, simple food," he says.

"Yep," I say in agreement as I eat a spoonful of the tasty meal.

"Jack," the guy says as he extends his hand.

"Nice to meet you, Jack," I say as I shake his hand.

"We have already met," he says as he looks at me.

I try to place his face, but can't. "Sorry, I don't recognise you," I say.

"Don't worry about it, I was the scarecrow; Dillon over there is the Tin Man." He points across the table with an open palm to a guy who nods at me.

Stern as a soldier, he looks at me with confident superiority. Is he trying to intimidate me? I look back to Jack. Stunned by my unconventional company, I don't know what to say.

"Is there something wrong?" Jack asks.

"No, nothing," I say as I draw some comfort from the heart-warming food in front of me.

Greg's loose purple sleeve drapes over his arm as he raises his hand and begins to speak. "You are welcome here, my son," he says to me before he looks around the table. "I think we owe our guest an explanation."

Surprised by Greg's outburst, I stop eating and look towards him, awaiting further elaboration.

"Don't you think the world would be a better place if everybody shared with one another?" he asks.

"I guess so," I reply.

"Who is the happiest, most content person you can think of? You don't need to answer, just keep it to yourself."

I take a few seconds to think.

"Now, answer me this. Are they selfish, or selfless?" he asks.

"Selfless, I guess," I reply.

"Now, isn't that the entire equation, laid out in front of us? The answer everyone is searching for?" Greg tilts his head and smiles at me while his forehead crinkles above his raised brows.

Greg looks around the table at everyone and then back towards me. "We believe the greatest thing we could do for our advancement as a species would be to share everything," he says.

"What, you mean like communism?" I say, surprised.

"Yes, it could be viewed that way at first glance, but we prefer to adopt a broader approach. We are trying to foster the growth of humanity by promoting selflessness within all individuals rather than the forced sharing imposed by traditional communism," he says. "We don't aspire to abolish ownership. Instead, we believe emphasis should be placed on collaboration, the sharing of ideas. The importance of information is becoming more and more apparent in our ever-evolving society."

"Is your idea catching on?" I challenge him.

"We believe it will take time for individuals to realise they all have a part to play in something much greater than themselves. But it is an inevitable prerequisite for our advancement as a worldwide civilisation," he says. "Nobody in power shares our view of the world, and to put it bluntly, they would prefer it if we were dead."

"That's why I had to dress up in a scarecrow costume to contact you," Jack adds as I turn to him. "Physical interaction is the only form of communication that guarantees our privacy. I am usually the first point of contact between Planet Halo and any potential associates. Dillon provides us with a form of continual contact with our friends by assuming the role of the Tin Man."

Greg interjects. "Both are very dangerous jobs, not to be taken lightly," he says to Jack, who nods back at him.

"Who's going to want to stop you?" I ask, open to anybody's response.

"We don't know for certain," Greg says. "But anyone who openly displays our ideals is quickly silenced."

"Or disappears," Dillon adds as he stares at me while the woman sitting next to him bows her head and starts to weep.

Greg extends his hand and holds her forearm. "I'm sorry, Melody, we are all very sorry," Greg says before turning to me. "Do you remember Peter?" he asks me. "Melody is his widow."

Melody winces and turns her head away from Greg.

Hannah sits up straight in her chair and rests her hands on the table. She looks around at everyone, "This is why we are here," she says. "We gather here to prevent atrocities like this happening. Peter _is_ a good man."

"Was," Greg interrupts.

Hannah gives Greg a sideways glance which he cannot return as he looks around the room. She continues, "Peter is a good man, and as much as it may hurt, we all rely on you, Melody."

Melody lifts her head and looks at Hannah.

"You are brilliant," Hannah adds. "Plus, you have a passionate investment to the cause. I constantly see it through your devotion to our work."

"Thank you," Melody says.

Hannah raises her glass of water. "To the coming age of free information," she says.

Everybody at the table raises their glasses as murmurs of agreement fill the air.

Greg raises his glass towards Hannah. "Thank you for that, Hannah," he says. "Shall we continue with our meal?" he suggests as we continue eating.

The soup fills my stomach to the point where I feel completely relaxed as I lean back in my chair with my hands resting on my belly.

"Well, I'm about done," Dillon says before standing up from his seat. He looks down at me. "It was good to meet you, properly this time," he says.

"Likewise," I say as he starts walking away from the table to leave the room.

Jack and Melody have also finished their soup. Jack extends his hand towards me. "See you around," he says.

"Yep, I'm sure I will," I say as we shake hands.

Melody stands opposite me. "It was nice to meet you," she says, shrugging her shoulders with her hands clasped.

"I'm going to get changed. I'll see you later," Hannah says to me.

"I'll show you around," Greg says as everyone else leaves the room.

### 14

"We are a motley bunch here at Planet Halo," Greg says as we sit together at the dining table. The forehead of his round face crinkles. "I think you will fit right in, here."

"I don't know," I answer.

"Well, you are more welcome here than you would ever believe. Do you like making things?" he asks.

"I enjoy the aspect of creation that comes with the type of programming I do," I reply.

"You know, we spend a lot of time in the workshop, making things."

"Yes, I saw the work benches when I first entered your place."

"I'm glad you noticed our workshop. It serves as our main hub. But this is not my place; it belongs to everyone."

"What sort of things do you make?" I ask.

"Our workshop is not a place to aim for a destination. I prefer to see it as a place to let your mind wander and see what it can come up with. The greatest prosperity comes from the workshop when you let your mind diverge from the project you are working on. You should have a go," he says.

"I don't know," I say. "I've never been much of a hands-on person."

"But you build and repair computer programs."

"That's completely different," I say.

"I think, the more things you try, the more you will find everything is relatable in one way or another," Greg says, looking directly at me with his wrinkled eyes.

"I guess that's a positive way of looking at things," I say.

"It's a way of looking at knowledge," he says. "Build your knowledge. In my experience it is much more reliable than youth."

I put my bowl on top of my saucer and lean forward to stand and pick it up.

"Don't worry about it," Greg says. "They'll clean it up. You are a guest here."

"I don't mind," I say.

"Seriously, don't worry about it," Greg says as he stands up from his seat. "Come, I'll give you the grand tour."

"Sounds good," I say as I stand and face him, leaving my plate on the table.

"Obviously, that was the kitchen slash dining room," he says as I follow him to a steel door. All the doors around here look like industrial service doors.

Greg gives one door a push and it opens, revealing a garage. Five or six parking spaces line one side of the large space which is occupied by a few vehicles. A ventilated booth, various tools and car products fill the other side of the room. A man on a creeper slides out from underneath a car.

"How's it going, Greg?" he says, smiling. He wipes his greasy hands on his overalls before standing up.

"Hello, Manu," Greg says before turning to me. "Manu is our automotive guru."

"Nice to meet you," Manu says, wiping his hand again before shaking mine. "I take it Greg trusts you," he says before looking at Greg.

Greg nods while closing his eyes.

"Do you like our selection of fine automobiles?" Manu says, smiling.

"I really don't know a lot about cars," I reply.

Manu laughs. "Good answer. Thanks for the compliment," he says, chuckling.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to be rude," I say. "They just look like normal cars to me."

"That's exactly what I want them to look like. Undiscernible from any other car on the road." He leans close to me with a smirk on his face. "However, these are stealth cars," he says as he stands back again and chuckles.

"Why would you want stealth cars?" I ask.

"We need _some_ way of getting around," Manu answers.

I look at the cars, puzzled by their unassuming appearance. Greg turns and looks at me. "We perceive these cars no differently than any other car. However, the most sophisticated software will see nothing more than empty space," he says.

"The secret is in the paint," Manu says. "Plus a few other little tricks," he adds while winking at me.

"So, this is the garage," Greg says. "We'll let you get back to work, Manu."

"Nice to meet you," I say to Manu.

Manu claps his hands together and gives me two thumbs up and a cheesy smile. I can't help but smile back. Greg and I walk towards another door at the far end of the garage while Manu gets back on his creeper and slides beneath the car again.

I follow Greg through a door which leads to a wide corridor. Greg turns to me as we walk. "If you didn't already know, countless cameras are constantly being monitored all around the world," he says.

"I have a fair idea," I say.

"I just hope you are aware," Greg adds. Five or six wooden doors line one side of the concrete corridor and frosted light enters the other side through a couple of windows, broken by steel security bars. "These are the dorm rooms," he says as we continue walking.

We walk through a door which leads to a sprawling garden, flanked by concrete walls on all sides. Two big trees dominate the space, creating a cool, unbroken canopy overhead which shades a small, reedy stream. A tranquil pool gently ripples between the two trees.

"And this is the garden," Greg says. "It is really nice to be outside," he says as he slips his shoes off.

"Yes, it's beautiful out here," I reply.

The cool, natural shade is a welcome relief to my skin as we both sit on rocks which surround the pool. Greg dips his feet in the crystal clear water. A small, beautifully crafted bamboo bridge straddles the stream while small wooden and steel artworks peek at me through the bushy surroundings.

"We made all of this ourselves," Greg says. "We excavated by hand and planted the reeds in this drain. It was once dirty, like the rest of the water in the city."

"Good job," I say. "I see the fish like it too."

"Yes, they are all my friends. Just like the trees and plants," he says.

I look around and can't help but feel a positive energy radiating from my surroundings.

"Do you feel that?" Greg says.

"I think I do," I reply.

"We are being blessed by this place. It is nature's way of saying _thank you,_ " Greg says as he stretches out on the lush grass and his loose purple robe adopts the contours of the ground around him.

We are surrounded by trees and leafy plants. Undeniably beautiful green foliage and coloured flowers feed my eyes. However, are they good or thankful? I don't know. Greg is lying on the grass beside me, eyes closed with his feet dangling in the water. His face and body look totally relaxed. I guess the natural surroundings are doing him no harm. I feel totally relaxed too.

Greg slowly opens his eyes and sits up after a few minutes of tranquillity. He stands up and walks along a stone path and through another door, gesturing me to follow. "And here is the workshop again," he says after we get inside.

I look around the workshop and see the half-finished artworks and furniture, stored around the room. The projects share a resemblance with everything I have seen around the building. "We make all our furniture here," Greg says. "We make as many things as we can."

"I can imagine the amount of work that has gone into these. It really shows," I say.

"And that concludes the grand tour," Greg says as Hannah walks through the door.

She is wearing a chequered, collared shirt and black jeans with paint stains on them. Her wavy hair rests easily around her shoulders and her face no longer has thick black geometric patterns on it. It seems strange to see her without a hooded cape, but she still walks with long strides and head held high. "I see Greg has shown you around," she says.

"I know this place doesn't seem impressive. However, this is only one node in an international movement. We must keep ourselves hidden, so we cannot risk over-expansion in a single location. Hence our situation behind this commercial complex," Greg says.

"It is an extremely safe location," Hannah adds.

"Well, I have some business I need to attend to. I trust you'll look after our guest, Hannah," Greg says.

"Don't worry, Greg. I won't freak him out," she replies as Greg shakes his head with his eyes closed, before leaving the room.

"I know you're brimming with excitement to stay here," Hannah says.

"What?" I ask.

Hannah smiles. "I'm joking," she says. "But you don't really have a choice. This is the only safe place for you in the entire city."

"Why do you think that?" I ask.

"Because you don't entirely know what you're up against."

"I think I have a fair idea," I say.

"You may have a fair idea, but I don't think anybody has a full idea of the potential dangers of this time. If they do, then they're dead."

"What about Greg?" I ask.

"Greg only knows how to keep safe. He holds an unrelenting faith in an ideology that all information should be shared. It is a commendable cause, and Planet Halo is the closest thing I have ever had to a corresponding philosophy, so I nurture and support its endeavours."

"And what is _your_ philosophy?" I ask

She pauses and scratches her nose. "I'm sorry. I can't elaborate," she says. "Only time will reveal it."

"Why not? Everybody is entitled to an opinion," I say.

"It's not that simple," she says, shaking her head and slouching slightly.

I think she really doesn't want to talk about herself right now so I look over to the workbenches. "Do you like making things?" I ask.

Her face reignites. "Yes, I do. What sort of things do _you_ make?" she asks.

"Me?" I say, jokingly. "I'm hopeless."

"You enjoy creating though?" she asks.

"I think everybody does, but sometimes we forget," I reply. "I like the furniture around here. Did you make some of it?" I ask.

"Oh, you noticed," she says. "You can make anything you need. Right here, as long as you can dream it," she says as she walks through the workshop and pulls a small chair out, placing it on the bench top.

"That looks good," I say.

"Almost done," she replies as she tilts her head, sighting the form of the chair. "Come, you can help me finish it."

"I'll do what I can," I say as I approach the workbench.

The chair is a work of art, sitting high on the bench. It has been made out of various carved and meticulously polished sticks which have all been carefully selected and positioned to flow as one. I cannot fault it. "It looks finished to me. What more are you going to do?" I ask.

"Lashing," she says as she lifts a bag of string onto the workbench. "This will add the finishing touch."

She gets a piece of string and begins wrapping it around one of the corners of the chair. She takes her time, making sure the string is held taught with every wrap. The wraps lay side by side, neatly formed, tightly grasping the joint.

"That looks good," I say. "Where did you learn how to do that?" I ask.

"It's easy. Here, grab a piece of string," she says as she hands me a small coil of string.

The string is rough and uneven, made from two strands of fibres, twisted around one another. Despite its rudimentary form, the string feels strong between my hands. The imperfections meld with the rest of the chair when Hannah tightly lashes the joints, reciprocating the handcrafted nature of the artwork.

"Where did you get this string from?" I ask, tracing it as I stretch it between my hands.

"I made it," she replies, looking up from her work to smile at me.

_Why would anybody make string?_ "You made it?" I ask.

"Yes, string is fundamental to civilisation."

String? I don't use string very often. "What do you mean?" I ask, confused.

"I don't mean string like the stuff in your hand," she says, shaking her head. "I'm talking about the idea of string. In essence, string is a long flexible thing with a functional amount of tensile strength."

"I guess string has broader applications if you look at it that way," I say.

"Everything from electrical wires and cables, to woven fabrics and composite materials would not exist without a realisation of the importance of a material with the properties of string," she says before facing me. "Plus, sailors and boats and stuff," she adds, smiling.

"Don't forget lashing," I say. "By the way, you're supposed to be teaching me."

"Yes, that's right," she says, coming around beside me. "You start like this and put it under here," she says while guiding my hands. "Pull it tight, keep the tension," she says.

Before long we have completed lashing the joint and about twenty minutes later we have completed lashing every joint of the chair. "Thanks for teaching me," I say to her.

"No problem," she says. "If you enjoyed making the chair, the pleasure will be double. I get a similar level of satisfaction from making things as I do using them. The pleasure is tripled if you enjoy breaking things, too."

"Why would anyone enjoy breaking things?" I ask.

"Breaking things is the best way to gain a physical understanding of the structural integrity of them, thereby allowing you to improve your design and building skills. It is all part of the whirlpool of knowledge," she says.

I stand in front of the chair, the twisted and bent branches curl from the legs, through the armrests and up the backrest. I would never want to break something that has been made with as much care as this. The carefully wrapped lashing is the icing on the cake, bracing the major joints while seamlessly complementing the design.

"Let's go enjoy phase two," Hannah says.

"Huh?" I'm confused.

"Let's use it, come on," she says before picking up the chair and heading for the door to the garden.

I follow her along a small track through the rampant garden. Leafy branches overhang the track, running through my fingers as I walk past them. We arrive at a shaded grassy area where a chair, much like the one Hannah has constructed, awaits us.

Hannah sets her new chair down and sits in it, awaiting me to sit in the existing one opposite her. I sit in the sturdy chair and enjoy our quiet surroundings. "What's the time?" I ask as I reach into my pocket for my phone.

Hannah looks to my pocket. "I'm sorry, I had to get rid of your phone for you," she says.

My pocket is empty. "What? Where is it?" I ask.

"I threw it in the bin at the clothing store," she says, bowing her head and shaking it side to side.

"What? Why?" I ask.

"We can never be too careful," she says. "Your phone is the number one way for them to track you."

"Who?" I say, sceptical.

"George," she says, looking directly at me. " _George_ is the reason we hide."

"That doesn't give you the right to take my property," I reply, trying to sound stern. "Things were OK between George and me."

"I don't know about that," she says. "I think he was on the tipping point with you. As soon as he mistrusts anybody, they disappear. I was protecting you; Planet Halo is protecting you."

I take a shallow breath and wonder whether Hannah is right as we sit on her handmade chairs, in the garden surrounded by drooping green branches. Does George really trust me? Am I in danger? If I return to Point Marketing it may be the end of me. My body freezes in place as I contemplate my situation until the sun sets and gives way to night. My vision goes black as my eyes slowly close.

### 15

"You ok yet?" Hannah says, kneeling down beside me.

Her voice shocks me awake. "Yep," I say as I scramble for memories about my current surroundings.

It is certainly a lot darker than I remember. The residual glow from the city reflects off the clouds above us, illuminating the sky and Hannah is now wearing her metallic hood.

"You were out for a little while. What were you thinking about?" she asks.

"I don't know," I reply. "How long have I been here?" I ask.

"Maybe a couple hours or so?" she says. "Anyway, you regained your sanity at the perfect time."

"My sanity?" I say, somewhat surprised.

She chuckles. "I'm joking. Come on, we are approaching my favourite time of the day. A time when we are offered a little bit of freedom," she says.

"What do you mean by _freedom?_ " I ask.

"Follow me. Let's go for a walk," she says.

Her confident strides are contagious as she walks through the garden, so I follow towards her vision of freedom.

Hannah and I walk through the concrete hallways of Planet Halo to the dorm rooms. Through one of the square wooden doors is a small room, decorated with a set of bedside drawers, an empty coffee table and a single bed. City light shines through a louvered-glass window, reflecting off the big round mirror of a large dresser.

"This is where I have been staying," she says as we walk into the cosy room and she turns the light on. "It's not much, but it's enough," she says.

"I think it's alright," I say.

"Night time is my favourite time," she says as she takes one of the small bottles of lotion from the top of her dresser and opens the lid before running her hands through her wavy hair, tucking it behind her neck. "It's a time when we can get around with at least _some_ degree of safety," she says.

She dips her finger in the thick lotion and begins putting it on her face. I am surprised at its opaque black colour, with a consistency similar to lipstick. She draws a sharp line on her right cheek that she fills in to become a triangle, mirroring two long, narrow rectangles on her left cheek.

The precise lines and geometry compliment the shape of her face, neutralising her soft, organic features. She turns around and looks at me. "Try recognising me now," she says.

I can't see why she would say that; she still looks like the same person. "What do you mean?" I ask.

"Face recognition software," she says, grinning. "I'll put some on your face for you too. You're definitely going to need it. The systems will be hot for you."

"Alright," I say as I take a seat in front of the dresser.

"Luckily, most of the city's monitored surveillance still relies on visible light. We should be able to get away with this," she says as she dips a small brush in the black lotion before drawing shapes on my face. Her fingers hold precise and steady as she marks the outlines before colouring them solid. I guess we look like two people ready to hit some sort of underground trance club.

"I think that about does it," she says as she steps back to take an overview of her artwork. "Are you ready to enjoy some freedom?" she says, grinning in anticipation.

"Yep," I say as I try to emulate her excitement. However, I don't imagine I know what a lack of freedom feels like, anyway.

I follow her through Planet Halo, past the workshop and towards the front door. She lifts her hood as her metallic silver cape drapes behind her. "Hey, where's _my_ cape?" I ask.

"Don't worry. You won't need one," she says.

"But it looks so cool," I say.

"If you had one it would probably just get in your way. Plus, you would look silly," she says as she turns her head half around to see my reaction with a cheeky smile.

I pull a fake angry face at her as we walk to the door. Hannah pushes it open and we walk out to the parking building. The sound from the closing door echoes through the carpark, followed by silence, fractured by my echoing footsteps.

I look back at the main entrance of Planet Halo from the concrete carpark as its world dissolves into my mind. The main entrance is truly nothing special. A serviceman juggling through his keys before unlocking the door would look completely ordinary, but I know it will never happen here. I know what is on the other side of that door.

We continue walking through the carpark until we come to a steel staircase, leading down to a walkway which follows a stream. Large trees form a canopy above us and Hannah takes a deep breath, holding it for a second or two before exhaling. The stream trickles beside us and dim lamps light the concrete footpath, extending beyond my line of sight.

The trees cloak us from above as we walk down the white concrete pathway. The ghostly skeletons of branches are lit from below by the pedestrian lamps along the walkway and the stream burbles as I follow alongside Hannah.

"This pathway is pretty much our backbone of access to the city," she says. "The trees cover us along the entire length of this park so no aerial footage of our motion is captured. Infrared drones are becoming common so try not to look at the sky unless you have some sort of mask on."

"Is the paint on our faces enough to fool the drones?" I ask.

"In general, yes, however caution is always advised," she says as she scans the darkness around us.

Small side paths branch off the backbone and lead across pedestrian bridges, or down shady alleys. We take the fourth or fifth exit, heading towards an alleyway between two buildings. I am drawn to the colours and flow of graffiti bombings, decorating the brick walls as we walk between the buildings.

"Up here," she says as she grabs hold of a suspended steel staircase before graciously ascending it.

I follow her as I struggle to pull myself onto the steps and see a wisp of Hannah's metallic cape disappear behind the top of the building. I simultaneously breathe through my nose and mouth as I try to ascend the steps as quickly as I can. My footsteps ring through the steel structure like a giant tuning fork.

Hannah is crouching with her cape draped around her back and forearms resting on her thighs as I crest the top of the building. The geometric patterns, painted on her face, are revealed through the shadow of her hood as she constantly surveys our surroundings.

"I think I am warming up," I say, panting as I walk towards her.

She looks up at me from her crouched position. "Good, how much ground do you want to cover today?" she asks.

"Maybe a little bit, I don't know," I reply.

"Back alleys and rooftops are the main highways for us, especially at night. We may even run into a few friends tonight. But for now, let's just enjoy the freedom," she says before darting along the roof.

I follow beside her as we run along the rooftop. I begin to slow down as we get closer to the edge of the building but Hannah keeps a constant pace and pulls away from me. She looks over her shoulder at me while she continues running. Her hood flaps around her face and her cape dances with the turbulence behind her as she chuckles.

I stop a metre or so from the edge of the building but she continues running and flings herself into the blackness beyond the ledge, running through the air to land on the neighbouring roof.

I can barely believe what I just witnessed until my eyes adjust to the dark chasm between the buildings. It looks like the only way between the two rooftops is along a tensioned power cable.

"Did you just run across that?" I ask in awe.

"I didn't say these highways were easy to navigate," she says as she sits on the edge of the building opposite me, dangling her legs over the side.

"You must be crazy," I say.

She jumps from the building and grips the cable, swinging back and forth while making her way towards the ledge in front of me. She pulls herself up onto the roof and rolls towards me before getting up. "Crazy is a relative term, so, in a way, we are all crazy to some extent," she says.

"It can also be intended as a compliment," I say, nodding to her.

Her eyes squint closed as she breathes a muffled laugh through her nose. "Come on, do you think you can keep up?" she says before running along the rooftop.

"You know I can't," I say as I trail behind her.

She vaults herself onto a steel handrail at the edge of the building and slides down it, balancing in a crouched position. The last thing I see is her outstretched arms while her cape fades into the darkness below.

I clamber over the handrail and jog down the steps one by one until I reach her, waiting for me in an alleyway at the bottom. We jog alongside the concrete and brick walls, broken occasionally by a small vine or steel door.

Hannah turns to me and points in the distance as we jog between the intermittent light of the back alley. "That infrared camera is actively surveilled," she says. "Just keep running."

Hannah runs slightly ahead of me as we approach the camera and splays her arms out wide, holding her cape which catches the wind like a spinnaker opening on a racing yacht. She directs her cape through the air as we run past the camera, shielding us from its view.

"Do you like my invisibility cloak?" Hannah says as she releases her cape from her hands and we continue running down the alley.

"Pretty slick," I say, struggling to maintain our pace.

Hannah slows to a walk as we reach a small park. A bench sits under a gnarled tree, lit by a dim lamp. The park is empty but bustling sounds of foot traffic can be heard coming from the nightlife across the road. I walk towards the bench and ready myself to sit but Hannah stands on it and grabs hold of a low-hanging branch before pulling herself up and climbing into the tree.

"What are you doing down there?" she says. "This is the prime seat."

I climb onto the branch and sit next to her. From the canopy of the tree we can see crowds of people across the road, enjoying their night out. Restaurants are illuminated by decorations and LED lights, and I can hear a few clubs beginning to pump.

We sit on the branch and watch the different groups of people walk the streets. A man in a dark suit walks the footpath alone, making eye contact with as many people as he can. He seems distant from the crowds while he assesses everybody who passes him. I think he might be a security guard.

"See that man over there?" Hannah asks.

"That security guard?" I ask.

"He is much more than that," she says. "He is a fallible surveiller. His job is to identify anything that looks out of place and report it to the surveillance servers, giving a sort-of-human foundation to the networks."

The man holds his ear and speaks a few words to himself before turning away from us, revealing a blue earpiece behind his right ear.

"I have seen a few of these people before," I say. "I felt like they were following me everywhere."

"I could imagine," Hannah says, "you were quite the prodigy for Point Marketing. How did you like my languages?" she asks, turning to me.

I can't think of what she is referring to. "What do you mean?" I ask.

"You were the best applicant without ever knowing it. It is the perfect situation," she says, smiling while holding fists.

Her enthusiasm is contagious. I lean forward on the branch and wait for her to continue.

"I remember infiltrating those Swiss bank accounts of George's. That script was so convoluted and elaborate that I knew it would take a brilliant mind to decipher."

"It was you?" I say. "But you didn't take any details, the accounts were left untouched."

"I did it for Planet Halo. They suspected Point Marketing was up to something and wanted some information on their transaction history. Sure enough, Point Marketing is involved in plenty of dodgy deals. I left my little script as bait because I knew George would offer a job to whoever decoded it."

"Lucky me," I say. "Now I'm sitting in a tree with no home, no job, and surveillance from every angle. But how did you ever get to know so much about George?"

"George...." She smiles. "I used to spend a lot of time with him, when we were younger. We would go on long journeys, just me and him. We would travel to the wilderness, through the biggest cities and across the oceans."

"What changed?"

She pauses for a few seconds. "We came to a realisation," she says, looking out beyond the lights of the city. "I think this might be a bit heavy to tell you right here."

I look out over the city, too. The flickering lights are comforting in the light breeze which rustles through the surrounding leaves. Hannah remains fixated on the distance while I take a deep breath, drawing my shoulders back and arching my spine. My legs stretch out towards the crowds of people, unaware of our vantage point.

We climb down the tree and run along the back alleys, back home to Planet Halo. I try to get some sleep before the night is over.

### 16

I wake alone in a small room. Sunlight is beaming through a window, broken by steel bars. There are faint voices of people in the area mixed with the eternal hum of the city. I get up from my bed and head out to where the commotion is coming from.

Greg and a few others are cooking a big pot of porridge and toasting bread in the kitchen. "How's it going?" Greg says as he smiles at me. "I'm glad you stayed here last night."

"Yeah, thanks for the bed," I reply as Greg approaches me and shakes my hand, cupping my hand with both of his.

"Please, have something to eat," he says. "We have toast, porridge, and leftover stew from yesterday. Help yourself."

Jack is scooping yesterday's stew onto a few slices of buttered toast. "This stew is _always_ better reheated the next day," he says, nodding at me.

I follow behind Melody and get myself a bowl of stew, along with a few pieces of toast before joining everybody at the table. I look at Jack after I taste the stew. "You're right, this stew _is_ better the next day," I say.

I can't believe how much more intense the flavours are today. It doesn't take long before everybody at the table is quiet, relieving their appetites until Hannah walks through the door. "Good morning, Hannah. Where have you been?" Greg asks.

"I've just been sharpening my chisels," she says as she walks towards the pots and gets herself some breakfast. "Somebody has been using them and made them all blunt."

Everybody around the table looks at one another, shrugging their shoulders. "I really don't mind," she says as she joins us at the dining table. "I find sharpening tools quite therapeutic."

Everybody's shoulders relax as they continue eating breakfast. Greg turns to Hannah. "I was just telling our friend how much we appreciate his company," he says before turning to me. "You are more than welcome to stay here for as long as you need," he adds.

"Thanks," I reply. "Hannah has been showing me around."

"Good," Greg says. "I'm just glad you feel at home."

We finish our breakfast and wash our plates before parting company with each other. Jack and Melody stay in the dining room, talking while Greg slips out the door alone. I feel like a piggy in the middle until Hannah gestures me to follow her to the garden.

The sun is rising above the buildings as we walk through the garden. Dew drops soak my sleeves as we brush past the draping vines. Hannah's table is sitting in broken sunlight, beneath the large central tree. We sit down and I am woken by flickers of the morning sun through the canopy.

Hannah sits so calmly on her seat as she looks at the garden around us. "About last night," she says.

"Yes?" I reply.

"I told you that George and I were once close," she says before leaning forward and taking a quick glance left and right, "until we came to a joint realisation."

"You didn't want to tell me?" I say.

"I didn't want you to fall out of that tree," she jokes. "You see, the realisation changed the way both of us thought, forever."

"Ok," I say as I lean on the table between us.

"Well, how can I put this without sounding like a complete nutcase? Thoughts and ideas do not form from our consciousness. Instead, consciousness is a consequence of the ideas in our minds, transmitted to us by our surroundings," she says, looking at my blank face.

"What are you saying?" I ask.

She looks up and closes her eyes for a few seconds before looking at me again. "Ok, think of it this way. Our mind is made up of an array of ideas. Generally, all ideas within a particular person's mind exist in harmony with each other. If two ideas are not in harmony, one of two things will happen: the two ideas can cause the mind to become contradictory, or, one of the ideas will be rejected."

"Learning by disproving prior knowledge?" I add.

"Yes, but what essentially happens is a form of natural selection, natural selection of ideas. An idea can be as small as a voluntary finger movement or as large as a religion or culture, and just as natural selection occurs in the animal kingdom, complex ideas adapt over time as a result of interaction with other ideas, within the mind," she says.

"So you're saying ideas are analogous to life itself?"

"Yes, but it goes further than that," she says. "What is it that makes us special as a species?"

"I have never thought of humans as being particularly special," I reply.

"Well, we are undeniably unique amongst animals on this planet. What caused this?"

"A combination of intelligence, self-awareness, and opposable thumbs?" I guess.

"Yes, I agree, but more importantly, it is our ability to communicate abstract ideas. It has given rise to an unprecedented pool of shared knowledge. Everything we exude is added to that pool and everything we are exposed to enters the mind, and is either accepted or rejected, according to its compatibility with our existing ideas."

"So, you think we are all part of one big, shared mind?" I ask.

"Maybe one big, shared, highly inefficient mind with plenty of contradictions," she says. "But the ideas that were once in Einstein's mind are now in the minds of every living physicist, just as the assertion that the sun revolving around the earth was once considered gospel. Our collective knowledge _does_ facilitate the evolution of ideas."

"But what about involuntary processes and compulsions?" I ask. "Surely they must be unrelated to the mind."

"Yes, of course, physiology and instinct have an effect on the way we think and act, but they are purely a product of evolution by natural selection."

"So, you're saying mind and body are both products of _evolution?_ " I ask.

"I think evolution is the easiest way to model both of these phenomena," she says. "Let's go on a journey. Think of your mind as it was before you were born. What did you know?

"Nothing?" I guess.

"You were born with the ability to breathe, to open your eyes, and a few other inherited instincts. Ideas began to permeate your empty mind, maybe the idea of light and dark, and then the feelings of hard and soft. These elementary ideas would have combined with one another, and with your innate instincts to slowly form complex ideas via a form of natural selection, eventually manifesting itself as your consciousness."

"So you're saying everything I have ever thought has been the result of a combination of ideas and instincts, influenced solely by my physical senses?"

"Yes, you could say that," she replies. "We experience according to our knowledge."

"The Allegory of the Cave," I say. "Our consciousness is a product of the knowledge that has been bestowed upon us."

Hannah smiles at me. "I have never discussed this with anybody, well, nobody but George, my brother," she says before looking down and slouching over the table top.

"George is your brother?" I ask, surprised.

"Yes, we both came to this realisation a long time ago, while we were on one of our adventures. It was after a couple of days' trekking, one of the hardest trips we ever made. We just kept walking and walking with no destination in mind. I hated the walk at first but I eventually accepted the situation and suddenly it all became clear. Every thought we have ever had and every decision we have ever made has been a result of the evolution of ideas. George and I were inseparable until that point in time."

"Entirely from evolution?" I ask.

"Yes," she replies. "Ideas behave like symbiotic organisms, existing within our minds, reproducing and spreading through our collective consciousness. They spend time in one discreet mind before being transmitted to another via our senses, through various forms of voluntary and involuntary communication. They survive or die, based mainly on their plausibility, and their usefulness to survival."

I look at our surroundings and fall into awareness of the transmission of information between everything around us. Information is transmitted from the leaves of the trees around us via electromagnetic waves, oscillating at a frequency that I perceive as green. The electromagnetic waves emanating from the tree originated at the sun, approximately eight minutes ago.

Perception is more than simply a flat picture floating in front of us. I can see the origin of a beam of light almost as clearly as I can see a dead leaf, sitting on the table in front of me.

I pick the leaf up in my hand and observe its smooth, glossy surface. Upon rolling the leaf in my hand I notice the other side is matted and much more textured, but I haven't forgotten the glossy side. I know without a doubt that the other side of the leaf, beyond my vision, is glossy without looking at it. I am seeing according to my knowledge. This brown, oddly shaped object would have no significance to me if I didn't know what a leaf was.

I turn to the tree again and look beyond the inference of the physical surface, merely an interpretation of photons reaching my retinae through a field of interference, eventually reaching my mind. But the assumptions associated with photons of a distinct wavelength and density can be extended beyond that of a leaf.

I know that behind the surface of every leaf is moisture, cells, chlorophyll. It is simply an extension of the assumptions I make when I experience light in this fashion. I know that phloem extends from the branches, all the way to the roots, below the ground. I don't know the exact structure of the roots below the ground but I can guess the rough architecture.

My consciousness of the tree extends well beyond my physical vision. It is a series of assumptions based on my knowledge, diluting in certainty as I venture further from the origin of information.

"I can see according to my knowledge," I say to Hannah as I realise she is still sitting opposite me.

"Oh, hi there," she says with a playful jerk back. "You were out for a while. Luckily I _didn't_ tell you while we were in the tree. I think you may have fallen out."

"Don't worry, my gumbiness would have provided you plenty of fall-back excuses," I joke.

"I'm glad you can see how transmission of information, and the formation of ideas are intrinsically related," she says. "I can say with certainty that from now on, nothing will ever look the same to you."

"Does Greg know?" I ask.

"Greg...." she says as she shakes her head. "Don't you think he's a bit of a weirdo?"

I laugh as I picture his loose purple robes and lanky, dangling fingers below his round bobble head.

"I mean, Planet Halo are following a noble cause and realise the state of affairs regarding free information," she says. "I love to spend time with them, but in reality Planet Halo are a rag-tag bunch of misfits led by a half-informed auxiliary. They don't know the true nature of the matter."

"What? So you're going to insult the people who offered you a home?" I ask.

"No, I don't mean to insult Planet Halo and I'm truly grateful for what they do for me. I'm simply here as an observer," she says. "I really can't tell them."

"Whatever, I'm not a part of this anyway," I say.

"Exactly," she says with a glimmer of hope. "I'm not a part of this conflict, so I don't feel the need to tell them the reality," she says, crossing her arms.

I stand up from my seat as I enjoy the continuum of information surrounding me. I watch in awe as it is projected towards me and I start walking through the garden. Everything I can see and feel, my consciousness, has been determined by my previous experiences which have accreted into complex ideas.

I feel my foot step into the small, running stream under the tree. I don't even need to look at it to map exactly what is happening below me. I know the surface level of the water and how deep it is. I can roughly guess the temperature, too.

But I can project my thoughts further than that as I feel the rippling waves lap against my leg. I can infer the molecular structure of the water from complex ideas, inherited through generations of shared consciousness.

I know the water is made from hydrogen and oxygen, stabilised by the formation of discreet molecules which resonate in a field of autoionisation. The vibrational state of the molecules within my leg is slightly higher than that of the water surrounding it, so waves are being transferred through chemical bonds, from my leg to the surrounding water at a rate proportional to the temperature difference between the two.

I don't want to spend the rest of my life contemplating a single step through a stream, but the amount of awareness developed through a simple sensation is awe inspiring. I look down to confirm that indeed, I am standing in water, at least according to photons.

I continue walking through the garden. Every step of my journey reveals things that have always been within me, but I had never paid attention to.

All of my senses are essentially an interpretation of oscillating waves, from light, to heat, to sound, to touch. Sensations of taste and smell also appear as waves of intensity. Our senses are interpreted by our mind as information.

"Where are you going?" Hannah asks me as I continue walking towards the door, leading to the kitchen.

"I need to go and experience this, in the outside world," I reply while I continue walking.

Funny thing is, I already know what is on the other side of that door. It is as though I have x-ray vision and can see the kitchen. My personal experience is due to an extrapolation of my knowledge, my past experiences.

"No, you can't go outside," Hannah says as she stands up and follows behind me, grabbing my shoulder. "It's too dangerous, especially during the day. Please, stay here for now."

"What am I going to do here?" I ask.

"We can make things," she says.

"But I'm hopeless at making things."

"You're a problem solver. I know you will be good at it," she says. "You are the only person who could crack any of my codes. I have been trying for years to find somebody as brilliant as you. Please, at least stay for today."

### 17

Beams of light shine through the workshop windows, hazed by the suspended dust of past projects which, over time, have caked themselves in a layer of grime as they are displayed around the room. A rusty old bicycle hangs by a frayed rope, above various wooden and metal projects on display.

A solid rectangular workbench sits empty in the centre of the workshop, flanked by four different shaped vises, one at each corner. Hannah walks to the end of the room and grabs a big flat piece of metal and carries it to the main workbench. "I need a new toolbox," she says, looking at me before eyeing the piece of sheet metal on the bench.

She looks focussed on the piece of metal, possibly visualising the toolbox she wants to build. I stay quiet to let her think.

"I can see the future," she says before looking at me and giggling.

"Isn't that impossible?" I say.

"I can extrapolate the future of this piece of metal through a projection of my knowledge," she says, raising her eyebrows at me.

I give her a reluctant nod. "That just sounds like a complicated way of saying something simple," I say.

"It may seem that way, but the implications are far greater. It induces a continuum of consciousness, a mixture of past, present, and future, limited by two factors: our knowledge and our distance from the source of information. An ability to predict the future is an extremely beneficial factor of survival."

"Hey! You're going to make me buzz out again," I joke.

"Sorry, it's just that I'm so excited to share this understanding with someone, someone other than George," she says. "It's kind of like the uncertainty principle."

I wander around the workbench and look at the various tools. If I knew how to use them I might have a different experience in their presence. I could project the probable future of the tools and how they may interact with the various scraps of wood and metal around me, with varying degrees of precision. The variables are so vast that the problem is attempted to be explained by probability, rather than certainty, like the probability function of a subatomic particle, delocalised in space.

"Hey, I know something you can do," Hannah says.

"What?" I ask.

"Make a handle. You will find tools without handles in most workshops. Have a go," she says before grabbing a medium-sized toolbox and a piece of wood, about one metre long. "This wood will make a good handle for this axe head," she says before placing everything on the workbench.

I hold the piece of wood in my hand and try to envisage the finished handle within. Hannah gives me a few pointers and demonstrates how some of the tools work before letting me loose.

Piece by piece, shavings fall from the wood as I draw my tool along it; it's quite therapeutic. Hannah starts speaking to me as the handle is taking shape.

"We have some work to do," she says, looking at me with an unwavering glance.

I remain fixated on the shavings which peel away from my piece of wood but acknowledge her proposition by nodding.

"We really need to stop George," she says.

I stop working for a few moments and face her. "What has George done that is so wrong?" I ask.

She takes a deep breath while putting her pen and ruler on the table. "George has a stranglehold on humanity," she says.

I am intrigued by her statement. Should I believe her? Is this some sort of personal vendetta? "How so?" I ask.

"I think it will be easiest if I start from the beginning," she says. "George and I were close until we realised the true nature of consciousness. We discussed it heavily. We both wondered what to do with this incredible knowledge, the understanding of knowledge itself."

I continue shaving slivers of wood from my stick.

"We each wanted different things. I thought that, with this knowledge, the world would open up, we would be able to enjoy everything in a whole new light. But he saw potential."

"Potential for what?" I ask.

"It made sense at the time, but I don't know why I went along with his plans for so long. He dreamed up a scheme to convince people to harbour ideas that they otherwise wouldn't have."

"Point Marketing," I say as I continue whittling my stick.

"Yes," she says. "Since he understood the nature of consciousness, he thought he could tap into it."

"How?" I ask.

"Well, ideas evolve through simple means. Our mind has evolved to distinguish between plausibility and implausibility. The only information our mind has to separate between the two is our knowledge, and knowledge is essentially a collection of ideas within our head." She looks at me to make sure I am following. "Now, if he could somehow engineer a plausible idea and implant it into the minds of people, that idea would thrive in the environment of our collective consciousness."

"Clever marketing if you could pull it off," I say.

"George proposed this plan to me and asked for my input so I suggested writing a new language, one that could mimic the formation of ideas in the mind. I came up with the concept of prime ideas and developed the Code around it."

"You wrote the Code?" I ask.

"I created the entire framework of Point Marketing," she replies. "We engineered a few ideas, but they felt so mechanical and weren't very plausible. We needed some sort of way to make the ideas seem appealing to their potential home."

"The main office," I say.

"Yes. We hired a bunch of programmers with just enough understanding of the Code to tidy our scripts up. Implausibilities present themselves as bugs in the Code and the programmers subconsciously tap into their knowledge to fix them, thereby preparing the engineered ideas for release into the minds of humans."

"Release through the web," I say.

"Yes. I simply built some programs which interpreted the engineered ideas and distributed them through various avenues online," she says with a glimmer in her eye. "The system worked perfectly. The biggest corporations in the world were pretty much begging for our services. They had no clue _how_ our system worked; all they knew was that it _did._ "

"But how did you end up like this, running from George?" I ask.

"The marketing was working well, but it wasn't enough for George; he wanted more," she says, looking down at the corner of the workbench. "He started modelling entire cultures by treating them as extremely complex ideas, based on the assumption that they are still a product of the same prime ideas and still behave in the same manner."

I look at Hannah as she physically struggles to continue talking.

"He makes entire cultures hate one other. He incites war at its very roots, within the minds of the citizens."

"War? What for?" I ask.

"What not for?" she answers. "Inciting war has given him unprecedented power. The knowledge of when and where a conflict will start is a dream come true for a crooked investor. Combine this with the power he has to cripple the morale of entire countries and he now has significant influence over all governments. He has unlimited wealth and resources and he won't give it up for anything. I have no doubt in my mind that he will have me killed at the first chance he gets."

"Do you know how we can stop him?" I ask.

"No, that's why I need you," she says, putting her hand on my shoulder. "I know you can figure it out."

"I think the first step will be to inform the public of the nature of ideas, and the collective consciousness," I suggest.

"Yes, I think so, but there is no way to communicate it to an extensive audience," she says, pacing back and forth.

"We can use the web," I say.

"Have you noticed that we don't have any computers here? They are far too dangerous. Our location would be pinpointed within seconds."

"We could encrypt the data," I say.

"Encryption will do nothing. You may as well highlight it."

"What if we hide the information on a dark net?" I suggest.

"I don't think you understand. The internet is simply not an option," she says, shaking her head. "The average server is designed by humans, but George's servers are designed by servers. Each generation of servers designs the next. He has been iterating this process for years."

"The technological singularity?" I whisper.

"George has access to virtually unlimited processing power, achieving limitless logical capability. He can break the most complex encryptions instantaneously. Let me put it this way, you _will_ be detected online within seconds and your location _will_ be pinpointed within one minute if you are extremely careful, and extremely lucky."

"Did you know he was planning all of this?" I ask.

"Yes," she sheepishly replies.

"You should have stopped him; you could have stopped him on your own," I say.

"I took a personal vow of silence. I wanted to watch history unfold, completely detached," she says, welling up.

"And now he wants to kill you," I say as she begins falling apart. "Why didn't you stop him?"

"Because he is my brother!" she exclaims, falling to the floor in tears.

"I'm sorry," I say as I kneel down beside her. "We can stop him."

She reaches up and wraps her arm around my back, tears streaming down her face. "I'm sorry, I should have stopped him," she mumbles.

We stay on the floor together for a moment, sharing our despair until we finally release from each other's grip and slowly sink back to reality as we stand up.

Hunched over and broken, Hannah hesitantly begins working on her box again, so I pick up my piece of wood and continue shaving it in an attempt to form it into an axe handle. I am eventually left with a crooked handle that I attach to the axe head. After hanging the axe, I proudly hold it in my hand and show Hannah.

"Finished," I say as I hand it to her.

She holds my creation and inspects my work. "The handle is a bit loose, but not bad for a first attempt," she says, wobbling the axe head.

"And I know how we can stop George," I say as she looks at me. "We need to go and see Manu."

### 18

"Hey, Manu," I say as Hannah and I enter the garage.

Manu is lying on a creeper, working underneath a car. "What are you two cats up to?" he asks before forcibly pushing himself out from underneath the car to roll along the floor and bump head first into our feet. "Hehehe." He finds it funny while looking up at us from the floor.

"I was wondering if you had any stealth trucks," I ask him.

"I have that panel van over there, but it hasn't been kitted out yet," he says as he points to an old car cover. "Will this do?" he asks, revealing an old blue Holden panel van as he pulls the cover off.

I walk up to the car and open the back door, checking the luggage capacity. "Yep, it looks good enough. How long do you think it will take you to make it undetectable?" I ask him.

"I don't know, I'll get in touch with Greg," he says before walking for the door.

"No, stop," Hannah says. "Greg can't know about this."

Manu stops walking and faces us. "What is this? Some sort of conspiracy against him?" he asks, tensing up.

"No," Hannah says, "you know me better than anyone. We can't tell him because it will put him in danger; it will put everyone in danger."

Manu relaxes back to his loose casual self. "Ok, I trust you. I always saw you as the brains of the operation anyway. Poor Greggy," he says, imitating Greg's lanky style.

"So, how long do you think it will take?" I ask Manu.

He tilts his head to the side for a few seconds. "Maybe a week?" he says.

"Sounds good," I say.

"I can help you," Hannah says.

Manu looks at Hannah and gives her a big nod and raises his eyebrows. "In that case, four days," he says.

"Good," I say, "we had better get to work."

Hannah looks at me with a crinkled face. "What's your plan anyway?" she asks.

I smile at her and tap my nose a couple of times. She knows I've got it under control.

Manu understands too. "Well, then, let's make this car invisible!" he says, punching the air before I depart and leave them to their work.

The last of the evening light shines through my dorm window and I am sitting at a writing desk when Hannah knocks on the door and comes inside. "How is the progress on the car?" I ask her.

"Manu and I had a solid workday," she says. "We got all the bodywork prepped and ready for his special paint."

"Oh, good. The automated security systems will have a hard time recognising it," I reply.

"So, what have you been up to today? Have you got your master plan sorted yet?" she asks me.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" I say jokingly.

"Come on, stop teasing me," she says, raising her fist and pulling an angry face.

"Ok, ok... Don't hit me," I say, raising my hand. "I'm writing a book."

"What is it about?" she asks, taking a seat beside me.

"It's about a man who, through a series of events, realises the true nature of consciousness, how sensations are an interpretation of oscillating waves. Ideas arise from received information and combine with one another, within our minds, how the ideas eventually become so complex that they mimic the evolutionary patterns of living organisms within an environment of collective knowledge, how those ideas manifest themselves as our consciousness, a smear of experience spanning past, present, and future."

"Sounds like a pretty heavy read," she says. "Do you think it will sell?"

"It won't need to sell if the original idea is robust enough. Natural selection will take over the sales task for me."

"Sounds ok, but how are you ever going to get it published? Something as revealing as that will be constricted at first detection, especially with all of George's surveillance. His servers will see straight through the message."

"Not if we print it ourselves," I say, smiling. "I remember walking by a shop that had an old printing press a few months ago. If we can get it to work then we will have a chance of releasing this book to society."

Hannah grins in anticipation before taking a deep breath. "Thank you, I knew you could do it," she says.

### 19

"How's the book going?" Hannah asks me as I put my pen down. "The beast is ready and waiting in the garage."

"It's ready for publication," I say as I turn around after spending four long days eating, sleeping, and writing.

"Come and check it out," she says as she gestures me towards the door.

I follow Hannah into the garage and see the panel van which has been painted a pearlescent white, polished and ready for action. Light gleams off every face of the bodywork, from the roof to the wheels. I open the rear tailgate and look inside the ageing interior at the torn faux leather seats and carpeted rear canopy.

"I know it doesn't look like much on the inside," Manu says, "but this baby is ready to go. Plus, nobody looks at the interior when you're cruising down the street. It's all about the bodywork, baby," he adds while rubbing his torso.

Hannah and I can't hold ourselves back and break out in laughter.

"Can you fire it up?" Hannah asks Manu.

"Can I what?" Manu says before running to take a seat behind the wheel. "Listen to this compression," he yells before turning the key.

The car slowly cranks and hesitantly fires before settling to an irregular gurgle. I look at Hannah, observing her reaction to this dubious example of engineering, but she doesn't seem too concerned. "It sounds a bit rough," I say to Manu. "I don't really want to break down on the road."

Hannah and Manu both look at me with disgust. "You obviously don't know what you're looking at," he says before getting out and walking towards me. "The sound you hear is a four twenty-seven Chevy, equipped with a Crower Baja Torque Master cam, completely rebuilt and ported right here, by yours truly," he adds.

"All I need to know is whether or not it's reliable," I say.

"It's reliable enough to do this," he says before hopping in the driver's seat and jamming his foot on the gas. Within seconds, the entire garage is filled with white smoke as the engine continues screaming, rumbling my chest as the tyres spin.

Manu turns the engine off. "Don't worry, this car is Manu's pride and joy. The drivetrain is immaculate, and you _know_ the engine works," Hannah says to me amidst the white smoke.

"Pooh!" Manu says as he emerges from the cloud, wafting his nose with his hand. "Who gassed the place? Let's get out of this stink hole," he jokes as the three of us walk towards the door.

We go to grab something to eat from the kitchen and see Greg and Dillon standing by the dining table. Their half-finished meals lay on their plates as they look at us.

"What was that?" Greg says as he marches towards Manu.

"The beast is back on the road again" Manu replies, casually as ever.

"I figured that," Greg exclaims. "What were you thinking?"

"Relax, man," Manu says. "This is an auto shop. Nobody will think anything of it."

"You had better hope you're right," Greg says before sitting down at the dining table and finishing his meal. "Sometimes I wonder," he mutters beneath his breath.

Manu, Hannah and I grab something to eat from the kitchen bench before joining Greg and Dillon at the dining table. "So, what did you and Hannah do to your car?" I ask Manu.

"New paint and a full tank of gas," he says before smiling and adding, "plus, a _lot_ of bullshitting in between."

"Speak for yourself," Hannah says to Manu.

"But seriously, there is an art to applying this kind of paint. It appears invisible to every kind of automatic surveillance technology. We have applied a thin film to the windows, too," Manu says.

"The cameras may as well be looking at a brick wall," Hannah adds.

"And if we want to go full stealth mode, we have rigged a huge backup cooling system with an effective duration of five minutes," Manu says.

"No heat signature?" I ask.

"My morning farts have a bigger heat signature than my car," Manu says before leaning back in his seat and taking a gulp from his drink.

We all chuckle before beginning to eat our food. None of us can get our minds off Manu's gas, but we try anyway. Greg and Dillon finish their meals and say goodbye before leaving the room.

"Can Hannah and I borrow your car later today?" I ask Manu.

Manu gives me a big friendly nod. "Yeah, sure!" he says.

"You up for it?" I ask Hannah.

"Yep, we had better doll up first though."

"Ok," I reply as we continue eating our meal.

"Hannah says you're quite the brain box," Manu says to me.

I look at Hannah who smiles at me before looking back down at her food.

"She says you're the man with the plan. If you ever need anything, don't ever hesitate to come to me. Anything you need," Manu says, looking at me before adding. "I know I don't get along with everybody here, but we are _all_ part of Planet Halo and we all have the same mindset. Humanity can't continue under this shroud of oppression."

"Don't worry, Manu," Hannah says, "we've got it sorted."

"Funny thing is, I don't even know how we came to be in this situation. Drones in the air, endless surveillance networks. It sucks, man," Manu says.

"If our plan works out, you _will_ know," I say to him as reassurance.

We finish our meal and Manu heads back to the garage. Hannah and I walk to the dorm rooms to prepare ourselves for the daylight journey ahead.

Hannah sits down on the stool in front of her dresser and picks up her black face paint. "You know, camouflaging the human form is a technique often used by hunters," she says as she smears some paint on her cheek.

"Hunters, or hunted?" I ask.

"Both," she replies.

The edges of the shapes on her face are sharp as she accurately traces the outlines before filling them with solid black. "I'm really just doodling," she says, looking at me through the mirror. "I just draw shapes to break up my facial features."

I kneel next to her and dip my finger in the pot of paint before touching my forehead.

"I find that geometric shapes with sharp edges work best," she says.

I draw a big rectangle on my head and four triangles, dispersed randomly around my face. My heart beats and I feel a sense of tribal prestige as if I am getting ready for battle. "Are we ready to do this?" I ask her.

She ties her hooded cloak around her neck. "Are you sure you know the best way to this printing press?" she asks.

"Yes, I have been studying the maps. I'm ready."

"Then, let's go," she says, clenching her fist before we leave her room.

Manu is working alone when Hannah and I walk into the garage. His prized, white pearlescent panel van takes pride of place on the floor amongst the other sedans and a taxi. "Be careful," Manu says as he hands me the keys.

I sit in the driver's seat while Hannah rides shotgun. The black steering wheel has lost most of its grip over the years and the dusty floor mats have holes worn into them, exposing the metal floor tray beneath. I make sure it's in neutral and turn the key.

The engine slowly turns over until... Bang! My stomach drops as I look at Hannah in the passenger's seat, wondering what happened. I wind my window down as Manu walks towards it, giggling.

"Hehehe." He's cracking up. "I put a potato in the exhaust. It should start ok now," he says.

I look at the wall behind us, splattered with the remnants of a potato before looking at Manu and laughing, shaking my head.

I start the panel van as the automatic garage door opens and we drive through it. It's a slow journey through the underground carpark until we finally reach the exit. The bright sunlight gleams off the car's bonnet, showing the pearlescent specs in the paint.

We drive through town while Hannah navigates until we approach an old shop with a large front window. "There it is," I say before parking on the street, directly in front of it. The cloudless sky above us is beautiful, but Hannah looks at it with fear.

"Don't look up," she says as she pulls her door handle. The door clicks open.

We walk into the shop. Various dusty antiques fill the hallway, leaving a narrow walkway down the middle. I can see the press at the back of the shop, amongst a pile of old magazines. "Good day," an old man with long white hair says, "you after anything in particular?"

"Hi," I say. "I'm interested in your printing press, over there."

"Oh, that old thing. Beautiful, isn't it?" he says. "Once considered the most important invention in human history; now it is nothing more than a museum piece, or a novelty for privileged amateurs."

Hannah is shocked at what she sees. She walks up to the press and runs her fingers along the edge of the bed and examines the moving parts. "How have you still got this?" she asks, amazed. "This should be in a museum."

The old man smiles at her, "Plenty of people have made offers over the years. Maybe I just want to hold on to it," he ponders before walking over and lifting the old magazines, revealing the cast iron body.

Hannah crouches down and examines the bed with one eye, playing with the mechanism. "It's in good condition," she informs me.

I walk over and inspect the press, pretending I know what I'm looking at. The old man goes to a wooden box and opens a draw. "Here is the type," he says. "All the parts are here, in these boxes."

The draw is filled with small metal cuboids, all neatly arranged in rows. I look closely and can see the imprinted lettering on the ends. Hannah picks one up and rolls it between her fingers. "This is it," she says as her eyes illuminate. "Can we please take it?" she asks the old man.

He stands for a while, resting his hand on his beard, looking into the nothingness of his shop. "What are you planning to do with it?" he asks.

Hannah and I look at each other. "I'm self-publishing a book," I say, "but I can't really elaborate on the content."

"Interesting," the old man says. "Can you give me any clues?" he asks.

I look towards the ceiling and screw up my face, trying to devise a way of explaining our plight. "Do you believe in freedom?" I ask him.

He looks at me, puzzled, before answering, "The concept of freedom?"

I slowly nod. "Yes."

"I think it is an important ideal to strive for," he says. "Whether or not it exists is a whole different question."

"Do you think it exists, uninhibited within our society?" I ask.

"Well, of course not," he says before leaning close to me and whispering, "I know some things. I know that your makeup is not simply a fashion statement."

"What if I were to tell you that our book will not be well received, probably even banned," I say to him.

He stands up, hands on hips and shakes his head. "Well, that would be atrocious. The written word should never be banned, in any way, shape, or form!"

"So, could you help us?" I ask. Hannah looks at him too, awaiting his answer.

"Yes, of course. You are the customers I have been _waiting_ for, somebody who will put this machine to its intended use. How does two grand sound, for the lot?" He asks, extending his hand.

"You have a deal," I say as I shake his hand. The joy on Hannah's face is enough to light up the whole shop.

"Come on, back your truck around here and we'll load it in," he says.

I drive Manu's panel van around to the back of the shop where the old man is waiting, under a large carport with a small fork hoist. "That's going to be a bit of a squeeze," he says, looking into the canopy.

"It's all we've got," Hannah says. "It should fit," she says as she picks up one of the boxes of type and loads it into the canopy.

We load all the boxes of accessories into the cab and canopy, leaving barely enough room for the press, which the old man loads into the back with his fork hoist. It barely fits inside and the rear suspension creaks as he lowers it in place.

I reach into my pocket and give the old man two thousand dollars, as agreed. He takes it with both hands while bowing his head. "I hope it serves you well," he says before Hannah hugs him goodbye and we leave for Planet Halo.

"Hey, did you bring all the cuzzies home?" Manu says as we drive into the garage. "My car is bro lowered!"

We park in the middle of the garage as the automatic door closes behind us and I finally wind down the window. "Mission accomplished," I say.

"What did you pick up? Lead weights?" Manu asks, looking at his strained suspension.

"Get your engine crane ready," Hannah says. "We have a printing press in the back."

We unload the press and all the accessories and trolley them to the workshop where we begin setting them up.

"What's going on here?" Greg asks as Hannah, Manu and I enthusiastically repurpose the workshop into a printing station.

"We're printing a book!" Hannah replies.

"What's it about?" he asks.

Hannah looks at me and nods. "You're good with the pitch," she jokes.

I hesitate for a moment while Greg awaits my monologue. "I can't elaborate too much," I say, looking to the floor. Manu is also waiting to hear what I have to say. "It's about our current state," I add.

Greg seems captivated as he smiles. "I founded Planet Halo as a place for collaboration, a place where we could somehow break free from this invisible binding state of society, unknown to the majority. I founded this place with a goal to emancipate knowledge and information." Greg can see the gleaming faces of Hannah and me. " _It's about our current state_. That's all I need to hear. You have my support."

"Can you get in touch with the boys? We need to organise some materials," Hannah asks Greg as we continue organising the printing press.

"Ok," he replies. "I'll tell them when they return from their reconnaissance. They are due back soon."

"Thanks, Greg," Hannah says before turning to Manu and me. "We need to start typesetting as soon as possible."

"Ok," I say.

"What's that?" Manu adds as I look at him. He knows I have no idea what she is talking about, either.

"Where's your manuscript?" she asks. "The first thing we need to do is sort it into pages and arrange a format for your book."

"Ok, I'll get it," I say before heading to my dorm room to retrieve it.

Hannah begins looking through the draws of type as I fetch my manuscript before returning to the workshop.

"Ok, nice," Hannah says as she takes it from me. "Now we just need to arrange it so that all the pages will be in order once it's bound," she says, splaying the pages onto the workbench.

Manu and I watch in amazement as she effortlessly sorts the pages into groups of four before showing us how to arrange type onto compositing sticks and formes. "You put them in here before imposing them onto the formes," she says.

Manu and I shrug our shoulders at each other before arranging the letters, one by one, onto our compositing sticks. "Man, these are tiny," Manu says before making sure Hannah isn't watching. He sniffs one piece of type up his nostril and makes some nasal contortions before spitting it on the table. He wipes it on his shirt and puts it in position on his compositing stick, all the while trying not to laugh.

"Like a grain of rice," I say.

Manu's eyes are watering and he is massaging the bridge of his nose. "A really big grain of rice," he adds.

"The boys are back," Greg says as he walks into the workshop, followed by Jack and Dillon.

"Good," Hannah says. "I need you boys to go with Manu to get some materials."

"Sweet," Manu says as he recoils from the composing stick in front of him. "What do we need to get?" he asks her.

"Paper, ink, and book covers. That's about it," she says. "Fill the canopy to the brim, if you can."

"Sure thing," he says. "Scarecrow, Tin Man, you boys ready for some daylight danger?" he asks them as they head towards the garage.

I hear his panel van drive away and Hannah turns to me. "He loves that car. It's been sitting in the garage for years. I think he just needed an excuse to get it back on the road again," she says.

Hannah and I have a forme in the press, ready for printing by the time Manu and the boys return with a pile of paper in hand. "Just in time," Hannah says as she grabs a ream from them.

Hannah spreads ink onto the forme and inserts the brisket, loaded with paper into the press. She pulls a handle and removes the sheet of paper. She inspects the page and smiles at everybody. "Time to celebrate," she says. "This is our first print."

We leave the printing for another day and all retreat to the kitchen. Everybody around the dining table is smiling as we fill our bowls with soup. "Thanks, Melody," we all say as she stands at the kitchen bench.

"I'm so glad to see progress," Greg announces to the table. "I can't wait to see your finished work," he says to me.

"I just hope I don't let you down," I reply.

"Regardless of whether or not your plan works, we have never collaborated on a project to this extent before now," Jack says.

"Yeah, we're in it until the end," Dillon adds.

Hannah nods to me in appreciation.

"I get to drive my panel van," Manu says with a glimmer in his eyes.

There is a truly wonderful atmosphere at Planet Halo tonight as we all sleep, anticipating a full day's work tomorrow.

### 20

Planet Halo has been working like a factory for the past few weeks. We all take turns arranging type and running the press; even Melody comes and helps out in the workshop. Hannah is the heart of the operation, arranging the formes and making sure the correct pages are printed on the right sheets. She has bound all the books using the vises on the workbench.

Boxes of books are stacking up in the garage, ready for distribution on the big day, which happens to be today. Hannah and I are loading the books into the back of Manu's panel van when suddenly the garage door begins to open.

Hannah freezes in position, her mouth is open and she is staring towards the door as it reveals the scarred and broad, barrel-chested figure of Eric. His presence occupies the entire doorway as he clenches his fists before relaxing his fingers. I realise he is not wearing an earpiece.

Hannah's composure is physically disturbed by his presence. "How did you find us?" she asks.

He smiles. "Old school detective work, physical collection and review of surveillance tapes," he says before slowly advancing towards us. "It was a mistake, leaving your phone in the clothing store. I simply traced your migration from that point."

Hannah turns to me. "We need to run," she whispers.

I stand firm as he slowly walks towards us until Hannah grabs my forearm and tries to tug me away. Her eyes are welling up with tears. "What are you doing?" she says before letting me go and trying to make a break for it.

I grab her by the hand, just in time, and pull her back beside me until Eric is only a few paces away from us. "Why did you come here?" I ask him.

"I'm doing my job," he says. "You are a significant target for Point Marketing."

"Why?" I ask him.

"I don't know," he says as he shakes his head, looking to the ground. "But I have my orders."

I look at him. "I know you're a man, and I mean a _true_ man," I say. Eric takes a deep breath as his chest expands and his shoulders roll back. "But you also know the difference between right and wrong. What did you _really_ come here for?" I ask.

He rocks his weight, left and right between his feet. "And you're not wearing your earpiece," I say.

"I don't need it. This is between you and me," he says, taking a half step towards me before looking around the room.

"Please, Eric. What kind of man are you if you can't make your own decisions? Make your own mind up. Do you truly believe in what you are doing?" I ask.

He stands in front of us, looking around the room at our dirty walls, broken-down old cars, and pile of books. He bows his head and extends his hand, giving me a firm handshake before turning around and walking away.

"Lucky you didn't run. I would have shot both of you in the back," he says as he continues walking from us.

Hannah looks up at me and I put my arm around her as the door closes behind Eric.

"Who was that?" Manu asks as he enters the garage.

"A true man, one who can derive a decision from his own mind," I reply. "Come on, let's get the rest of these books into the car."

We load the canopy full of books and the three of us cram inside the panel van. Manu is in the driver's seat while Hannah sits in the passenger's seat and I wedge myself into the canopy, amongst all the books.

"This is the day," Manu says as he turns the key and the beast awakens.

"Please, be careful," I say to Manu.

He looks at me in the rear-view mirror as we exit the garage. "I may be crazy, but I'm not dumb," he says. "Don't worry, we'll get these books out."

Hannah's eyes widen and her spine straightens as we come up to a red light. "Pass me a book," she asks me. I grab a book from the top of the pile and give it to her. She passes it out the window to a waiting pedestrian.

We drive off when the light turns green and our hearts are beating. I reach into the pile of books and grab twenty or so and put them on the seat between Manu and Hannah who join me, throwing them out the windows as we drive down the road.

I keep the front seat stocked with books so Hannah and I can throw books out the windows at every opportunity. Every bench seat, every park table, every open door, every balcony receives a book.

We continue driving around the city, throwing hundreds of books to as many people as we can. It takes about three round trips of the city before we run out. "When you have a chance, can you drop us off at the park?" Hannah asks Manu.

"Ok," he says. Surveillance will be pretty hot for us right now, but I think I can lose them after I drop you guys off."

"Please, don't crash," Hannah says to Manu as she holds his arm. "Don't do anything too radical. I want to see you again."

We approach a park, filled with trees, set upon a big hill. "I'll drop you off, under this tree," he says.

"Get in the front," Hannah says to me as Manu slows the panel van down, coming to a stop beneath the tree.

Hannah and I quickly get out and begin running while Manu drives away. Hannah drapes her cape over both of us before we exit the cover of the canopy and run across a field, leading to the base of the hill.

The red sky illuminates the final minutes of the day as Hannah and I take rest on a patch of grass in the shade. A man is sitting on a bench, across the path from us, reading a book as the light slowly fades. He closes it and we catch a glimpse of the cover— _Evolution of a Conscious Mind_.

Hannah and I walk to the top of the hill after it is dark and sit on a park bench, admiring the view of the city lights coming to life. The warm air breezes around us and a few stars begin appearing. Hannah looks at me.

"This is everything," she says.

I turn to her and it slowly dawns on me as she smiles before looking towards the distance again. I feel a wave of understanding extend towards the city as an entire culture is awakening from its shackles. The way I view the world will never be the same again as I look out amongst the stars, beyond a region the eye will ever experience.

I am watching existence as it unfolds around me.

Simply put, this is the greatest show ever conceived.

###
