The Anonym

By W. F. Owen

In 2223, Earth’s main problems are overcrowding and rampant identity theft. The cure for the first is resettlement and for the second DNA-driven bio-computers. The main axiom: Doubt Everyone, Question Everything. Robert Hinder, as Arbiter of Identity, leads an expedition to the planetoid Logos. Anti-tech terrorists and biologically contaminated animals turn the mission deadly. The book chronicles an attempt to transform a planetoid for habitation and develop bio-technical methods for identity security. Here is an early account on the planetoid:

Although in every village the threat of possible Munor attacks were uppermost in most settlers' minds, a more fearful response was conjured by other denizens on Logos. There were the Pitaks, the half lizard-half snake creatures. They had a snake's body except for the tiny-clawed feet that gave them moderate speed in soft soil. The Pitak's leathery green skin matched precisely the green foliage of the Katanga bushes, so when it did scurry across the brown-red sandstone, its sharp claws spinning on the smooth rock, it was an easy target for settlers. The only threat from the Pitaks came from the unfortunate settler or soldier who walked through the Green and suffered a bite from one of the camouflaged creatures. Two pairs of retractable six-inch fangs, though not venomous, would lock onto a victim until it died of blood loss. For a bitten human, this meant hours of pain and eventual surgical removal.
But, it was the Corac spider that elicited more fear. Coracs lived entirely underground, at least as far as anyone knew, had twelve legs, were reddish-brown and had two black eyes that revolved completely around to see their one prey, Katangan cave crickets.

As much a danger was having your identity stolen––even from remnants of skin or hair. So, everyone shaved:

"Are you sure you don't want to do it with an organic peel?" Dena asked Sheryl. "Those little critters would just love to sink their teeth into this gorgeous blonde hair of yours. The part that's not burned, that is." Dena enjoyed teasing Sheryl, because she knew she was still a bit nervous about getting her hair cut off.
"No, I don't like the thought of being eaten, even if it's totally safe," Sheryl said. "Besides, I like feeling the blade scrape my skin. Put it on." She handed the blue lubricating cream to Dena, who stood above and behind her.
Dena took the cream and began applying it. As she did, she marveled at the fact that Sheryl felt the same way she did about the blade. Not many people these days tolerated, much less enjoyed, such ancient and, some would say, barbaric practices. Dena's fascination with the blade also was why she carried a dagger concealed in her jumpsuit.
"Yes ma'am," Dena said mockingly. "But first, let's cut this off." She snipped the remnant of the once-long braid, then dangled it in front of Sheryl. "Want to keep this?" she asked.
There was a pause as both contemplated briefly the personal nature of this overture, then Dena reached over to take back the braid. Their hands brushed briefly in the exchange.

DNA theft, threats from dangerous denizens and the mutations of created are among the risks faced by all on Logos. Come read the surprising ending!

• Language: English
• Publisher: W. F. Owen
• Release date: Jun 29, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452483979

W. F. Owen

I'm a professor of communication (thirty years) and a creative writer. My main interests are haiku and related forms, and science fiction. I've published in all of the major haiku journals (e.g., Frogpond, Modern Haiku) and several anthologies. Also, I have won several contests sponsored by the Haiku Society of America. Finally, long ago, I taught SCUBA diving as an occupation. I lived in Hawaii for ten years.In the past five years or so, I've rekindled my interest in photography and, most recently, graphic design. Check out my sites on Fine Art America ("Bill Owen") and RedBubble.com ("BillOwenArt"). Thanks! ?

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The Anonym

W. F. Owen

SmashWords Edition

Copyright 2010 W. F. Owen

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

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This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

For Caroline, Kennedy and Corey

Chapter One

Rock . . . Rock . . . ROCK the voice repeated in that familiar artificial cadence he had heard too often since taking this contract. Yes, he murmured in response, only vaguely glancing down at the flat, divided comp panel below.

Do you wish to continue, Rock?

Oh how he hated some of the biochip features of comp terminals that had not burdened his late 20th century grandfather. Most irritating of all, to him, was the intrusion of interactive retinal interfaces that disallowed the kind of mental wandering he had just had in a data session.

No, Rock said, knowing this command would freeze the current image the prefigured 8 seconds. That frozen image, part of each person's identity—the Name Identity or NI as Arbiters had come to call them—was of a young woman with the chosen name Tema.

He slapped the split panel together as the most dramatic way to logoff.

Tema he said aloud with a laugh. Rock he said, laughing again. That's me, he thought, Rock Canyon, licensed AI—Arbiter of Identity.

He rose from his chair and walked over to the place he did his best thinking. His was a large apartment even by the standards of his class. Most Technos had their own apartments, but only large enough to contain a small bed, a tiny desk, servo-diners and certainly no windows. He relished his thinking spot. He was glad he had the foresight to include that into this contract.

The singular window seemed cut to his height—barely five and a half feet high—and just a yard wide. Although short, even by Technos averages, Rock was an accurate name given his agile, wiry appearance. His steely-blue eyes, short, jet-black hair and muscular build allowed him to move freely among all classes of people.

This view of San Francisco overlooked and emphasized the essence of Earth early in the twenty-third century: the overwhelming crowding. As he looked out over the street-less landscape, with rows of apartments stacked toward the sky, his mind focused once again on his job, his mission.

He laughed at his choice of a current identity Rock Canyon. It simultaneously poked fun at the two-class system that had been in place for decades and also pointed to his important role in the Resettlement. It had become clear to the World Council that Earth simply could no longer sustain its growing population given the planet's inability to feed and house them. The worsening situation was in spite of importing food from as far away as the Martian farming colonies. Farming? Yes, farmers, as well as refuse processors, miners and an array of construction workers were of that lower class of Surface People that, it was argued, had no technical skills and had earned such epithets as Rock Crawlers. Rock Canyon was his way to disarm other Technos by implying a possible connection to the Crawlers. Besides, he surely could not use his real name—Robert Hinder.

Just then, a hover-scooter towing construction equipment streaked by his window, causing him to pull back reflexively—a clear violation.

They often test this boundary we have between the Tops, as they called the upper class, and the Earthlings, as they liked to call themselves. He smirked as he pondered how that was their attempt to make people like himself appear to be foreigners. And yet, he admired them. He hated the squalor most of them suffered, but the forays he had taken as necessary fieldwork for his contracts brought him in close contact with their customs, rituals and zest for life. Most of all, he envied the luxury few Technos enjoyed: face-to-face conversations unfettered by the ambiguity of techno-com.

Predictably, two Interface Police scooters built for speed appeared at that moment in pursuit of the joyrides. If caught without permits—as he was sure they lacked—an unscheduled interface with the High Zone was punished by deportation to penal moons or worse, relegation to reproduction centers. The IP, though fast, rarely were a match for the more hardened land dwellers.

He refocused his thoughts.

The Resettlement had been planned for half a century. Though it still amazed him, the Earth had advanced technologically beyond everyone's expectations by as early as 2100. There were few diseases of consequence left. Pollution, contaminations of all sorts, most every scourge humans had faced, had either been cured or solved and, of those that had not been defeated, such creative efforts as genetic engineering and bio-chemical agents were in place to manage what could not be eradicated. Managed, he smirked. There had been bio-accidents. Even our computer systems were part living tissue with their biochips. Would that be our undoing?

But now, except for the physical accidents Crawlers faced and, of course, the violent deaths of Technos, Crawlers and those who fit neither grouping, all lived at least a hundred years. There certainly was no mystery in our overcrowding problem, he mused.

With all of this biophysical good fortune, he thought, except for the ever-decreasing living space constraining us, one would think that life would be simple. No, life was anything but simple for the Technos class.

A chiming sound over his shoulder caused him to turn and walk away from the window. On the wall facing his desk the Uni-Comp panel flickered its information in the usual intrusive manner. Uni-Comp—short for Universal Computer—was unsecured, standard issue with every apartment, to say nothing of their presence at virtually every corner. By standing on the comp pad in front, its user activates a chosen segment of the screen merely by pointing a finger. Rock had left the Uni-Comp open during waking hours. This chime signaled an incoming message.

Encrypted Message, the female voice noted. He was not sure why he had chosen a female voice for this particular comp. Enter algorithmic key sequence. Rock leaned forward and tapped out one of his codes on the panel. It was from Tema. Although the Uni-Comp Network had enabled fully encrypted audio-video messages for years, this one was textual. It had the same still photograph purporting to be Tema. It also had the familiar alphanumeric codes that indicated the routing of the message—this one curiously had bounced from a laser beam lunar link to an IP substation in Miami Prime, then through New Los Angeles before routing through the message filter system of the Resettlement Office in the East Bay.

He chuckled to himself over the elaborate efforts someone had gone through to fabricate this routing—and even this message—IF it was a fabrication. Only the laser link had been proven secure; each of the remaining links was infrared and, accordingly, was intercepted easily. Still, it was all data about Tema and he knew he had to study it. However, the Identity Arbitration Guidebook was clear on at least its prime axiom: Information on the Net Is Disinformation Until Proven Otherwise. That was part of basic training.

The message read:

I'm pleased to be selected as an applicant for the Resettlement on Logos. As the attached work record attests, I've a Class 4 rating in biochip design and worked on the pilot project that developed the HG13 multi-organism processor. My interest and experience primarily has involved the invention, discovery and utilization of new organisms that might be suitable in next-generation biochips. In addition, I was a member of the research team on Draga 9 during the guaro antibody accident four years ago. So, I'm well versed in emergency procedures and would be an asset to your team for that purpose as well. Incidentally, might I be so bold to ask which bio-medium you are proposing for the processors in your labs? I do not imagine you need the security afforded by the HG515, which I am sure you will use in your Perimeter Shield on the new world. Perhaps we can discuss that topic in our inter-talk next week. Consistent with the security protocol published in the Resettlement Operations Manual you sent me, I'll use this NI for three more days, so you may reply to the Tema address.

Message T13C5437 ends here.

Rock balanced his chin on his palm while he studied the message a few moments. He leaned forward and tapped out another of his codes on the panel. An almost imperceptible flicker appeared as the message simultaneously was sent to his secure address at the nearby divided comp panel while being deleted from his Rock Canyon NI.

Let them try to intercept that. Even a scant four to five feet the message traveled on the infrared beam lacked security. Everything was designed for information security now, even the bothersome requirement of public comp pads. He knew that requiring users to stand on a pad to send and receive messages was designed specifically to reduce the chances of electronic and visual eavesdropping. It was a clever scheme he had to admit. Standing on the pad put Rock just a foot away from the screen as he leaned in. That distance, plus the plastic hood that enveloped him, shielded his message from prying eyes. However, he never would have transferred this message with people in the room. Pocket-comps, and even smaller devices, had been invented precisely to fit that niche.

He walked to the desk, sat and flipped open the divided comp panel. His fingers tapped the left corner of the screen causing the image of a keyboard to appear. Although mostly alphanumeric, there were several signs he had programmed. He tapped the often used ? sign.

Is that you buddy? a muffled voice drifted up from the panel. Oh yeah, now I see you, he said, as he engaged the multiphase video scanner.

Question's shiny baldhead posed an intermittent glare as he slid along the chair rail that glided him past a wall full of view screens. The only hair on his body was a foot-long ponytail protruding from the left-rear part of his head. Curiously, his head resembled the letter Q. But, even this elaborate audio-visual display could be manufactured.

His informal conversation took the form of questions. Hey Question, Rock replied. I have another one for you. Take a look at this, he said, as he tapped out a sequence of twenty-three keystrokes. With that, the message from Tema was sent.

Is that T13C5437? Question asked to confirm.

That's correct, my friend, Rock said.

Looks pretty routine, doesn't it? Let's see how it holds up to a neurotronic scan, right?

OK Question, Rock responded. He could hear the faint sound employed as the sonic-producing organisms in Question's program searched Tema's message for anomalies. Each electronic message produced a resonant signature that remained consistent unless other electrons from another source were interposed. The organisms in the program used a process similar to echo location to identify these electronic nuances. By imprinting these data on their DNA, these genetically engineered creatures performed an audit trail that not only marked different signatures, but also traced locations, operators and other characteristics of every electronic activity. Unfortunately, since identities changed so often and electronic communicators generally tried to be anonymous, this information typically was useless. Still, it could offer clues about patterns of interaction.

Ahh, is that clever or what? Question snorted with glee.

What's that, my friend?

There is a slight signature that a patched message was overwritten beginning with the words Incidentally and ending with the words inter-talk next week. That part of the message was written from a different comp panel, or is it at a different time?

Send me that on a plasma disk by conditioned courier within a few days, OK buddy? Rock knew he could count on Question and a handful of other tech-heads both because he sub-contracted with them and because Rock was among the few who had access to pleasure files captured in raids on Vigilante cells. Rock even accessed these occasionally himself if for nothing more than to remember what pleasure was.

No problem, Question answered, sliding nearly out of view till the scanner caught up.

Thanks, my friend, I'll get back to you. So long buddy. Rock tapped a key twice to break the comm link, observing that Question had ended without his usual question. Information on the Net Is Disinformation Until Proven Otherwise was a prime axiom, but not the only one. Another was: Doubt Everyone, Question Everything. As much as he liked Question, he could not trust him. Indeed, in the dozen years he had known Question, he likely could have communicated electronically with several Technos who, at the time, claimed the identity of Question.

He called up the message from Tema again—staring at it, reading and re-reading it. His eyes glazed and his thoughts drifted to the time when he first learned just how elusive identities had become only a few decades earlier. He had thought he could be himself, he could be truthful and, most of all, that others were the same way toward him. He had thought nothing of being Robert, his real identity. His lesson, as he called it, started innocently enough on the Uni-Comp Network. The World Network, which had evolved by 2100 as the sole means of all commerce and most socialization for the class he joined with his birth in 2163, naturally grew into the UCN as new worlds were discovered or refurbished by Earth Engineers. In practical terms, everyone called it the Uni. This designation had the intended multiple meanings of universal and united for some, as well as the unintended pejorative connotations of arrogance and secrecy in such expressions as the Uni-World or Underworld of Technos that Crawlers used.

The Uni had always been omnipresent in his life. All of his education, with the exception of some doctoral seminars, had occurred there. But, it was the opportunity to interact with other Technos he loved most. He relished the real-time audio-visual talks with hundreds of others who shared his interests in biology, languages, mountain rappelling and human ecology. He also enjoyed making friends and, well, more than friends. He was never quite sure what to call the people with whom he had become intimate. They had even started a club, The Uni-Climbers he had convinced them to name it, following his mountain climbing interests. There must have been nearly fifty in the club when he had left it. Most were born and lived on Earth, though there were several who lived on refurbished planetoids.

His eyes focused again on the screen below. This return to consciousness caused him to focus on his hunger. He bounced to his feet, walked to the galley and punched a series of keys on the servo-diner for his favorite dish of Yonk soufflé, then returned to his chair. It would take several minutes for the buffalo-like meat to transport from across the planet to the servo-diner.

His daydream continued. The lesson—there had been so many—was the belief that people were who they said they were. He had met Jonell and had exchanged many messages with her. They had never had an inter-talk, but he felt he knew her. She was small, with dark eyes and skin. And, her hair, long and black, shimmered as she tossed her head in laughter on the screen. It was a fluke that he learned she did not actually exist. Another club member and friend, who went by the NI Roper, had forwarded a message to him without adding a note of any kind. It was Roper's way of joking to send multi-media messages he had received to give the recipient an initial false impression that the original message was meant for them. So, when Robert first viewed the forwarded message, he thought it was just another message sent directly to him from Jonell. But, when Jonell said, Roper, how are you? I've missed hearing from you, his heart sank.