deepFreak

By Mars Dumont

A magical mystery tour of virtual reality and beyond. Love, politics, conspiracy, and fluctuating space-time coordinates all come to a head when a huge solar flare disrupts the event horizon between parallel universes.

Living in simulated reality, SIM, is all the rage in the mid twenty-first century. But just when it seems that illusion has triumphed and Reality has become irrelevant, Reality throws a curve ball.

Audrey is a SIMdesigner and an artPrank hacktivist. When her friend Dano disappears, Audrey is forced into the gritty world of Real to find him. People disappear all the time in this dystopian near future. But then there are Type III disappearances, so when the young Milan also vanishes, but this time right before Audrey’s eyes, the quest for the disappeared takes a whole new turn and Audrey finds herself unwillingly thrust on a bizarre existential odyssey. Real? SIM? Or hallucination? Nothing is what it seems.
Meanwhile, Milan wakes floating in midair before the floor suddenly comes up and crashes hard into him. He looks around and at first the room does nothing. Then it wakes up. Myllan is on the other side, a place where people meet in Astral, not SIM, where luminescent mushrooms grow in the snow, and the weather knows what you are thinking.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mars Dumont
• Release date: Jan 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9780986410000

Mars Dumont

Mars Dumont was born in Poona, India. His father was an endocrinologist, and research grants took his family to Mexico City, Silicone Valley, Stockholm, Ann Arbor, and finally New York City. After graduating from the Bronx High School of Science, Mars traveled around Europe, spent some time in London and Prague, and finally landed in Florence, where he studied art and art history. He finished his undergraduate studies at Columbia College, with a major in art history and a minor in physics, and then got a Masters degree at Columbia’s Graduate School of Architecture. Mars then spent many years doing architecture as a day job and playing electric guitar (for The Shameless Sycophants, Dark Blue and Linoleum Blownapart) at night, in clubs ranging from CBGB’s to the Knitting factory. Mars holds a black belt in Tae Kwon Do and an Elder Brother rank in Tiger Claw Kung Fu. He dabbles in the mysteries of Astrology and Tarot and draws on the archetypes to develop the characters in his books. Mars Dumont speaks five languages: Czech, French, Spanish, English and Italian. Remaining creative is, as far as Mars is concerned, the most important thing in life.

Book preview

Inv.Gif

CHAPTER 1 Switch and gRazer

November 6, Tuesday afternoon

NetPolice are following the trace left by a group of technoAnarchists that projected Mickey Mouse ears onto Mount Rushmore. The notorious hackers, BLANK, took credit for the election day incident, declaring it another BLANKprank art happening. Authorities say they anticipate arrests soon . . . .

BLANKprank. Kool. Dano steadied himself and turned away from the public vidScreen as the streetcar came to a halt. He usually didn’t pay attention to the brainless mix of infotainment and adverts, but this was juice.

I have to tell Audrey.

He texted her, hit PLAY on his app, and his head filled with last century Rok blasted from a pair of old wireless earpods. He couldn’t afford one of those eyeVid computer glasses everyone wore, let alone the latest SIMchip jewelry, but he didn’t give a damn. No skin off his back. That SIMchip crap was fucked up anyway. Yeah, so maybe it looked razz on your forehead, but a direct net link to your brain? No fucking way. That stuff messed with your head. Sure, SIM could be intense, as intense as Real, but in the end that shit wasn’t real.

* * *

The chip on Audrey’s temple came to life with a blue glow. Audrey, fresh from her shower, sat naked and knock-kneed, drying her long iridescent blond hair with a towel. The inbox on the info layer in her mind flashed Dano with a cheesy ancient app icon. gRazers! Whatever. She read the text and smiled. ‘Juice,’ she responded, ‘love it!’ She hooked onto her news feed and rode a cascade of reports flashing the story.

Early exit poles in the North American presidential elections are showing Walt Disney Inc., the Republican candidate, with a solid 62 percent lead. Meanwhile, netPolice eyeTs still haven’t been able to dismantle the hacker program that is projecting the Mickey Mouse ears on to Mount Rushmore. Apparently a protest by BLANK against the Disney Corporation’s bid for the presidency, the holo projection is run by a morphing fractal that . . .

‘Earth to Audrey . . .’ A sparkling icon burst and glowed red like an ember. This time it was Nina.

‘sorry :) forgot; gimme a sec,’ Audrey texted, threw on some underwear, thoughtClicked a link and found herself on the lake. Their lake.

Audrey and Nina liked meeting here, dangling their legs off this unknown digital dock someplace, somewhere, on an unknown digital lake, wriggling their toes in the spectral water. An unforgiving white light reflected off the waves and over-exposed their faces like some faded bleached-out memory. A first version eyeVid freeware, it was now on some long forgotten and discarded netWorld by-way. Nobody remembered it. No one else came anymore. It was now their private SIMlounge. They’d been hanging here, just the two of them, since they were SIM enraptured kids playing with their very first eyeVids.

* * *

The polite voice suggested he mind his step as Dano alighted into the grey chill of a November afternoon and the Kraut Rok sounds of late Einsturzende. The doors hissed shut, and the driverless streetcar rumbled off behind him. He hunched his lithe athletic frame, zipped up his worn black leather jacket, and stuck his cold hands into the pockets. The stillness in his clear blue eyes was misleading. A deeper look uncovered a gaze that was soulful yet searing, the lucid eyes of someone who sees truth in the void. He went over to the bus stop and checked the schedule. Crap, just missed it! The next 54 was in half an hour. Might as well walk.

Dano made his way along a broken sidewalk, past grimy, mid-last century Communist-era concrete-panel high-rises. Public housing. It smelled like piss. People here lived like weeds in the cracks of society, barely surviving on bottomFeeder wages. The sun’s wan reflections in shards of shattered beer and vodka bottles confirmed that it too had turned its back on these parts.

He passed a rusting carcass of a car. Just beyond it a couple of vacant-eyed Razr4Kids strung out on zingers were jerking like zombies to the jackhammer beat of some deathZKunt band. This was their turf. He crossed the street.

Dano walked on. FreeGrazing. Yeah, that’s what they called it, you know, just taking it all in, chill to the menace, go with the flow. Dano was a gRazer ‘cause he wanted it Real. Get it? Just stuff coming at him natural and not have some computer-fed SIMulated chip-reality screwing around in his thoughts like Switch did. Troglodyte, they called him. You bet.

* * *

"Mickey Mouse ears on Mount Rushmore? I’ll bet they get charged with copyright infringement." Nina’s pixie nose and the gap in her front teeth did not make her look like the gawky chipmunk that she imagined. Nevertheless they had the effect of tenderizing her somewhat sarcastic mocking personality into something more along the lines of just plain irreverent.

If they catch them I’m sure that’ll be the least of their problems.

Well, yeah. Still, things are sure gonna get weird if a corp gets elected president.

You mean, like, in this case, is it satire, or is it copyrighted?

Yeah, and who gets the money from the T-shirt sales, the US of NA or Walt Disney Inc.?

I still can’t believe it! Do you really think they’re going to pull this off? Elect a corporation as President of the North American States!? What a joke! Audrey shook her head in amazement. "And it was a joke! She threw her hands up in the air. The whole draft Mickey Mouse for President was a bloody joke, a protest that started in Quebec."

I know, it’s so bizarre. Shows you how far things can come along in a year. I never thought I’d live to see the day.

It just goes to show. When it comes down to it, Real is a lot stranger than SIM. I mean, you can’t make this stuff up.

The Canadians must be really happy they joined the US, Nina quipped. So who do you think they are?

Who? The Canadians that wanted to join?

No, BLANK!

BLANK? How should I know?

Do you think they’re corp eyeT nerds? You know, in their day jobs?

Frustrated corp eyeT by day, artPrank hacktivists by night? I dunno, doesn’t seem likely. Corp eyeTs are, you know, corp eyeTs . . . totally nerdy!

So what do you think those hackers do for a day job?

Audrey shrugged. Download bankCredits? Design SIMgames?

"Wouldn’t surprise me. But I bet you make more money on SIMgames than downloading credits. You know, now that I think of it, you should design SIMgames!" Nina rocked her head to make the point. Her bouncy brunette bob trailed her face, offset, the colours garish, in and out of phase.

What? Me? Why?

"Duh, for the money!"

"Oh, yippee. Just what we need, a gazillion and one ways to shoot ‘em up in SIM."

"They don’t have to be about shooting."

"The ones that sell do."

So, think of something more interesting.

Actually, I have been thinking about it . . .

Well?

. . . not a game exactly, but a SIM where people can actually touch each other, you know, inside their feelings. It would be a whole new SIM experience.

Oh, god help us, Audrey, that’s not a game. Besides, isn’t feelings what Real is for?

"Nina, in Real you’re only guessing how someone else feels." Audrey swabbed her hair with the low-res towel.

It’s not the same.

What’s not the same?

SIM and Real. SIM is SIM, even when it comes to feelings. Sometimes I think you’re trying to avoid Real.

"You were the one asking me about what kind of game I would design."

Yeah, it’s just that . . . you work awfully hard trying to hide from Real.

Really? And what exactly is Real, anyway? Can you define it?

According to Oxford? Let’s see . . . ‘existence that is absolute, self-sufficient or objective, and not subject to human decisions or conventions.’

"But what if that’s all wrong, and Real is completely subjective? Maybe my consciousness is all there is, and this world is something I dreamt up . . ."

Oh, help me . . . am I a woman dreaming of a butterfly or am I now a butterfly dreaming I am a woman? Nina buried her face in her hands.

"I don’t know about the butterfly, but if I had dreamt up a world, it would have been way different from this one."

Nina lifted her head cautiously. There, see? It’s not you. You’re off the hook!

"Well, maybe I don’t know, maybe I’m dreaming it up, in which case . . . I mean, makes you wonder, who’s ‘I’ anyway?"

Audrey!

What? Audrey’s washed-out image glared back. Anyway, I think I’m more of a SIMtreatment kind of grrrl than a SIMgame designer.

Yeah, I’ll buy that. So, how’s it working out with Dano?

What do you mean?

With the SIMtreatments you’re doing for his band. What did you think I meant? Are you . . . ?

Of course not!

No? You’re acting awfully defensive.

There’s nothing going on between us.

So you’re not doing the SIMtreatments for his band anymore?

Oh, yeah. That’s still going on. But doing SIM for gRazers isn’t exactly easy. Half the time they complain, and the other half they’re not plugged in and have no idea what I’m doing. Maybe they just don’t get it.

"Or they don’t want to get it because they’re gRazers."

Yeah . . . I think they’re only going along with it because Dano wants it. I feel a little weird about it, but it’s fun . . . okay, sometimes.

At least they know enough to listen to Dano! Nina gazed off into the technicolour dreamscape. I’ve only seen you guys a couple of times . . .

That’s ‘cause we’ve only played a couple of times.

Your stuff is really good, and Dano, he’s . . . well, he’s fucking amaaazing . . . the best damned guitarist I’ve ever heard.

Oh, I’m ‘good’ and he’s ‘fucking amaazing’?

"Come on Audrey, eXitTrip are awesome. Nina looked into Audrey’s sapphire video eyes. You guys have something there. You really do. But, even given all that, do you think a gRazer band can make it these days?"

That’s where I come in. Right? I give them Switch cred. So far they’re going along with it. But, when it comes to success and making it, well, there aren’t any guarantees, are there? Audrey dropped the towel and it pixilated and vanished. I mean, I can’t help thinking, what if we don’t make it? Or what if they want to go back to doing gRazer gigs? No SIM and I’m out?

Then you gave it your best shot and you try something else.

But what if a fourth crash comes? I don’t want to be a disEmployed fortyPercenter.

Oh, Audrey, why do you always have to be so melodramatic? Come on, you have family money. You’ll never be a disEmployed.

Audrey scowled. "Well, what if this time even we loose all our money?"

Audrey, hello! Your family haven’t lost their money since the Great Depression.

So? Shit can always happen.

Yeah, it can, but this isn’t about money, is it? This is about validating yourself. Look, you’re not just an artist, you’re a cyber whiz, you’re an über Switch fucking electroWizard! If you feel you need career cred then major in something like information technology.

Sell my soul ‘cause the whole world is going corpFascist anyway?

Dum dada . . . Nina assumed her documentary over voice. "There is no longer any distinction between governments and corporation . . ." She sighed. Audrey, what’s that got to do with anything? Haven’t we had this conversation like about a hundred times?

Well, maybe that’s because you’re still not getting it. Audrey stood up and went to her dresser. In SIM she was hovering, in bra and panties, casting discordant reflections out over the rasterized water. I mean, look at the North American States! First their Supreme Court ruled that corporations have the same rights as individuals . . . She walked on digital water, a series of freeze-framed steps, back to the dock, with an armful of clothes.

Yes, and now they’re about to elect Walt Disney Inc.

Audrey pulled a sweater over her head.

Power to the people. Nina shrugged. I bet Wall Street wasn’t backing Mickey Mouse. She looked to Audrey for some sign of levity.

Audrey’s head popped out of the sweater. Or were they? She slipped into a pair of tights and wriggled them up to her waist. "Somebody paid for all those votes."

Nina rolled her eyes. We’re not the North American States, Audrey.

"Only because there are too many factions in the European Union to buy every one of them." She stepped into a skirt, zipped it up, and plunked herself back down.

We still have due process.

Yeah, sure, if you can afford it. Everybody’s been bought and paid for.

"Not everybody, Audrey."

Excuse me, yes, the moral handful? How many of them are there? Good luck with that! Audrey cast her eyes over the ripples in the water, absently anticipating the recurring glitch in the repeat. That it was such an outmoded SIM program only added to the nostalgic sentimentality of the place.

Oh, Audrey!

Maybe I’m just paranoid.

Ya think? Nina furrowed her brow. This was going nowhere.

* * *

Dano, lost in his sounds, out there and zoning on the music, absentmindedly kicked a Kofola can. Black Sabbath followed Einsturzende as he rounded the corner, the one across from the BillaHypermarket. Layers of graffiti on stained concrete framed the faded adverts in the windows. He noticed the ClosedCircuit TV tracking him to Paranoid blasting in his ear pods. Kool. Reality soundtrack. Invisible drones and CCTV pods transmitting millions of images a second to algorithms crunching petabytes inside LibertyCorp computers. Non-stop surveillance. Facial recognition. Gait analysis. Security is freedom. Got nothing to hide, got nothing to fear, so the adverts said. Mind your own business, and the red lights don’t go off. What was deviant was classified but changed all the time anyway. Flash deviant and the nanoDrones were all over you in seconds. Yeah, paranoia was Real.

Another block and he was in the edgeZone. He avoided the shantytown and instead took a shortcut through a bleak and windswept soccer field. Dormant crabgrass and dandelions struggled in the toxic mud. Cold gusts stirred up litter and crappy plastic shopping bags and whisked dust about Dano’s long brown mop. He passed forlorn bleachers, decayed and corroded, and headed for the faded Orangina advert on the fence at the far end. When he got there, he pulled aside the ragged plastiply board, squeezed through the rusted wire-mesh fence and crossed the railroad tracks.

Dano was still zoned, still cruising to his sounds, when suddenly, a disheveled man stumbled out of a two-bit Rolex holo glowing faintly in front of the EZ Money PawnKing and almost plowed into him. Without thinking, Dano made a quick sidestep and avoided the collision.

The man stopped and swayed precariously as he assessed Dano. You shouldn’t be out here, you know. He shoved an index finger into Dano’s chest. Word is, alchohol-fueled breath whispered, today’s a bad day to be out. Come on, he pulled Dano’s jacket toward the ghostly martini glass promoting the dive bar halfway down the block. I’ll buy you a drink. I just got some fold. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled wad of bills. Paper money was supposedly extinct and illegal, but it was currency amongst fortyPercenters in places like Redcent. I still had a good watch, you know. He waved at the kitschy Rolex holo and shoved the bills into Dano’s face. This’ll keep me going another week, at least.

Listen, thanks man, but it’s too early for me, replied Dano. If it weren’t for his appointment with Tommy Gunn he might have accepted. That was what freeGrazing was all about. But take care, man. Dano patted the wino on the shoulder and walked on with his easy rhythmic gait.

He was in Redcent, a combatZone, crime-infested and offGrid, populated by the trash society had spit out. Redcent had once been an industrial district. But that was then. Now it was a rathole of dive bars, hardCore clubs, decaying cars, and abandoned buildings occupied by squatters. Got a connection? Got fold? You got a deal. Useless crap, illegal shit, didn’t matter: pirated name-brands, printed guns, shabu, zingers, serial numbers, hot-rodded software, Chinese killaChips, buyer beware. People would sell their sister. Or daughter, if the price were right. But Dano wasn’t into any of that. He was looking for deMode, you know, things, archaic things that were hard to get. Tommy Gunn had scored some rare amplifier tubes. Kool. Maybe that old Marshall would finally work.

Unfortunately it wasn’t until he got to Zip’s Chow’nStuff, his usual place, that Dano noticed. Where the hell is everyone? It suddenly hit him that he hadn’t seen anyone since the wino. He tried the door to Chow’nStuff. Why the fuck is it locked? Above him the Nescafé holoVert steamed, the cup filled, emptied, steamed, and filled again. The lights inside were out, but he peered in and noticed some of the regulars in the shadows. What the hell is going on? Franta, a cigarette hanging over his sandpaper chin, came to the door and frantically waved like a madman. What? Shit! Dano saw the reflection, there on the glass door. He spun around. This isn’t fucking Real! This is crazy deepFreak! Right there in front of him seethed a swarm of insect-sized nanoDrones. Adrenaline kicked in and his amped-up heart beat with the bass in his earpods. Had he slipped into a deathZKunt SIM run by some asshole Switch? But when had the slip happened? When he zoned out? This had to be SIM. His soundtrack kicked into Die! Die! Die! Way juice if he was doing SIM, way not otherwise.

Freeze, citizen!

What the—? The barked command was a bolt from the blue. SIM or Real? Input overload. Fuck it, I’m loosing juice! There’s no one there! Then Dano noticed the oddly undulating refracting air, like a mirage on a really hot day. Shit! Cloaking! Before he could deal they materialized. Three black-clad LibertyCorp operatives flashedIn and pointed assault rifles straight at his head.

On your knees, NOW! The voice, shit man, that sound! Hands behind the head, elbows out! Authority amplified, vPrint altered, and broadcast directly into his app. It cut right through Die! Die! Die! and burst inside his brain. Dano didn’t argue. Trembling, scared shitless, he did exactly as he was told.

We have a positive drone scan here. 62% on the TPF. Terrorist Profile Matrix.

Affirmative. ID and TPF logged in. Van ETA thirty-six seconds.

Damn, this was some serious Switch SIM he was in. Kneeling, shaking, Dano, despite himself, despite his best efforts to stay kool, was terrified. Kool was not happening. Not juice. Rough hands brutally twisted his arms and cuffed his wrists behind his back. Dano grimmaced in pain. Fuck, that hurts! A black LibertyCorp van pulled up. Like an irritated wasp, a nanoDrone buzzed out of the swarm and stung his neck, injecting a potent tranquilizer. The world immediately melted away and Dano drifted off to another nightmare, maybe another SIM, where an insane electoWizard danced on naked neurons slowly oozing out of his brain.

* * *

Ow! Audrey rubbed the back of her neck. I just got this weird pain.

Probably stress from all your crazy paranoia. Look, not to change the subject or anything, Nina cocked her head, "but are you joining us at the Ophidian Thursday night? Anton put you on the list. It’s a SIM feature for the Le Monde Sunday Supplement, you know, French fashion ideas for the holidays or something."

I don’t know, I have to study. It’s exam time.

"C’mon, you have to! It’s Paris. Besides Anton and his friends are going. That really handsome French architect might be there. I think he likes you."

Yeah, handsome in SIM. He’s probably some disgusting eighty-year-old perv in Real.

No way! He’s a friend of Anton’s. Besides, an eighty-year-old perv would select an off-the-shelf classic handsome. Your French admirer has that carved weathered masculine look.

You don’t think he’s . . . Audrey uploaded a selection of hunky avatars from the Avatopia website, and chose . . . Rugged Individualist Avatar version 3.2? The life-like hunk expanded to quarter scale, its cutting-edge high-res features contrasting sharply with the antiquated low-res generated by the eyeVid freeware.

"Nah . . . this avatar’s not, I dunno, individual enough? You know, it has no real character. Besides, your admirer’s not so beefy . . ."

Okay, how about . . . Audrey switched the Avatopia software to custom mode. With a flick of her hand she slimmed the avatar down, raised the cheekbones, and sculpted the jaw.

Uh-uh. See the eyes? They’re, like, dead. Lifeless. His are kind and intelligent. You can’t fake those.

Not even if I . . . Audrey shadowed the eyes and put a little sparkly highlight on the iris.

No! See? Not so easy.

Well, you can create an algorithm from scans of a real life person and . . .

Audrey, that would be really expensive. He couldn’t afford it.

How do you know? Besides, if you’re so interested, why don’t you make a play for him?

I would if he was taller.

Taller? He’s as tall as you. What am I saying? He’s an avatar. You have no idea how tall he really is.

Yeah, well, men never opt for shorter. Only taller.

"Men? But you might shave a couple of centimeters off your avatar?"

Not really. I don’t want to be a shocking, towering surprise when we actually meet in Real. I want a man who makes me feel petite.

Petite? Audrey asked dubiously. "You’re over 1.85 meters tall and you want to feel petite? Good luck with that. Do you realize that you’re ruling out ninety nine point nine nine nine percent of the male population?"

"So what if I am? And what are you holding out for?"

I guess someone I can trust.

Why don’t you think you can trust Anton’s friend? Just because he’s French?

Well, yeah . . .

Come on, you don’t even know him. Why not give him a chance?

Because he’s got a cleft chin. Okay, his avatar does, like this. Audrey modeled a cleft onto hunk avatar 3.2’s chin. And you know what they say, ‘never trust an avatar with a cleft chin.’

Oh, right. Are you sure it’s not ‘Never trust an avatar with unruly sandy brown hair’? Nina asked.

Yeah, damned right it is, Audrey giggled, that, and a sexy smile. She curved 3.2’s lips.

Or a perfect body?

Mmm . . . she spun the avatar around, with a tight little ass.

So you’re coming?

I’m not coming just to fevR at a really hot avatar . . . and if I really wanted to, I could create my own.

Audrey, you’re sick. That’s not the same thing. C’mon! It would be good for you. You’re getting way too serious.

"Oh, all right. Look, I should get going. I have to dump a SIMfile into Dano’s app. Audrey’s voice flattened sarcastically when she said the word app. That is, if it fits. gRazers! What time Thursday?"

Eight.

Okay. Send me the link. Bye.

The dock and the lake and the technicolour landscape slowly dissolved. Audrey opened her eyes and once again found herself on her sofa. She was dressed. Her hair was dry.

Inv.Gif

CHAPTER 2 Milan In School

November 8, Thursday 11 A.M.

Milan stood in front of his locker staring at the globe holo spinning round and round above his app. It was just after second period and he had given it another go. All morning he had been trying to get a hold of Dano. No connection pinpoint glowed. What’s going on? Why doesn’t he answer?

This was the third day Dano hadn’t shown up anywhere. Yesterday had been Redcent day. They had made a date to go weeks ago, and Dano would never blow him off like that. Dano’s word was a matter of juice. Don’t say it if you don’t mean it. But yesterday afternoon Milan had waited for more than an hour at the Number 12 stop. No Dano. No explanation. No text, no Tweet, no Weibo, no message, no mail, no word, no nothing.

3.5 minutes. Milan extinguished his app and briefly crumpled the pliant device in his fist in disgust. Where is that math homework! Brainfart. We don’t have a test today, do we? Tomorrow. It’s tomorrow. Three minutes. Great, here comes Ascher. Don’t make eye contact!

Hey, Mildew, still using that crappy piece of junk? I’ll do you a favor and trash it.

Milan just managed to pull his app away as Ascher made a try to grab it. Jerk! I bet he’s recording this for Kiss My Ascher.

Ascher was a like junky, a minor celebrity, and there was nothing he wouldn’t do to jack up ratings for his Kiss My Ascher YouTube show. You know, whatever your eyes see your chip can record. Ascher’s minor celebrity status guaranteed that he saw lots of eagerly grinding ass and enthusiastically bouncing tits, and, with the occasional practical joke thrown in (which was where Milan came in), it was enough to get shitloads of hits for Kiss My Ascher. In fact, the hits he got ran well into the upper six figures, and the vast majority consisted of likes. Yes, he was almost there, almost in the big time, in corporate marketing wet dream territory. This meant he got to do some consumer product endorsement and was showered with exclusive little gifts: wearable holos from Nike, TacoBell, whatever. On top of that his old man was loaded, so he had the absolute latest in quantum chips on his forehead, a Chonzin Paradise Ruby, in a Bulgari setting. Direct neural connections fast as lightning. Very kool, very showoff and very, very expensive.

The only thing Ascher couldn’t sell was the fantasy he had of being Switch. Switch had to be earned. Switch was about popping tripTabs and neuroTranzing on hot-rodded quantum chips into deepFreak virtual netZones, melding mind directly into dataStreams for an in your face experience, a direct brain-to-net connection. But neuroTranzing in deepFreak could fry your mind. You had to know. That kind of knowing was what Switch was all about. Totally on and zoned, surf firewalls, hot-dog gates, rip through traps that could deadEnd you in a catatonic state forever, and then, if you find your way back out, you hope you’re still there, your mind still yours. Fly or fry they said, the only way to go when SIM and mind merge in the vast digital consciousness of the net. Switch knew they were the absolute kool fucking fuKool. To Switch, Ascher didn’t rate. In fact, he didn’t exist.

Ascher shoved Milan into a locker and stared him down. You’re ruining my view, he whispered in what he thought was a tough voice. Ascher was in year ten, three years older than Milan.

Milan wasn’t particularly athletic, tending instead toward the (only slightly, he told himself) plumpy. Still, he stood quite tall for his age and he unflichingly returned the stare until Ascher, feigning disgust, let him go.

God, I hate filth, Ascher sniffed as he walked off, cleaning his hands with a wetWipe. Milan slammed his locker shut. One minute. I can still make it!

PASSWORD! the gargoyle intoned. The gargoyle always made Milan a little uneasy. Maybe it was the smoldering red eyes that stared straight into his and seemed to incinerate something way deep in his brain. Or maybe it was the really creepy leathery wings. Or a forked tongue that flickered in and out between sharp pointy vampire teeth.

HejnStem746. No, I mean 7446.

The gargoyle’s fiery eyes didn’t waver. The tongue flickered a few times. Why did the school mascot have to be this weird gargoyle? Why not something normal? Like maybe a cat, or a bear or even a river rat or a duck or something.

Sorry, sorry. I mean HejStem7446.

YOU MAY ENTER! The leathery wings spread and the gargoyle morphed into smoke and then vanished, its sharp glowing outline now an entrance portal.

Milan passed through into the school’s virtual town square, officially known as SIM Square or the Hejn Center. It was a large square topped by a vast dark dome that was barely discernible high above the mists that glowed in school colours and lazily drifted overhead. A continuous colonnade enclosed the square, like an ideal Renaissance piazza, which is why the students referred to it as Pizza Square.

Milan sat himself on a SIMbench and began thinking. He scanned to see if Dano had posted anywhere. It went without saying that Dano didn’t post much. He didn’t faceBook either, he was no faceFreak. SIMfacing and holoFacing weren’t juice, and definitely not deMode. Unfortunately, school firewalls prevented Milan from checking out any of the rad SIMlounges, the kind Dano might actually hang out in, such as myUncle’sPyjamas, the atLounge or the tangledFormat.

After thinking and SIMsearching for a while, Milan concluded he had pretty much run out of options. Sure, it was no surprise that Dano didn’t do web. He was, after all, acknowledged as the gRazer. What was surprising was that the web wasn’t doing Dano. Milan knew that even the most committed offGrid gRazer couldn’t take himself offNet. You may be uninterested in the web, but you can’t stop it from being interested in you. Besides, nothing ever really disappears on the web, so there’s stuff buried somewhere about everyone. Like your third grade holo in Mrs. Parker’s class. Or the stupid vid you posted years ago and now you really wish you hadn’t. And even if you never posted, there’s a CCTV shot of you standing in line at the KandyKastle picking your nose. But this, this was creepy. This was impossible. This couldn’t happen. There was nothing. Nothing. This meant he needed Switch. Switch knew about this kind of thing. Luckily, Audrey was Switch, and she was good. Really good. Besides, Audrey was like a sister to Milan, and Dano’s oldest friend, so in any case she’d want to know.

Milan sent Audrey a brief text: ‘dano missing 3 days, no hits on google.’

That was his first mistake, as he was still sitting in the Pizza. Nevertheless, much to his delight he received an answer from Audrey right away: ‘taking exam but took qwk look in google. u r right. try:

Fract1

when you pass, code is:’

Fract2

Kool! Fractal programs!

Without stopping to think, Milan copyPasted the first fractal and waited. At first nothing happened. Then the shit hit the fan.

Oh crap!

Everything crashed and collapsed into an enormous pile of data rubble that began to turn white hot under the compression of it’s own information weight.

Wow! This is like totally beyond amazing SIM! Way fuKool!

Without warning Milan was thrust onto a fiber optic dataStream, a sensation like being whiplashed by a rocket sled or the rush down the first drop of a monster rollercoaster, his head spinning as he hurtled along. A second later a sudden halt stopped him instantly, a thousand to zero in zero.

That kinda sucked! I’m feeling sick.

Giddy, shaky, nauseated, disoriented, he stared at a blank dull grey steel firewall. It took a moment for his mind to stop moving and his body to return to a queasy normal, and then he noticed the keypad. He figured he’d enter the passCode. It was painfully clear that Milan was no dataTraveller.

Milan entered:

Fract2

and immediately a small section of the steel wall dematerialized revealing a cubicle, like a safe, with a pile of documents in it. Milan reached for one but as he did suddenly and without warning the world spun so fast he felt dizzy and sick again and then there was a flash of blinding dazzling light which morphed into a shape which turned into the study hall window.

Hey, Stemberg, what do you think you’re doing!? Mr. Vuga demanded with gritted teeth as he yanked the study hall eyeVid off of Milan’s face. Crap! It had to be him! Mr. Vuga, the Hejn Secondary Dean of Discipline, was on study hall duty. Not good. Mr. Vuga was a dogmatic zealot when it came to the rules, and he sure as hell had no sense of humour.

Milan couldn’t think just yet. Things were still moving too much in his head, and Mr. Vuga’s face was bright and red and kind of just greasy and disgusting and weird and, well, just way too hyper-real, which was normal. Real always felt too real after SIM.

Sorry Mr. Vuga, I . . . I was just surfing a little . . . Milan looked up at Mr. Vuga, blinking as his eyes adjusted to Real. He couldn’t think of anything else to say. He was treading water.

I’m surprised at you, Stemberg, Mr. Vuga said, trying hard to not raise his voice too much and thereby violate strict study hall regulations, or worse, set off the noise monitor alarm. Mr. Vuga was large and formless, and except for the face, his front side pretty much matched his backside. Legend had it that he could fart out of his belly button. He wore cheap made-in-some-third-world-toilet-sweatshop polyester Walmart suits, always rumpled and brown or beige. He held Milan’s eyeVid as if it were toxic evidence of some heinous enviroCrime.

Everybody in the study hall was now staring at them. Milan felt the blood rush to his face. Don’t give yourself away! Be kool, act like nothing’s wrong!

You’re not smart enough to hang out with Switch. Why would you be stupid enough to even try going offNet?

Good question, now that Mr. Vuga’s harsh stare put things in perspective. He didn’t generally buy excuses, and right now Milan couldn’t think of one. He had netTranzed from the Pizza, which was not only strictly forbidden but also, due to firewalls, very difficult to do. That is, unless Audrey sent you some special fractals. And that, well, that was where the misunderstanding had occurred. Maybe Audrey was busy with her exam and not thinking. Maybe Milan hadn’t made it clear to Audrey that he was using a school eyeVid. Or she assumed he wouldn’t be stupid enough to go offNet while in the school eduZone. Yes, that was it, it was just a misunderstanding, but from the look Mr. Vuga was giving him one would have thought he had been caught with a vial of dreamWater or a week’s supply of Bulgarian tripTabs.

Milan uneasily shifted in his chair. It felt uncomfortable. Everything suddenly felt uncomfortable. He knew that the penalty for going offNet could be serious, and that it went on your record. Which meant your parents were notified, and that definitely sucked.

This is a misunderstanding Mr. Vuga, I wasn’t really offNet, Milan lied as he looked up, brushing away a strand of hair so that Mr. Vulga could gaze even deeper into his big innocent brown eyes. It didn’t work.

That’s enough, Stemberg. I’m taking you straight to Ms. Dietze’s office.

The headmaster?! Crap! Milan’s heart sank. It didn’t help that the grrrls over at the next table were giggling.

But I wasn’t doing Xgames or anything, protested Milan. It’s a misunderstanding. The depth of the hole he was in was now dawning on him. He was sitting in the student’s chair, facing the headmaster of Hejn Secondary who was on the other side of a very large desk. Milan was trying hard to channel Dano kool. Okay, so maybe that wasn’t working, but he hoped that at least he wasn’t fidgeting too much.

Ms. Dietze, the headmaster, was a striking, slim, refined woman of about forty-five with coolly knowing blue eyes. Today her lipstick was very dark and her eyelashes whitened to match her hair. The collar on her black and white houndstooth suit framed her face and lent her an almost Elizabethan air of authority. The lack of chip jewelry was conspicuous, unusual for a woman of her position. She leaned back in her chair and stared at the holoVid screen hovering above her desk. The room was agonizingly quiet as she silently followed Milan’s offNet trace.

You may leave us now, the headmaster eventually spoke, addressing Mr. Vuga, who was hovering behind Milan like a hungry vulture, and please close the door behind you.

Mr. Vuga was visibly reluctant and disappointed, what with missing the pleasure of punishing a student, but he had no choice.

Young man, the truth is that my hands are tied, Ms. Dietze said as soon as they were alone. "First, you lied. You were offNet."

But it was due to a misunderstanding and I wasn’t doing Xgames or anything, repeated Milan almost mechanically, quite sure by now that his situation was hopeless.

Yes . . . your trace shows that . . . but nevertheless I have no choice. You were offNet. Regrettably for you, the rules are quite clear . . . and you were, after all, caught in the act. Ms. Dietze spoke in a forbidding measured tone that turned students into intimidated blobs of wobbly jelly. She absently tapped her long fingers on the huge desk, the clicking of her sharp blackSilver nails making the only sound in the awkward silence.

Milan could think of nothing to say so instead he looked straight ahead, trying hard not to stare at a flash of red lace that poked out of Ms. Dietze’s low neckline.

But unfortunately there’s more, isn’t there? she eventually spoke again, with pauses just long enough to be unnerving. "This portal you were playing around with is very seriously off limits, young man . . . and . . . I see here that attempting to hack this portal is an infraction of the Freedom and Liberty Act . . . meaning it is considered by CivDef and the Ministry of Freedom to be . . . potentially . . . a terrorist matter?" There was perhaps just the tiniest touch of sarcasm in the headmaster’s voice.

Ms. Dietze wears a red lace bra?

Milan, I’ve known you for years and I cannot begin to catalogue my gratitude to your mother for all she has done for this school and for education in general. You’ve always been a good student. And I know you consider yourself a gRazer. Whether or not the gRazer community agrees, I don’t know. I do know that your portal entry attempt was, to put it charitably, extremely ham-fisted, and then you made no effort to hide your trace. You are a very foolish young man and in very serious trouble. You obviously lack both the knowledge and the talent to be Switch, yet only someone associated with that particular community would have access to the codes you so clumsily attempted to use. Clearly someone passed them on to you . . .

Milan was quite certain his mother didn’t own any red lace bras.

There was another long silence.

"You keep insisting there was a misunderstanding. Perhaps you’d like to explain that and tell me what’s going on? You can start by telling me where you obtained these portal codes . . ."

Milan put away thoughts of red lace bras and silently cursed Audrey. It was all her fault. Of course she should have known that he just had a junky old app, and that he was in study hall and using the school eyeVid. She had to have known. But, as much as he felt like he could kill her right now, he