Aurora - Way of the Goddess Pt. 05

The basement lab was stacked from floor to ceiling with electronics, much of it unrecognisable and most of it humming. A tall, white, tower-like device occupied one corner, beside a console covered in switches, dials and knobs with a dual flatscreen display off to the side. "Scanning Electron Microscope." Kevin announced, reading Watson's puzzled expression. "Everything's happening on the micro-scale these days, a TEM's the only way of getting to the bottom of it." He held out his hand. "May I?"

Watson handed the iPhone over, then turned on the spot studying the underground laboratory. "So it's true."

"What is?"

"You're a bona fide, card-carrying genius."

"Who says?"

"Tanya."

"Oh..." the man replied diffidently, looking over his glasses while he jacked the purloined phone into a computer, "that silly-billy says lots of things. It's just a hobby. No genius required."

"Some hobby."

"It's great fun." Kevin concurred. "You have no idea what's happening out there." He gestured with his chin in the direction of 'out there'.

"In IT?"

"IT, Informatics, AI. That sort of thing. Value your privacy, do you?"

Watson looked at the little boffin, nonplussed.

"Straightforward question. Most of us need a little seclusion in our lives, I know I do. You know... to be a little creative. To play." He twirled a dainty finger over his temple, "To be a little bit crazy in the privacy of our own minds."

"I... ah... Well... Sure. I love my privacy."

"Then you shouldn't be mucking around with these things." he brandished the phone. "Smart phone, dumb idea. Everywhere you go, you're leaving behind a trail of digital Pixie dust. Metadata. The five eyes are watching, make no mistake."

Watson looked up to find the little man peering at him. His eyes were huge behind the lenses of his specs and indeed, Watson thought uneasily, slightly mad. "Five eyes?"

"Never heard of the five eyes?"

Watson shook his head.

"Well you should have. The U.S., Canada, England, New Zealand and, surprise, surprise, America's ever faithful ass-licker, Australia. They're gathering your digital data by the warehouse-full... And you can fit a lot of ones and zeroes into a warehouse, let me tell you."

"What do they do with it?"

Kevin set the phone down on a black rubber mat then commenced tapping away at a slim, plastic keyboard. "Anything they like. It's all at the behest of the NSA, the U.S. National Security Agency. To keep us all 'safe'." he made air commas. "Of course the U.S. government is just an arm of big business. The NSA will tell you it's all in the name of homeland security but much of the information is actually sold-on."

"To whom?"

Kevin hefted a shoulder. "The highest bidder."

"What for?"

The little wizard looked at him, mildly exasperated. "What do you think? To get you to buy stuff, using the crack-whores of big business, the advertisers. You see we're not humans any more, we're just consumers. That's the sole reason most of us exist. To buy stuff we don't need, that we can't afford and we won't use anyway, just to impress people we don't like. If big business knows where you go, what you do, who you see, what you watch, what you talk about, what you crave, what you're afraid of... all the stuff revealed by your metadata, not to mention your emails and phone calls... once they have all those data they can farm you."

All those data... here was a man who knew his plurals. "Seems like a lot of trouble to go to." Watson frowned, patently sceptical. "Not to mention expense."

"It's effortless, actually," Kevin said airily, "all done by computer. And it's all free, at least for them, because you're the one who's paying for it."

Watson tugged at the neck his threadbare T-shirt, suddenly paranoid. "So, how do you..." he gestured around the subterranean lab, "I mean how do I?"

"Protect yourself?" the little tech-head asked with a disarming smile. "Well, don't have one of these for starters." He turned to a monitor which was presently streaming data, digital rain pouring down a flatscreen windowpane. "Do you smoke?"

"Smoke?"

"Cigarettes."

"Used to," Watson admitted, "a long time ago."

"Well, remember the olden days, when smoking was first banned on airlines? At the end of a flight, how smokers used to trample each other to get off the plane for that first lung-buster? Well now it's the same with these things." he held up the iPhone. "People are addicted to them. By the millions. By the billions! iPhone separation anxiety, it's a recognised condition. As soon as that seat belt sign goes off after landing, the addicts are scrambling for their phones, to see if someone has messaged, to find out if some other addict has posted some infantile trivia on some god-awful social site. It's brilliant! A handful of men have managed to hijack an entire civilisation. A whole planet! By sucking the creative energy out of billions and billions of humans for their own use, they have made themselves the most powerful and wealthy men in human history." Kevin shook his head in reverence. "Just think... keeping billions humans in a state of perpetual... and voluntary... stupefaction, all with the aid of a small electronic device. I wish I'd thought of it."

Watson was still grappling with the concept when the boffin suddenly looked at him. "Did you try to erase this stupid thing's memory?"

"P... pardon?"

Kevin showed him the phone. "There's a kill command in the buffer, see? Meant to wipe the memory if you try to unlock it."

Busted. Watson's hair prickled with sweat. "I... ah..."

"Must have been after a few more sherbets, eh? Let's just get rid of that, shall we?"

"Look, I hope you don't think anything fishy's going on. It's just that I-"

Kevin upended the phone and plucked out the connection. "Here." he said, "I've reset the password to four zeros. If you manage to forget that, well, there's probably not a lot I can do for you."

Watson held out his hand. "It's done?"

Kevin slapped the phone on his palm. "Yep."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"Geez. That's... that's just amazing." He patted his pockets. "How much do I owe you?"

"Well, the going rate for extra-judicial is fifty grand," Kevin smiled and Watson blanched, "though if you're a friend of Roger and Tanya you can probably afford it." Watson drew a breath and was about to tell him to just lock it again when the little geek smiled. "For you though, one dollar."

"A dollar?"

"Why not? You seem like a nice sort of chap. We just need some sort of transaction to keep it official." He winked. "In case it turns out later this isn't your phone and the lawyers come after me."

Watson went for his wallet and pulled out a five. "Just keep the change." he said, "In case I forget my password again."

"Four zeroes. Don't forget."

"I won't." Watson looked around, suddenly unwilling to go back 'out there'. "Look," he said, "is there anything I can do?"

Kevin tilted his head. "About what?"

"You know. About being so visible."

"Oh, there's lots you can do." Kevin replied off-handedly, "If you're serious."

Watson nodded. "Deadly."

The man reached out and relieved Watson of the mobile. "Alright then, let's get rid of that GPS for starters. Doesn't just tell you where to go, it lets other interested parties know where you've been. Then, of course, by cross-referencing data, the entire network of your associations can be revealed. Do you use social media?"

Watson shook his head. "I'm not that social."

"Good for you. It's a blight, make no mistake... the most antisocial system ever invented. People will sit there in the middle of a crowd- at dinner, on dates, at bloody funerals- mindlessly tapping and swiping, totally absorbed in bogus relationships while the real world is happening around them. It's a pox. A cancer."

"So. The GPS is off?"

"Yes it is."

"So am I invisible now?"

"Unfortunately no. Even with GPS turned off your location can be traced by simple triangulation. You're safe enough here... my workshop's actually one gigantic Faraday Cage. But step out that door-" he waved the phone in Watson's face, "they'll know where you are."

Watson turned the phone over in his hand, like a sample of some hideous virus in a fragile test tube. "Geez. I didn't realise we were so exposed."

"Of course not," Kevin hefted a shoulder, "you're not meant to."

"Is there any way around it?"

"Well, you can leave your phone on airplane mode. You won't be able to make or receive calls, but it's easy enough to turn on and off when you need to."

Watson threw off a quick shudder. He could almost imagine a vast array of prying eyes peering over his shoulder. "I might just do that. Thanks."

"And remember, that nasty little thing is still pinging even when it's turned off. If you must insist on having one, keep it in the fridge."

"Fridge?"

"Sorry," Kevin smiled, "I'm just being flippant. Any metal box will do. Anything that can act as a shield. You use the internet?"

Watson rolled his shoulders. "Now and then. The coverage's not so hot where I spend most of my time."

"Well, there's a few different ways you can cover your tracks. Unless you're just searching for porn, in which case don't bother."

"Just searching for porn? You mean there's other stuff on the internet?"

Kevin smiled broadly. "You know, most of the bovines couldn't answer that question. Or if they did, they'd just say 'gambling'."

"So 'they'," Watson made air commas, "know about all our dirty little secrets?"

"They know stuff even you don't know about you. Unless you've got a supercomputer. And you've analysed every last speck of your metadata."

"No," Watson shook his head. "I haven't done that."

"Not many of us do."

"What about you?"

The supergeek's eyes twinkled mischievously. "I might keep some modelling handy. In case of emergencies."

"Dammit!" Watson breathed, his insides squirming. "So those bastards out there know what makes me tick?"

"To the nanosecond. You use email?"

"Sometimes."

"Make sure to use some sort of encryption, especially if you're dealing with sensitive issues. By sensitive I mean personal. Remember, Damon, The System abhors nonconformists, and there are vast and powerful organisations dedicated to stamping them out. I'm a nonconformist. What about you?"

Watson nervously licked his dry lips. A Fifty-five year old man, sailing the tropics in a forty five foot yacht with a teenage runaway? With a fridge full of French Champagne and a stash of premium weed? Who'd just taken time out from sailing to have rampant sex with an eighteen year old girl and her mother and aunt? "I guess."

"Then you'd better be careful. We're meant to be serving the system, not using it. We're cows, Damon, all of us, livestock being milked of our life energy. And you know what they call a cow who won't give milk?"

There was a short, pregnant silence. "What?"

"Hamburger."

"Right." Watson stared at the device as if it had all the lethal potential of a hand grenade. "So you reckon I should keep it in 'flight' mode?"

"I don't even have one of the rotten things, but if I did that's what I'd do. Better still, turn it on to make a call and turn it off as soon as you're done. Make them work for their global conquest."

Watson dived into the settings and selected 'Flight Mode'. "Anything else?"

"Ever heard of Biometrics?"

Watson shook his head.

"You're constantly being imaged on CCTV. Two, maybe three hundred times a day in your average city. Your face has been reduced to an algorithm. A string of ones and zeros, utterly unique and instantly recognisable. They know where you are, within a few hundred meters or so, everywhere you go."

"Is there anything I can do about that?"

"Slip, slop, slap." Kevin smiled. "Wear a broad-brimmed hat and some of those gawky Sun Smart sunglasses, the great big ones that look more like goggles. And a dab or two of zinc to break up your outline, unless it's the middle of winter, in which case you'll just look like a loony."

Watson looked around the lab, innards churning. "I didn't realise we were so... so..."

"Under the microscope? Well we are, and you can thank a bunch of brilliant scientists for that. Simply by probing the secrets of nature they keep coming up with new technology. Inadvertent spinoffs with no known or intended application. Cue the marketers. It's their job to convince the powers that be- business and government, the military- they absolutely need this new stuff, to do things they never even dreamed of. Face recognition, gait recognition. Self-organising AI that can seek out, identify and monitor persons of interest. Better mouse traps, you name it. Glossy men in expensive suits all peddling the same hard-sell. 'This is stuff you simply must have to make... the world... safer'."

"Solutions in search of a problem?"

"More or less. Though opinions differ on what constitutes a problem. Privacy, for example."

Watson looked at the smiling tech-head feeling distinctly uneasy.

"Oh, well," Kevin patted Watson's shoulder, "mustn't bore you with my conspiracy theories as Tan likes to call them." He gestured at the stairs. "This way."

Watson shook himself out of his reverie. "Look, Kev, I just can't thank you enough. Getting into the phone was one thing, but the rest of your advice..."

"No problem." Kevin waved-off Watson's gratitude. "Think nothing of it."

"Tanya was right." Watson said, "About you."

"Oh, Tanya's a ratbag!" Kevin scoffed good-naturedly. "A loveable ratbag, don't get me wrong, but she and her husband are living the lie."

"The lie?"

"Money and possessions, rampant materialism. They're voracious consumers of the highest order."

"So it's been a while since you last saw them?"

Kevin frowned. "What makes you say that?"

"Maybe you should get together sometime."

"Why so?"

"I don't know. You might find things have changed."

* * *

The iPhone sat in a recess in the centre console, on a bed of gold and silver coins, taunting Watson with its mysteries. In the end the temptation got too much and he pulled over at a suburban sports oval and parked under the shade of a tree. His hands were shaking as he punched in the code and the screen blinked awake. It was like breaking into a locked drawer to read someone's diary, someone's love letters. Cyber-burglary, digital trespass, electronic break and enter. It was spine tingling. Thrilling.

There were hundreds of photos and video clips stored on the phone. Watson skipped them for now, and tapped the message icon. And there it was, waiting for him, the very last conversation between father and son.

The bottom line read; 'W8 for me im comn home'

While the line above said, 'Y dont u answr me?'

Preceded by, 'Oi!! U bisy fuckn?'

Watson scrolled up to the beginning of the conversation, and the whole sordid plot began to unfold.

'Sebby goin out with the nayber tonite. U bisy?'

'Y?'

'Ul hav to look aftr the slut wile were out'

'Wat slut?'

'Old mates slut'

'I had plans dad'

'Tuff. Ur stayn home'

'Not fukn fare ☹'

'Not my folt. Dum cunt insisted'

'Take her wit u'

'2 yung. Anyway play ur cards rite and u mite get ur end in'

'Slutz good lookn?'

'Id fuck her'

'Ud fuck anythng dad!! ☺'

'I wud too. B there rite aftr footy rite!!'

'I want beer then'

'Deal'

Then later...

'The dikhds L8'

The line below read, 'Ware r u seb? Has the pussy cum ova?',

Followed by,

'Oi!! U bisy fuckn?'

Watson motored the car's windows down. The day had turned sultry and the stormy sky was crackling with pent-up energy. Diverting off the SMS trail, Watson hopped over to the photo folder and began swiping through random albums. The usual banal stuff, peppered with selfies, many taken at parties and barbeques. And lots of cars. Car wheels, car engines, car sound-systems, the sort of stuff any teen male would be into. Cars doing burnouts, cars pulled over by police, an officer sitting on the hood of a police car, arms crossed, smiling.

Kevin's words of warning rang in his ears. Searching the vicinity for CCTV, Watson was startled to discover a hanging black orb, on a pole outside a deserted clubroom only meters away. Fighting the urge to cover his face, he cranked the tinted window up, then started the Porsche and idled calmly out of the reserve. After driving around for fifteen minutes he found a largely-deserted lay-by beside a quiet, shady park with no visible CCTV.

Time was getting on. He still had to negotiate the city's afternoon traffic to pick up Beck and Tanya in the centre of town. But there was just time enough for a little digital reconnaissance, so he opened the movies folder and cut to the chase.

Football match, football match, party, barbeque. School ground, football match, burnouts. Party, party, boat, boat, boat, party, football. Burnouts, donuts, barbeque, school ground, football, party.

Opening a random party folder, he found half a dozen clips. The first few were taken during the early hours of the night's festivities, a bunch of teenagers, mostly male, in a shabby suburban house. The camera wended its way through several rooms, lingering now and then on various acquaintances. The average age had to be well under fifteen, but there was alcohol everywhere and a couple of bongs. The camera lurched to a halt, looking down at a couple of girls in their early teens, bookended between a pair of young drunk males. Suddenly aware they were being filmed, one of the boys seized a girl in a headlock and pulled her down for a deep, slobbering kiss. The camera angled downwards to capture the youth's hand clumsily groping the young girl's crotch.

Jumping forward a couple of clips, Watson thumbed 'play' and his heart skipped a beat. The party was hotting up, and the camera was jostling for position in a mess-strewn bedroom. There, on the bed, stark naked and apparently comatose, the same young female was on her back with her legs apart and a young male lying on top, jeans around his knees, frantically fucking her. There was an uproar of cheering and applause as he eventually pulled out and stood, grinning, shyly covering his goods.

Another youth took his place as the camera zeroed in for a better view. Too self-conscious to expose himself, he lay on down on the girl fully clothed. Hastily dismasting his pants, he spent the next thirty seconds trying to install a condom by feel until, egged on by catcalls, he gave up on the condom and commenced having sex. After a two or three minute interlude of frenzied fucking, he stiff-armed himself off the girl and spat in her face. The crowd went wild. As he climbed off, hands over his groin protecting his modesty, the camera swooped in for a closeup- the girl's lightly-furred snatch bubbling come, the unused condom lying on the sheet between her thighs.

The camera changed hands. Seb appeared, flexing his muscles, playing up to the audience. Just as reluctant to reveal his equipment he, like the others, covered himself when he dropped his shorts. Crawling onto her, he aimed by feel and worked the hidden implement into the girl's war-torn pussy. Once he was in, he hooked his arms under her legs and humped them onto his shoulders, then commenced hammering into her. Cumming in the space of a couple of minutes, he looked up beaming at the crowd, then spat in the girl's face as a parting pleasantry.

Watson's heart was racing and sweat trickled out of his hairline. No wonder the kid's old man had come after the thing. Swiping out of the party album, he was just about to shut the thing down when he paused to check out a folder titled, 'Bote'.

The folder contained a multitude of clips, from a few seconds' duration up to ten minutes or more. Picking a clip at random, he hit 'play'.

They were way out to sea, he could tell by the water, beyond sight of land on Fowler's big stink boat. It was a gorgeous tropical morning with the tradewinds on a day off and not a single cloud to be seen in the cobalt sky. The first thing Watson heard was the sound of heavy breathing. The camera swung to one side to take in the image of a beefy, clean-cut, middle-aged male with a stubbled, sweat-glistening scalp. Looking into the camera with broad smile, he raised his bottle of beer in a silent toast.