“
We can’t risk exposure by you being careless and leading them straight to us. We’ve spent more than two years keeping ourselves concealed from the authorities. Besides, you now want our help. It’s in your interests to cooperate,” Brown had told him in no uncertain terms.
In the end Michael had grown weary of arguing with the men who, despite their conspiratorial paranoia, might be the only people who could help him.
Michael had followed the complicated instructions and walked to Hersham railway station, the nearest to his house. From there he’d taken a fast train to London Waterloo. Brown had told him to get off the train at the first available moment and run to one of the underground entrances on the platform. Instead of getting on the tube Michael was to come back out of the underground into Waterloo’s main concourse. The bustle of the concourse would give him sufficient cover if his assailants were still close by. He was then to catch a fast train to Wimbledon where he would change to the District Line and take the tube to Richmond. At Richmond he would finally pick up the train to Ash Vale.
The whole journey had lasted almost three hours and Michael was certain nobody had successfully followed him. When he’d boarded the train at Hersham there were only two other passengers who joined the train with him and traveling all the way to Waterloo. And unless the woman with the pushchair was working for
them,
his presence here had been unobserved.
Michael frowned as another chill wind battered him. He was beginning to think like Brown with thoughts of
‘them’
and
‘us’
. He just hoped his trust in Brown, if it could be called that, wasn’t misplaced.
As he shivered again a man emerged from a boarded-up shop doorway across the road. It was Brown, looking as furtive as ever, casting numerous anxious glances around him.
“
Did you follow my instructions?” he asked nervously, peering up the urine-smelling steps that led to the station platform.
“
To the word,” Michael replied tiredly.
Brown, the stubble on his chin longer than the last time they met, didn’t reply. Instead, he scratched his chin in nervous acknowledgement, his head bobbing up and down in time.
“
Is that it?” he asked, his gaze dropping to the black canvas bag Michael was clutching.
Nodding, Michael reached for the zip.
“
Not here,” Brown hissed. “Later.”
Fifteen minutes later Michael had been driven to what Brown had told him was the outskirts of Aldershot. The car trundled into what could best be described as a derelict mobile home park.
Michael watched as they slipped by an old stone warehouse that had once housed God knows what. Now, the doors hung limply from their rusted hinges, glass from the shattered panes decorating the surrounding park.
Beyond the warehouse were about 20 dilapidated mobile homes, each in a differing state of disrepair and decay. Michael’s face quickly formed a contorted frown. The smell of the place matched its derelict appearance. An odour of damp rotting wood and stale toilets hung heavily in the air.
“
You’ve got to be joking,” he said, closing the car door.
Yet, humour was the last thing he was feeling.
“
It’s this way,” Brown mumbled, striding purposefully across the mass of broken masonry and rotting weeds covering the area.
Heading towards a deserted-looking caravan away to the left Michael dutifully followed. It was too late to back out now.
The caravan itself was about 30 feet in length. The cracked, grimy windowpanes had all been blackened from the inside. Brown knocked firmly four times on the caravan’s stained door.
“
One knock for each of us,” he muttered, as Michael heard movement from inside.
Finally the door opened, revealing another anxious disheveled-looking man. He was probably in his late-30s Michael thought, quickly taking in his appearance. The weeks of stubble, the black bags under his eyes, and the unnaturally grey hair swept back revealing a high temple, made the man look nearer to 50. Maybe more. And just like Brown, he had the same paranoid haunted look to his every expression, his every movement.
“
Everything go alright?” the man asked, betraying a strong Welsh accent.
Brown nodded.
“
Yeah, fine. Let’s get inside, it’s fucking brass monkeys out here.”
The door to the caravan shut and was rapidly bolted and padlocked. Michael was immediately struck by the utter contrast of the inside and outside of the caravan. The blackened windows completely blocked the array of lights fastened along the entire ceiling.
The full length of the caravan opposite the door was piled high with items of computer hardware that Michael could only guess at what they were for. There were ten to twenty monitors amongst the equipment, each projecting a different image. Further up the caravan the familiar UKCitizensNet logo appeared, flashed, disappeared and re-appeared on one of the screens. Two other monitors were scrolling endless pages of unintelligible code.
Whether it was chattering printers or the hypnotic bleating of UKCitizensNet’s army of PR professionals, the hum was unerring.
Further down the caravan, sitting at a roughly constructed desk, Michael could see Brown’s remaining colleagues pointing at another monitor, intermittently typing commands into a keyboard.
As Brown approached they looked up from their heated discussion.
“
You made it then?” the first man said, his eyes rapidly scanning Michael’s frame.
An awkward silence hung in the air as the four of them looked at Michael, unsure as to their next move, their next words.
“
Look, how about some introductions?” Michael said finally, looking at the man who had spoken.
Nodding they gave their names one by one.
“
Stephen Smith.”
“
Morgan Jones.”
“
Richard Green.”
“
John Brown.”
A look of vague amusement spread across Michael’s face.
“
You’re having a laugh, right? Smith? Jones? Brown? Those can’t really be your names.”
“
It’s safer for everyone if you don’t know our real names. The blander and unremarkable they are the safer we’ll remain. Just call us by these,” said the first man who had spoken. He was Smith.
A frown spread across Michael’s face as thoughts of his dark purpose with these men again resurfaced. Jones, who had unlocked the door to the caravan upon their arrival, guessed what Michael was thinking.
“
The one thing you must understand Michael, can I call you Michael, is that we’re on your side. We all have something in common. The advent of UKCitizensNet, and the destruction of the old internet as we know it, has destroyed all our lives. We need each other. Our strength is in togetherness.”
Michael smiled weakly. How could five men oppose a government-backed project, if that was what it was?
“
You said you wanted to show us something?” Jones continued, his gaze dropping to the black canvas bag Michael was holding.
Michael unzipped the bag and removed the contents.
“
For whatever reason, my wife kept some files and disks hidden in a Post Office box. Why they weren’t kept at SW Technologies or at home, I don’t know. I’ve been thinking long and hard as to her motives for the security of these files. Perhaps she recognised the significance of her work and this was some sort of insurance? I just don’t know. What I am sure of, though, is that they must be important. Although I didn’t believe what Brown told me in Kingston at the time, I did hide the files for safekeeping. It’s lucky for you that I did.”
Brown shuffled on the spot, forcing an awkward grin.
“
Let’s hope it’s lucky for us all,” Jones said as Michael handed over the neat box file.
“
I’ve had a quick look at the files. They don’t mean much to me.”
A look of childish excitement spread across the men’s faces as Jones clicked the box open. Green, who had until now remained silent, turned to Michael.
“
There’s a kettle and some biscuits down there. But not the chocolate digestives, they’re mine. Make yourself comfortable. This could take a while.”
Michael nodded as Green turned back to the box file. He was probably in his mid-40s, although the neatly combed side-parting and thick set glasses which he was constantly setting and resetting on his nose made him look much older. Like the others, he carried the same wide-eyed fearful expression of someone who’d foreseen his own demise.
Green looked as if he ought to be a computer science or physics lecturer Michael thought as he brought a mug of coffee to his lips a few minutes later, watching the four men intently. Maybe he had been. But then who knew what any of them had been before their lives had changed irrevocably and they’d ended up in this desolate mobile home park.
His life had been changed beyond all recognition as well. Sitting in a derelict mobile home park in the middle of nowhere was proof enough of that.
Watching the montage of computer monitors processing endless amounts of data he tried listening to the conversation of the four strange men. Every so often a heated argument would erupt as language flew before excited exclamations. Another discovery would bring everything back to order.
As four hours of hot coffee and listening to strained conversations slowly ticked by Michael’s eyes began to feel heavy as boredom set in. But before he could close his eyes he heard the noisy footsteps of the men approaching where he lay on the torn sofa wedged under one of the blackened windowpanes.
Despite all the theories Brown had revealed to him in Kingston, it seemed that Jones was the leader of the four men. He sat in a swivel chair opposite Michael as the remaining men leaned against the stacked hardware. From what Brown had already told him, Michael surmised this was probably a proportion of the servers, hubs and routers they used to keep the old internet alive, in one form or another. Although, exactly what servers, hubs and routers actually were wasn’t entirely clear to him.
Jones ran his fingers through his hair thoughtfully. His eyes were wide, his pupils dilated, as he shuffled in his seat. His expression a curious mix of excitement at what they had just found, and utter fear at what it meant.
“
Is it important?” Michael asked, although clearly aware that it was.
Jones laughed without smiling.
“
Oh yes, it’s important. And it’s terrifying. No wonder they want it so badly and are prepared to kill for it.”
Jones paused, aware that much of the technical detail in the files would be beyond Michael’s grasp.
“
Your wife’s company, SW Technologies, and ACE Solutions were in the process of independently developing the most advanced Java app any of us have ever seen. Although, they were also clearly considering some form of collaboration in this area.”
Confusion quickly spread across Michael’s face.
“
OK, let me explain,” Jones continued, undeterred. “Simply put, a Java app is a small application, a piece of code, that can be buried or used within a wider system, web page, computer platform, and which could run a computer program of some sort on a UKCitizensNet page. For example, a Java app will be used to run a clock within a UKCitizensNet page.”
Michael nodded, appreciating the explanation.
“
The aim of this next generation app, which was to be developed on the 5
th
generation semantic web platform, which I’m sure you must have heard of, was to act as a help tool with some added perks. And not just for you and I, but for the sick, the disabled, the elderly, children, single mothers. You name it. Basically, anything where some type of help can be offered or needed. Somebody who is elderly might program the app, through a simple interface, to turn all the house lights on at a certain time so they wouldn’t have to grope around in the dark and risk injuring themselves. Or perhaps a mother might program the app to activate intercoms around the house at set times when she knows her baby will be in its cot. Or to operate the microwave at a certain time to warm the baby’s milk. Perhaps someone living on their own, and who feels vulnerable, wants to have the burglar alarm automatically set the same time each night. This way they don’t have to remember to do it or need the technical prowess to know how to set it. The manual goes out the window. Never again would you have to learn how to set the timer for your hot water or other household appliance. The app does it for you.”
Jones stopped as Michael’s crinkled his forehead thoughtfully.
“
Hang on, hang on. This app is a file from UKCitizensNet that is accessed through eCitTV? How the hell does it start controlling your water and your lights and electricity?”
Jones exhaled loudly, rocking gently on the rusted swivel chair.
“
As I’m sure you remember, not long after the current government took power McCoy and his cronies banned access to the internet. Directly after that all of the utilities were also re-nationalised. Believe me, this was no coincidence. Privatisation was wiped out in an instant. And because of this the government now operates and controls the entire telecoms infrastructure, the gas pipelines, the electricity network and the water system. They control it all. The vision of UKCitizensNet that your wife’s company, ACE Solutions, and most importantly SemComNet, envisaged was a complete and integrated national network. Not just an information network, but a network incorporating and controlling all the utilities as well. All being delivered via the existing infrastructures. All control was to be centralised. And by now it probably is. You see, everything these days is networked in one way or another. Every computerised item in the home, in the workplace, carries an IP address. The same infrastructure that brings your electricity and telephone connection can link into UKCitizensNet. That’s what the 5
th
generation semantic web platform has given us, a common integrated means to link every networked application. Everything can be derived and controlled from one source - UKCitizensNet.”