programmes from this time, family dramas they used
to call ‘soap operas’, with healthy, tanned people always smiling, happy
families, driving nice cars and worrying about nothing more important than high school
proms, or who was dating who or who was going to win a thing called the ‘super
bowl’.
Joseph walked slowly down the avenue,
panning his camera left and right. In the viewfinder an elderly woman was kneeling among
a bed of flowers with gardening gloves and pruning shears. A postman walked cheerfully
by with a nod and a smile for Joseph. Some chestnut-coloured Labrador was frolicking on
a lawn, chasing a frisbee. He could hear the lazy buzz of a lawnmower somewhere.
Suburbia. Beautiful suburbia.
Joseph had only ever known cities. All his
life, cities. Towering labyrinths of noise and chaos that seemed to contract on
themselves, getting tighter and more choked and crowded with each passing year. His
early school years he’d lived with his family in Mexico City, then, later on, as a
student in Chicago. He’d been working in London in the 2040s, during which time
large portions of that city had begun to be abandoned to the all-too-frequent flooding
of the River Thames. Finally, he’d ended up in New York. They’d been
building up those enormous flood barriers around Manhattan then. Hoping to buy the city
another couple of decades of life.
But always … always he’d
dreamed of a place like this, mature trees, lush green lawns, sun-drenched porches and
white picket fences. The perfect place to grow up. The perfect place to spend
one’s childhood.
He passed a driveway with a Ford Zodiac
parked in it, stunning paint job. Pimped with skulls and flames to look like it had
driven bat-out-of-hell style right out of Satan’s own garage. Joseph grinned.
Some young man’s first car, of
course.
Joseph looked around. One of these houses
would be
hers
. He panned his camera left. Then right. The viewfinder settled on
a grand-looking home. Mock colonial with a covered porch that fronted it and wound round
the side. There was even a rocking-chair on there.
Perfect.
Joseph crossed the avenue. The house’s
driveway was empty. Presumably no one home. Just as well. Better that he didn’t
attract the attention of anyone inside.
His digital camera still filming, he walked
up the tarmac drive, sweeping the camera gently in a smooth panning motion, takingin every little detail, finally reaching the bottom of three broad
wooden steps. He took them one at a time. Now standing on the wooden boards of the
porch, freshly whitewashed. He let the camera dwell on the rocking-chair for a moment,
the hanging baskets of purple and pink Sweet Carolines, on several pairs of gardening
boots and gloves, a small ceramic garden gnome holding a chainsaw. Somebody’s idea
of a joke present for Mom or Dad. The camera recorded all those small, important,
personal details.
And finally he panned the camera on to the
door of the house. Mint green with a brass knocker in the middle. Joseph smiled
wistfully. What a wonderful childhood home to have. What wonderful childhood memories to
have.
‘I envy you, Madelaine Carter from
Boston,’ he said softly. ‘To have all of this …’
He had enough to use now, and turned the
camera off.
Chapter 9
12 September 2001, New York
Faith was picking through the scattered
circuit boards on the desk. They were specifically querying the motherboards first.
That’s where the cache memory was, lodged in these ridiculously bulky chips of
dark silicon on tiny hair-thin metal seating pins.
They had both been meticulously teasing
small charges of electricity into the circuits, stirring them to life and diverting the
random nuggets of dormant information to a connected monitor. What they were getting
mostly was useless gibberish: random packets of hexadecimal, every now and then
punctuated with snippets of
to call ‘soap operas’, with healthy, tanned people always smiling, happy
families, driving nice cars and worrying about nothing more important than high school
proms, or who was dating who or who was going to win a thing called the ‘super
bowl’.
Joseph walked slowly down the avenue,
panning his camera left and right. In the viewfinder an elderly woman was kneeling among
a bed of flowers with gardening gloves and pruning shears. A postman walked cheerfully
by with a nod and a smile for Joseph. Some chestnut-coloured Labrador was frolicking on
a lawn, chasing a frisbee. He could hear the lazy buzz of a lawnmower somewhere.
Suburbia. Beautiful suburbia.
Joseph had only ever known cities. All his
life, cities. Towering labyrinths of noise and chaos that seemed to contract on
themselves, getting tighter and more choked and crowded with each passing year. His
early school years he’d lived with his family in Mexico City, then, later on, as a
student in Chicago. He’d been working in London in the 2040s, during which time
large portions of that city had begun to be abandoned to the all-too-frequent flooding
of the River Thames. Finally, he’d ended up in New York. They’d been
building up those enormous flood barriers around Manhattan then. Hoping to buy the city
another couple of decades of life.
But always … always he’d
dreamed of a place like this, mature trees, lush green lawns, sun-drenched porches and
white picket fences. The perfect place to grow up. The perfect place to spend
one’s childhood.
He passed a driveway with a Ford Zodiac
parked in it, stunning paint job. Pimped with skulls and flames to look like it had
driven bat-out-of-hell style right out of Satan’s own garage. Joseph grinned.
Some young man’s first car, of
course.
Joseph looked around. One of these houses
would be
hers
. He panned his camera left. Then right. The viewfinder settled on
a grand-looking home. Mock colonial with a covered porch that fronted it and wound round
the side. There was even a rocking-chair on there.
Perfect.
Joseph crossed the avenue. The house’s
driveway was empty. Presumably no one home. Just as well. Better that he didn’t
attract the attention of anyone inside.
His digital camera still filming, he walked
up the tarmac drive, sweeping the camera gently in a smooth panning motion, takingin every little detail, finally reaching the bottom of three broad
wooden steps. He took them one at a time. Now standing on the wooden boards of the
porch, freshly whitewashed. He let the camera dwell on the rocking-chair for a moment,
the hanging baskets of purple and pink Sweet Carolines, on several pairs of gardening
boots and gloves, a small ceramic garden gnome holding a chainsaw. Somebody’s idea
of a joke present for Mom or Dad. The camera recorded all those small, important,
personal details.
And finally he panned the camera on to the
door of the house. Mint green with a brass knocker in the middle. Joseph smiled
wistfully. What a wonderful childhood home to have. What wonderful childhood memories to
have.
‘I envy you, Madelaine Carter from
Boston,’ he said softly. ‘To have all of this …’
He had enough to use now, and turned the
camera off.
Chapter 9
12 September 2001, New York
Faith was picking through the scattered
circuit boards on the desk. They were specifically querying the motherboards first.
That’s where the cache memory was, lodged in these ridiculously bulky chips of
dark silicon on tiny hair-thin metal seating pins.
They had both been meticulously teasing
small charges of electricity into the circuits, stirring them to life and diverting the
random nuggets of dormant information to a connected monitor. What they were getting
mostly was useless gibberish: random packets of hexadecimal, every now and then
punctuated with snippets of
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