given to them by the ControlWerks people, fully cooperating as the few staff that knew the news of their co-founder’s death struggled to keep the news under wraps. She unlocked the door and stepped through the doorway. Spads’ phone went off as the femme fatale he was accompanying was busy punching the deactivation code into the wall’s alarm panel.
‘Cuthbert,’ trilled his mother. ‘Cuthbert, I’ve been calling you all day. Your phone’s always dead.’
‘It’s not dead, we just have really poor reception at work.’
‘And you can’t get them to give you a landline on your desk? After all you’ve put me through. Not even able to visit my old congregation in case I’m recognized.’
‘No personal calls. You know how it is, we’re monitored. There’s a single switchboard and everything comes in and out through it. Just like the old days, when you were a secretary.’
‘Of course they monitor you, after all you’ve put me through.’
‘That’s not a problem. Taken care of. I’m not a hacktivist now. I’m co-operating .’
‘Not with me, you’re not. Calling constantly and all you can do is worry me with your dead phone.’ Sometimes Spads wished the cover story of his mother’s relocation to Australia, grieving over her recently deceased son, had slightly more of an element of truth to it. To Spads, the new identity she had been given seemed all too similar to her old one. She was still his mother. She still seemed to believe managing her son’s life was a fulltime job. An extradition waiting to happen. Didn’t she get it? He was running with the Fedz now. Hacking for the man. With Helen by his side, he even had Dana Scully to play partner to his Fox Mulder. Angelina to his Brad.
‘I’m going to check your cookies, Cuthbert. I know how to do that on your computer. I’m going to make sure you’re not looking at anything you shouldn’t be. Your own mother, checking your cookies.’
Thorson coughed in a bored, are-you-finished-yet type of way.
Spads covered his phone’s microphone. ‘Just my flatmate playing up, Helen. That’s all.’
Thorson indicated the hallway into the flat and tapped her watch impatiently.
‘It’s no wonder your father left us, ran away,’ hissed the voice from the throne. ‘With you for a son.’
He wasn’t my true father. ‘I’ll try and come back on time tonight,’ said Spads. He hung up and switched his phone to vibrate. It had always been difficult for his mother. She could see the way her son glowed, the old girl warmed herself against his illumination even as she lacked the most basic intellectual tools to understand his manifest destiny. She had spent her life in service of him, sharing his trials, and their sacrifices together had made her bitter. Spads had a theory, and even his own mother couldn’t understand it. He hadn’t told the theory to her, of course. Nor anyone else. They wouldn’t understand either. How could ordinary people begin to comprehend that the universe was a computer, and each new generation of humanity was merely an additional processing cycle carrying the software towards its ultimate aim… to decrypt god? This was Spads own private religion – one he was pope, prophet and sole worshipper for. The only thing surprising about it was that nobody else had seen it, appropriated it before him, Moore’s law written in flesh and progress. From cave paintings evolving into Photoshop. From saddles evolving into Saturn Ten rockers. The software multiplying and being fruitful. Spads’ religion wasn’t to be shared, he had realized that very early on in his life. Once, when he was having his head flushed down the toilet in a Croydon comprehensive, he had briefly thought about sharing his faith with his brutish tormenters. But that wouldn’t have been enough to stop the other boys ostracizing him – it might even have made matters worse. The light that shone from Spads, the gulf between himself and the normal pupils was
‘Cuthbert,’ trilled his mother. ‘Cuthbert, I’ve been calling you all day. Your phone’s always dead.’
‘It’s not dead, we just have really poor reception at work.’
‘And you can’t get them to give you a landline on your desk? After all you’ve put me through. Not even able to visit my old congregation in case I’m recognized.’
‘No personal calls. You know how it is, we’re monitored. There’s a single switchboard and everything comes in and out through it. Just like the old days, when you were a secretary.’
‘Of course they monitor you, after all you’ve put me through.’
‘That’s not a problem. Taken care of. I’m not a hacktivist now. I’m co-operating .’
‘Not with me, you’re not. Calling constantly and all you can do is worry me with your dead phone.’ Sometimes Spads wished the cover story of his mother’s relocation to Australia, grieving over her recently deceased son, had slightly more of an element of truth to it. To Spads, the new identity she had been given seemed all too similar to her old one. She was still his mother. She still seemed to believe managing her son’s life was a fulltime job. An extradition waiting to happen. Didn’t she get it? He was running with the Fedz now. Hacking for the man. With Helen by his side, he even had Dana Scully to play partner to his Fox Mulder. Angelina to his Brad.
‘I’m going to check your cookies, Cuthbert. I know how to do that on your computer. I’m going to make sure you’re not looking at anything you shouldn’t be. Your own mother, checking your cookies.’
Thorson coughed in a bored, are-you-finished-yet type of way.
Spads covered his phone’s microphone. ‘Just my flatmate playing up, Helen. That’s all.’
Thorson indicated the hallway into the flat and tapped her watch impatiently.
‘It’s no wonder your father left us, ran away,’ hissed the voice from the throne. ‘With you for a son.’
He wasn’t my true father. ‘I’ll try and come back on time tonight,’ said Spads. He hung up and switched his phone to vibrate. It had always been difficult for his mother. She could see the way her son glowed, the old girl warmed herself against his illumination even as she lacked the most basic intellectual tools to understand his manifest destiny. She had spent her life in service of him, sharing his trials, and their sacrifices together had made her bitter. Spads had a theory, and even his own mother couldn’t understand it. He hadn’t told the theory to her, of course. Nor anyone else. They wouldn’t understand either. How could ordinary people begin to comprehend that the universe was a computer, and each new generation of humanity was merely an additional processing cycle carrying the software towards its ultimate aim… to decrypt god? This was Spads own private religion – one he was pope, prophet and sole worshipper for. The only thing surprising about it was that nobody else had seen it, appropriated it before him, Moore’s law written in flesh and progress. From cave paintings evolving into Photoshop. From saddles evolving into Saturn Ten rockers. The software multiplying and being fruitful. Spads’ religion wasn’t to be shared, he had realized that very early on in his life. Once, when he was having his head flushed down the toilet in a Croydon comprehensive, he had briefly thought about sharing his faith with his brutish tormenters. But that wouldn’t have been enough to stop the other boys ostracizing him – it might even have made matters worse. The light that shone from Spads, the gulf between himself and the normal pupils was
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