Upgunned by David J. Schow Page B

footnote, which could be done using an access code and a phone, as long as the message was fewer than 140 characters. I sheltered it using a “dead pixel” protocol so that it would not appear unless those specific photos were uploaded. This was possible because every single piece of Clavius paper has its own registry number; you just entered the appropriate numbers.
    SHARPS SEX PHOTOS A COMPLETE FRAUD
    BY BLACKMAILERS RED FLAG REPS
    FOR DETAILS AND EVIDENCE
    If the machinations stayed underground, no worries. But if they came anywhere near the Internet … fireworks. And my ass was covered. Without the photos, the video would mean nothing to the average Web surfer.
    This kind of control was made possible by the world-girding monoliths that really control the airflow of digital information, like a slipknot around your throat and mine. It is an ongoing global contraction of ultimate domain. The more devices you have connected to satellites, the more freedom you’ve already lost, not to mention privacy. Sign up, log in, don’t forget your password, and they’ve got you by the guts. And most people don’t mind at all. Why should a budget be wasted on intelligence when the subjects willingly spy on themselves? Convenience is king, and if you’re not willing to live a full-disclosure life 24/7, then you must be hiding something.
    I don’t wish to sound like a tinfoil-hat-wearing conspiracy theorist. But Clavius told me that the surge in liquid crystal and plasma monitors was encouraged by our hidden overseers because each new screen had the built-in capacity to passively watch and listen back at the will of some faraway keyboard jock. It was exactly like the TV that watches you from Orwell’s 1984 , but generations more subtle because it did not matter if the unit was on or off; now reconsider that S TANDBY light that always glows. I don’t know how true the story is, but ask yourself if you think it is really that far-fetched.
    If you don’t believe, you might change your mind if you had met Gun Guy and his pal Mister Kimber. They were supposed to be untouchable but I had managed a limp form of fight-back. A hidden dead-switch bomb.
    Nobody was more shocked than me when it blew up.
    *   *   *
    Tripp Bergin called the next day to pester me about the movie gig. I told him I was in a transitional phase and would get back to him.
    Joey, my assistant and facilitator, had been MIA all morning, probably snoring off an Ecstasy binge and subsequent water bloat, after having left my loft for a club that did not open until midnight.
    Nasja called twice. I erased her messages without listening to them. I already knew she would be hectoring me to see photos too soon. Or worse.
    Clavius showed up around sunset. Himself, in person.
    Which was not usual. This was no rare in-the-flesh visit to cement our bond, or a publicity op, because no media were lurking. He either had a grand new scheme to hatch that mandated my labor … or something was seriously wrong.
    His limpid eyes scanned the loft with approval. He’d gotten none less than DeMarco—yes, the DeMarco—to redesign the living space with a bias toward photography—a lot of glass, flat angles, minimalist work zones and polished wood, yet practical for the sprawl a large shoot can prompt.
    â€œYou’ve done well for yourself,” he said. He should know: he picked out most of this stuff himself, or his creatures had. I had become a spinoff of him.
    â€œI’ve also done well for yourself,” I said, uncertain of his tone. Was he angry at me for Char? For Nasja? For an unspecified sin, as the parent who smacks the kid upside the noggin and when the kid yowls, “What’d I do?” the parent says, “You should know.”
    Clavius seemed calm and ready to be distracted. I already knew this was his war face.
    â€œChar,” he said simply. No adjectives, no qualifiers. It was