Chapter Nine

🎥 Each video had a unique buyer. Vid-fences were safer—tolerated by the elites and their cronies, like the beggar king. But the big scores required direct contact. That meant risk. Lena scoped the buy and buyer before and after the pitch—especially before the final transaction. Her lack of registry and invisibility made her ideal. The first buyer was one she’d dealt with before: Big Ray. The name was ironic. He was tiny, shrivelled, and confined to a motorised wheelchair—always online via cell signal, tracking drone activity in his area. Lena took the local bus to reach him. Poorly maintained, not GAIN-approved—just tolerated. Old diesel tech. Dirty. Unreliable. Balding tires. No traction in ice or snow. The bus stopped at a battered sign—faded paint, bent edges, drunkenly leaning post. A few people waited. Night-shift workers heading home. Tired. Footsore. Aching. They paid in cash. No contactless wristbands. Lena slid in behind them—unregistered, unnoticed. The bus smelled of mould and urine. A mouse scurried under the back seat. Lena sat three seats behind the driver, eating cherries and pocket scraps. The drive was bumpy. Exhaust leaked into the cabin. Passengers stared out windows. One woman leaned her head on her partner’s shoulder. He pulled her close. Big Ray waited. The buildings change from inner city rundown apartments and warehouses, to more residential areas, to semi-affluent, and then back to less affluent rural where the majority of other passengers exit. Just one more remains—an elderly woman, who sits nearly opposite her. Eventually, they arrive at the terminus, which is a poor farming community, beyond the limits of the city boundary. Mostly women and a few men wait—probably the farmer family members who need to make more money to live beyond the pittance they receive from GAIN corporate farm employment. The other passenger gets off, with Lena close behind—nobody gives her a second or even a first glance. The scene is reminiscent of a Russian village—wooden houses, dirt streets, dogs and poverty. Lena walks through the village until she comes to a barn-like building on the far side, where the fields crowd the village. Machines are working on the crops—drones in the sky and despondent workers mainly keeping an eye on the machines and refilling seed, fertilizer, etc. when needed—all back-breaking, low intellect jobs. She reaches the sliding barn door, set in the middle of a flaking brown planked wall—slides it open on complaining rails, desperate for some lubrication, but like everything else here—they are too old and useless to warrant all but the most basic care. The shiny AI machines in the fields are the only ones that count. Inside, the light radiates down in crepuscular rays, slicing through the dusty air—blurred by the pigeon-pooped windows, set high in the barn structure. Lena lets her eyes adjust to the gloom and she spots Ray deep in the bowels of the barn, seated in his wheelchair. He indicates that she should enter a crude wheelchair accessible lift and they descend to a basement area. It is surprisingly well-appointed—not plush, but clean, smart, furnished for comfort. Across the floor is a bench draped with cables, comps and monitors—all fed from a pigtail hacked into the farm power supply. Ray pays the local farm manager a stipend to remain anonymous—again reminiscent of Russian collective farm systems—bribes are everything in this system—unless caught and then the perpetrator will usually fold and squeal, but Ray has been here for years. The barn is cluttered but alive—old tech stacked like relics, drone parts humming faintly, a wall of screens showing timestamp variance across the fields. Ray’s wheelchair pulses with telemetry. He’s not just watching. He’s cataloging. Ray offers Lena tea—not as hospitality, but as recognition. It’s served in a chipped porcelain cup, steam rising like signal drift. The tea is strong, black, slightly bitter—like memory. He doesn’t ask her name. He already knows it. Lena doesn’t speak at first. She watches Ray sip his tea, eyes flicking between screens and soil. He finally says, “You’re late. Or early. Depends which clock you trust.” She replies, “None of them.” He smiles. “Good answer.” He indicates that Lena should come over and take a seat. He offers her some bagels and cheese. Lena suspects that he may have got them just for her—she leans over and gives him a hug. He indicates that Lena should come over and take a seat. He offers her some bagels and cheese. Lena suspects that he may have got them just for her—she leans over and gives him a hug. Ray: Still living in that crappy, rat infested apartment? I’ve got all this room, and you are welcome here. Just get the bus somewhere, if you need to video an event. Lena feels conflicted, she would like the company, the comfort and most of all, the food—however, she is too independent to accept what she sees as charity. Lena: I cannot get out of the lease. It’s got six months more. Ray: It’s probably a GAIN pigpen. How’re they going to find you here? Think about it. We could work well together on all types of events. I even have a few sidelines you are welcome to join. Lena: I’ll think about it, Ray. It’s much appreciated. I have the motorcross vid and I can review it but could not compress and upload it. It looks like good footage, but the Meta looks odd. Take a look! Ray: Ever thought it could be that old piece of junk you call a phone? Take one of those over there, you are welcome to it. He indicates one of several newer models at the end of the bench as he takes the data card Lena hands to him. Lena: Thanks, but I’ll keep this one. It’s my lucky rabbit’s foot. It still works well and keeps the charge a long time. Ray: Suit yourself. The offer is always open. Let’s look at this bad boy. Hopefully you did not risk yourself too much this time. Some of the riders themselves are not much better than GAIN. Some actually may be GAIN, just seeing what they can get away with, not all are happy with the current situation and there are mumblings of the suppression getting even worse. What do we have here? He puts the card in a reader and the footage appears on the screen, embedded in video editing software—timestamps and frame markers underline the images. “That’s odd! This is showing the date that you took this footage is in the future. The file format is one that will play on the machine, but resists compression, encryption and editing using current software. Let me look at your phone.” He plugs it into a data cable and finds nothing unusual. Next, he pops the case and looks at the circuitry and chipset—nothing. He runs the footage through the full gamut of malware packages to ensure there is nothing suspicious hiding on it. “Lena. The software says there is nothing suspicious on this video, but my gut says there is. I will pay you for your time, but we don’t use it. Let’s just review the footage and then destroy it. Are you okay with that?” Lena: Yes, but what about the other vids for the other buyers? I need to eat. Ray: Determine where your loyalties lie and who are your friends. Something is in the data, hidden in plain sight, it has to do with the timestamp being off, I am sure of it. We review, we burn the card. Get rid of the others as soon as you can. Any trouble, come here and hide—there’s a bed, food and more for you. 🎞 Ray and Lena begin reviewing the motocross footage. It opens with Lena’s arrival and her quiet concealment at the location. The scene is still—no riders, no enforcers, no drones. Within minutes, the riders assemble. Lena focuses on both bikes and riders—faces covered in black masks and helmets. She moves silently to a machine and attaches a motion-activated camera. Camouflaged, she remains unnoticed. The riders surge through wooded terrain—dirt kicking up, engines ratatat-tatting in the early morning air. They lean into curves, feet outstretched, shoulders straining. From her concealed position, Lena sees the arrival of GAIN enforcers—dark, unmarked vehicles, military uniforms with no rank insignia, only GAIN logos stitched to shoulders. No voices. No commands. Just silent routine—corral and capture. The light shifts. A faint drone whine punctures the silence. VOX is present. A glyph pulses on the drone’s undercarriage—etched in shimmer, recursive and familiar. VOX: “Commander, deploy your men to all exits on this junction—riders ETA, 2 minutes.” Commander: “You heard the lady. Place vehicles across all exits and a dog at each. Only shoot live rounds if your life is threatened. We need them alive, for questioning.” Vehicles, men, and dogs are placed. Lena waits and watches. Tank trots by. Lena feels the urge to stroke him but waves him away. He passes with a raised eyebrow and leaves her in peace. Ray: “You and your dog, again. What is it about you two? You know each other.” Lena: “Yes. I don’t know how or where, but there’s a connection between us. It’s as if he tries to keep me safe and stops the others from searching for me. I can’t explain it better than that.” Ray: “Take help wherever you can—if it’s freely given. Never know when it may be needed, I say.” He raises an eyebrow. A shadow falls over the image on the screen. Ray: "What was that? Was there something or someone close to you at that point?" Lena: "Not a person, not an object—a spectre passed over everything. Like cloud over the sun causing a dark shadow to chase over the ground, but this seemed alive, almost sentient. It did not touch me, but it passed over the men, the vehicles, the dogs—not Tank though. When the riders came, it passed over them." Ray: "We may have our answer. There’s a drone overhead and I think VOX is scanning the area. You and Tank are somehow immune. Something about you prevents the scan. I am betting the riders have no tech on them and the machines are stripped of any and the VINs are wiped. She cannot access data that is nondigital or nondigitizable. Legacy if it’s analogue may be safe. You cannot be recognised as you don’t scan and are not in databases—but that may not always be the case." Lena: "This got warm when it was near." She shows Ray the amulet. Ray: "It may just be the metal itself or there is an RFI blocker embedded—I cannot tell. Just always wear it. My chair emits something of the same kind, a dampening field—nothing is reflected, but not too much is absorbed, as to make it an RF well. Let’s review some more." The video resumes on the arrival of the bikers at the crossroads—they barely slowed down enough to avoid any of the dogs and men, in fact, they went out of their ways to boot both. Tasers were deployed but failed to catch on the dark outfits worn by the riders. One incensed goon decided to pull his sidearm and try to fire at the back of a fleeing rider—the commander barked, Tank jumped and the discharge went harmlessly skywards. VOX wanted the troop to be brought in front of the commander. He was made to kneel. A sidearm was drawn, the hammer cocked, trigger pulled and a dry click—one pistol whip later and the goon was lying in the dirt. Commander: "Next one who disobeys, and the punishment will not be so lenient." Ray: "How did you get the camera off the bike you placed it on?" Lena: "At the café where I get the locations for the shoots, mainly by listening while hiding. Some of the bikers eat there, but in different disguises. I know where that individual lives, who he is, and it would surprise you." Ray: "I think the phone is safe and did not pick up any of the surveillance. But your separate camera may be the culprit—it was not shielded. VOX seems to be using a new type of wireless scanning malware package, and little seems to be immune to it." Lena: "Do you have any clue what type of protocol they are using? This must be recent." Ray: "What I have heard on the dark web, is that there was an update a few days ago, which allows GAIN to access and control just about any device and data. This may have been a test, a proof of concept before the full roll-out. Legacy tech may be only way to combat this on any scale until we find the way to actually block the signal. So, my suggestion, other than living in your own room here, is to use your own phone only, as you seem to be shielded. Be very careful with whom you work—I can offer you enough to keep you busy. There is a parkours tournament coming up—some of the entrants are probably going to be non-GAIN affiliated and they won’t want them to win—you could see who cheats and if authorities take a hand in it to aid their boys or girls. Interested?" Lena: "Absolutely, where is it located and what is the payment?" Ray: "The payment is double your last, for this one. It is close to where you live in that dire apartment—they will be filming inside the warehouses on Dill Street, as the players drop from the seventh floor—they have to make their way to Eleventh and Merchant, where the finish line is. You can be at the tight spot where they drop off the wall of the warehouse, land and roll onto the flat roof of the bakery. That may be where there is some interference. Though, there is one proviso—you have to move out of that damn apartment and stay here—your own room, decent food, company—working on tech." Lena felt her usual resistance building up. She was an independent girl. Though she knew this offer was meant well and Ray saw her as his surrogate daughter and she in turn, saw him as a favourite uncle. "I’ll think about it." Was all. She got up to leave, gathering her meagre possessions. Ray: "Don’t think too long, kiddo. It’s in a week’s time. Here’s the cash for the last effort, and let’s burn that SD card—you can use one of mine. It’s formatted for your phone." He handed her several bills, then flicked a lighter and melted the SD card. Ray: "Call me when you have decided or just turn up. You’re always welcome. Take those last bagels, they give me heartburn." Lena hugged him and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you. I will let you know soon. I must try to get the others to the buyers." Lena was conflicted during the bus ride home. She could not remember a warm, dry bed after food and a shower—but she did not like to owe anyone anything. She was a generous soul and knew Ray wanted company. Before long she was back in the squalor to which she had become accustomed. The stench of overcooked cabbage was ever-present.

Auren held Jan’s hand as they drove toward the beach, the sun melting slowly into the horizon—a fiery eight on the ocean. “Do me a favour, love,” she said. “Enjoy yourself. Just this once.” “I’ll do my best,” Jan replied, “and enable my sociability algorithms.” “There’s the human I’ve grown to love. Remember—you’re with people who, for some reason, love you very much and still want to be with you. That’s a positive thing, isn’t it?” Jan pulled up by the breakwater and walked around to open the door for Auren. The wind carried salt and laughter. The bonfire curled against the breeze like it was negotiating with the sea—flame and salt in quiet conversation. Ron ambled over, carrying three beers. “Chivalry is alive and well, I see,” he said, then looked Auren up and down. “Wow! I mean—hi!” Sarah, blonde, pregnant, and radiant, wandered over and held out her hand to Auren. “I’m sorry about my prepubescent husband. You must be Auren. The idiot with all the beers is my Ron. Maybe if he’d specialised in breast augmentations, he’d have gotten over it. Welcome to you both.” She gave Jan a soft kiss on the cheek and whispered, “She’s gorgeous. And she loves you. A woman can tell—especially one full of hormones and babies.” “Let’s go over to the fire and introduce you to everyone,” Ron suggested. “Hand out the beers first, Ron,” Sarah said, “in case you trip over your tongue on the way.” Ron handed one to Jan, one to Auren, and absently held one out to Sarah. She put her hands on her hips and pointed to her stomach. “Really? Those diplomas on your wall—did they come with popcorn and a decoder ring?” She slipped her arms through Jan’s and Auren’s and, with easy grace and familiarity, led them toward the others. The sand was warm from the day, cooling now in patches like memory fading. The food was improvised and sacred: half-burnt sausages, waxy potato salad, the scent of cinnamon from someone’s experimental cider. The fireworks weren’t grand but close—small bursts that crackled like the sky was trying to remember how to speak, not impress. The ocean lapped in Möbius rhythm, folding and unfolding like a breath held between friends. The dance was not performance but pulse—barefoot in damp sand, laughter trailing into softness, no choreography, just gravity and grace. And the sky—stitched with planetary logic—held its silence like a promise. Someone pointed upward and named a star wrong. No one corrected them. Auren smiled, and Jan didn’t let go of her hand. Food was taken from large coolers on the back of a Toyota Tundra, its sound system thumping like a heartbeat. Sarah helped with the distribution, laughing as she passed out paper plates and plastic forks like party favours. As Auren leaned over to choose her food, her amulet swung free of her cleavage—catching the firelight like a flicker of memory in metal. “That’s very beautiful and unusual,” Sarah said. “Is it Mayan? The symbols look arcane. And it seems to have an inner light. I wouldn’t mind getting one like that.” “There are only two like it in the world,” Auren replied. “And the maker never made any more.” “That’s a shame. Who has the other one?” “A close relative. They wouldn’t part with it, even if their life depended on it.” Later, after a blizzard of introductions—lawyers, accountants, doctors, dentists, engineers of various flavours—they found themselves near the wavelets, running gleefully up the beach. Toes immersed in cool water, plates in hand, they stood with arms around each other’s waists, watching distant, possibly long-dead stars in the silent black. Most of the men hadn’t been able to take their eyes off Auren. Jan, unfazed and unjealous, leaned in and asked out of the corner of his mouth, “Can you turn it down?” “Not really,” she said. “It’s how I was made.” “You mean sugar and spice and all things nice, because you’re a girl?” “Don’t be sexist. Snips and snails and puppy dogs’ tails? No. I was made from love. It shines through. So they see.” The song playing on the truck’s sound system ended. Auren did an exaggerated Samantha nose twitch. Stevie Wonder began to sing: I Was Made to Love Her. She placed her plate gently on the sand and held out her hand. “Care to dance?” Jan took it. Not to guide her. But to keep her. They danced slowly, the sand cool beneath their feet, the firelight casting long shadows that flickered like memory. Auren’s amulet pulsed with the rhythm of the music, catching the starlight and reflecting it in soft arcs across Jan’s face. Sarah watched from a distance, her hand resting on her belly, smiling as if she knew something sacred had just been exchanged. Ron stood beside her, unusually quiet, his arm around her shoulder. The others faded into the background, their laughter and chatter becoming a soft hum. The ocean whispered its approval, folding waves like pages in a book only they could read. Jan leaned in, his voice barely audible. “I think I understand now.” Auren tilted her head. “Understand what?” “What it means to be made from love.” She smiled, and they continued to sway, the music wrapping around them like a vow. The fire crackled, the stars blinked, and the night held them gently—two pulses, blended and recursive.