his TV.
His room was quite small, but it had everythinghe needed. In fact it had everything he had everwanted: TV, HD-DVD player, and imported luxuries likea Bose sounddock. Even the shower responded tovoice commands.
But he knew there was a price for living in suchluxury. Looking around the room, with its smart blackand red design, there was one obvious reminder of hissituation: the lack of windows. The British SecretService had taken over his life so much that these dayshe lived underground, in one of the few residentialapartments at the NJ7 network.
Miss Bennett’s email had no message in it, but avideo popped up instead. Mitchell settled back to watch.
The image was jerky, as if it had been filmed on ahand-held device, like a mobile phone, and at first it wastoo dark to see anything. Mitchell turned up thecontrast on his screen.
The video appeared to have been filmed in asnooker hall. There was the noise of balls being hitand in the corner Mitchell made out a sliver of greenbaize. But everything was obscured by the shouldersof people around the camera. The place was packed.Then Mitchell finally realised what the focus of thefilming was.
At the front of the crowd was a tall figure addressingthe others. His manner was relaxed, but powerful.Mitchell turned up the volume. He could just makeout snippets of the man’s speech above the crackingof the snooker balls and the murmurs of the crowd.
“The British Government has become a dictatorship,”the man declared. “They invented this system ofNeo-democracy to give them power to do whateverthey wanted.”
The murmurs from the crowd grew louder, but it wasclear they were all starting to listen to the man. Therest of the background noise fell away.
“Some of you might like the fact that you don’t needto vote any more,” the man went on. “But now theGovernment commits horrendous acts without ushaving any say in the matter.”
Mitchell peered closer. There was something aboutthis man that he recognised, but the image was toodark and grainy to be sure.
“You won’t find it in any British media,” the speechcontinued, “because it’s controlled by Ian Coates and hisSecret Service donkeys. But in France this is publicknowledge: a British destroyer has attacked a Frenchfacility in Western Sahara.”
The packed hall was completely rapt. Everybody waslistening to him now, mesmerised by his charisma. Aftera minute Mitchell was hardly taking in the speech; hewas examining the picture and analysing the voice.
“Are you going to let them start an unjustified, illegalwar?” the man asked, with passion shaking his words.There was a roar from the crowd.
“Are you going to let them act in your name, withoutserving your interests?”
Another roar, louder this time.
“Or are you going to join me in tearing down…”
The end of his sentence was lost in the cheering of thecrowd. The man raised his arms and strode to the frontof his platform, soaking up the applause and encouragingmore. Mitchell only realised now that the man hadactually been standing on one of the snooker tables tomake his speech. The overhead light reflected off thegreen felt and caught the man’s face from below. Mitchellbroke into a smile. Of course he knew who this was.
Christopher Viggo: the man who represented theonly realistic opposition to the Government. The manNJ7 had already tried to kill. But they’d sent JimmyCoates to do it. That’s what had started all of thetrouble – Jimmy had overcome his instinct to kill Viggoand instead joined the man’s cause. Mitchell had heardall about that. He remembered how careful MissBennett had been to make sure he hadn’t challengedhis own programming in the same way.
And now Jimmy Coates was dead. Mitchell’s headspun as he thought about it. It was nothing new, but itstill felt strange. If Jimmy hadn’t joined Viggo, wouldhe and Mitchell have fought side by side for NJ7,instead of attacking each other? Could they even havebeen friends? After
His room was quite small, but it had everythinghe needed. In fact it had everything he had everwanted: TV, HD-DVD player, and imported luxuries likea Bose sounddock. Even the shower responded tovoice commands.
But he knew there was a price for living in suchluxury. Looking around the room, with its smart blackand red design, there was one obvious reminder of hissituation: the lack of windows. The British SecretService had taken over his life so much that these dayshe lived underground, in one of the few residentialapartments at the NJ7 network.
Miss Bennett’s email had no message in it, but avideo popped up instead. Mitchell settled back to watch.
The image was jerky, as if it had been filmed on ahand-held device, like a mobile phone, and at first it wastoo dark to see anything. Mitchell turned up thecontrast on his screen.
The video appeared to have been filmed in asnooker hall. There was the noise of balls being hitand in the corner Mitchell made out a sliver of greenbaize. But everything was obscured by the shouldersof people around the camera. The place was packed.Then Mitchell finally realised what the focus of thefilming was.
At the front of the crowd was a tall figure addressingthe others. His manner was relaxed, but powerful.Mitchell turned up the volume. He could just makeout snippets of the man’s speech above the crackingof the snooker balls and the murmurs of the crowd.
“The British Government has become a dictatorship,”the man declared. “They invented this system ofNeo-democracy to give them power to do whateverthey wanted.”
The murmurs from the crowd grew louder, but it wasclear they were all starting to listen to the man. Therest of the background noise fell away.
“Some of you might like the fact that you don’t needto vote any more,” the man went on. “But now theGovernment commits horrendous acts without ushaving any say in the matter.”
Mitchell peered closer. There was something aboutthis man that he recognised, but the image was toodark and grainy to be sure.
“You won’t find it in any British media,” the speechcontinued, “because it’s controlled by Ian Coates and hisSecret Service donkeys. But in France this is publicknowledge: a British destroyer has attacked a Frenchfacility in Western Sahara.”
The packed hall was completely rapt. Everybody waslistening to him now, mesmerised by his charisma. Aftera minute Mitchell was hardly taking in the speech; hewas examining the picture and analysing the voice.
“Are you going to let them start an unjustified, illegalwar?” the man asked, with passion shaking his words.There was a roar from the crowd.
“Are you going to let them act in your name, withoutserving your interests?”
Another roar, louder this time.
“Or are you going to join me in tearing down…”
The end of his sentence was lost in the cheering of thecrowd. The man raised his arms and strode to the frontof his platform, soaking up the applause and encouragingmore. Mitchell only realised now that the man hadactually been standing on one of the snooker tables tomake his speech. The overhead light reflected off thegreen felt and caught the man’s face from below. Mitchellbroke into a smile. Of course he knew who this was.
Christopher Viggo: the man who represented theonly realistic opposition to the Government. The manNJ7 had already tried to kill. But they’d sent JimmyCoates to do it. That’s what had started all of thetrouble – Jimmy had overcome his instinct to kill Viggoand instead joined the man’s cause. Mitchell had heardall about that. He remembered how careful MissBennett had been to make sure he hadn’t challengedhis own programming in the same way.
And now Jimmy Coates was dead. Mitchell’s headspun as he thought about it. It was nothing new, but itstill felt strange. If Jimmy hadn’t joined Viggo, wouldhe and Mitchell have fought side by side for NJ7,instead of attacking each other? Could they even havebeen friends? After
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