by Ben Elton
'You may know that I am a systems programmer for DegSep, a division of the National Data Bank,' Trafford began.
'For which my sympathy,' said Newbury. 'What a drag.'
'DegSep stands for Degrees of Separation,' Trafford continued, ignoring the interruption. 'Our job is to route the connections between people, to record everything which is common between them in every possible way and from every possible angle. The program is massive beyond imagination, the proverbial grains of wheat doubling on every square of the chessboard, except that our chessboard is the size of a soccer pitch. We take each single characterizing item, from hair colour and choice of breakfast cereal to the number of times a person rides on a bus or a tube train, and then cross-reference each one against all other information stored.'
'And that's what our taxes pay for,' Connor Newbury interjected, unable to resist playing the role he performed each night on TV. 'Go figure, people.'
'My suggestion to Cassius,' Trafford went on, 'is that we Humanists pinpoint a series of characteristics which we share and which, when fed into the DegSep computer, will start to lead us towards similar types of people. Once we've found them we can reach out to them.'
'By which you mean?' Professor Taylor enquired.
'We create a secure viral email which will first intrigue our targets, then begin to educate them and eventually organize them.'
'Biggish job, mate,' Billy Macallan observed.
'The Temple is a biggish enemy,' Trafford replied.
'Good point! Well said,' Newbury agreed. 'OK. Let's start with these personal coordinates. As it happens I think I'm unique . . . Completely different to you, Trafford, obviously, but also to everybody in this room. What do you think I might have in common with the rest of you?'
'Well,' Trafford replied, 'as Cassius here may have told you, I think the key is secrets. My view is that anyone who has identified in themselves a desire for privacy is likely to prove a fertile prospect for conversion to Humanism.'
'That sounds reasonable,' Professor Taylor interjected.
'I don't think so,' Newbury replied. 'We're not all introverted little mice like you, Blossom! I'm a public figure and I love it. I'm a natural extrovert and showing off is how I get through my day.'
'But I notice that you have no plasmas in this room,' said Trafford.
'Well, yes, that's true,' Newbury replied. 'But I'm a celebrity, it's harder for us. Everybody looks at me all the time. I've got to turn off sometimes, haven't I?'
'With respect,' Trafford argued, 'I think a lot of people feel that way. Everybody looks at everybody all the time and you don't need to be a celebrity to feel the need for privacy. I myself was recently in big trouble with my Confessor for being slow to post a birthing video. I'm not talking about being either an extrovert or an introvert: I'm talking about people who don't believe privacy is a perversion, people who think it might even be a virtue.'
'All right then,' Newbury said, 'if we accept that idea, how do you propose to find these people?'
'I would imagine that our guest was coming to that, Connor,' Cassius interjected somewhat irritably.
'It seems to me,' Trafford hurried on, 'that one of the things we should be looking for is people who don't stream their lives 24/7. I need to write a search program that looks for people who try to establish gaps in their lives, periods when they are not being watched. Then, taking the flip side of that coin, our program should also be considering the amount of time people spend watching other people. We should look for those who scan the socially acceptable minimum of their neighbours' webcasts.'
'Why?' Newbury asked.
'Because I'm guessing that showing an interest in something other than voyeurism and gossip would indicate a potentially fertile mind.'
'That makes sense,' said Billy Macallan.
'Showing an interest in what?' Newbury asked.
'Anything,' said Trafford. 'Growing a pot plant. Trying to bake your own cakes. Building models out of matches and bottle tops . . .'
'Gardening? Baking?' Connor Newbury laughed. 'Building models? Sounds fucking awful to me.'
'I build models,' Macallan said firmly.
Cassius was getting angry.
'I don't think it's fair to ask Trafford to produce a fail-safe template here, Connor,' he said. 'Every rule is inevitably going to throw up a thousand exceptions. What Trafford is trying to do is establish characteristics which, while innocent enough not to bring a person to the attention of the Temple, might identify in them an inner sense of self. And speaking of which, personally I think a reluctance to join Group Hugs would be a good indicator.'
Everybody, including Newbury, nodded at this.
'That's right,' said Trafford. 'I hate Gr'ugs too and when I can, I get out of them. Now most offices have a communal message board and usually the moderator's daily blog records the Gr'ugs, including, if my own office moderator is anything to go by, the absences. It should be possible to scan those blogs for names of people who are frequently absent.'
'Wow,' said Newbury, clearly impressed. 'I think it's lucky you don't work for the Inquisition.'
'Another thing I think we should be looking at is spiritual fervour.' Trafford was warming to his theme. 'For instance, it seems to me pretty obvious that the more evidence of blind faith a person publicly exudes, the less likely they are to want to question the Temple status quo. So if we bundle up a number of faith and superstition words like "tarot", "star chart", "psychic" and "reincarnation", we can then identify people who habitually include those words in their blogs and webcasts and then veto them from our search profile.'
'That'll get rid of most of my viewers,' said Newbury.
'Serial confessors should go too,' Professor Taylor suggested. 'Those awful people who never shut up at testification. And this might seem a small point, but I think perhaps frequent use of the words "please" and "thank you" might indicate a revolutionary spirit.'
'Sounds to me, Taylor,' Newbury argued, 'that we're in danger of advertising for bores.'
'I do not find manners boring,' the professor sniffed back.
'If I might recap on Trafford's behalf,' Cassius said firmly, 'he is to construct a search program which locates individuals who seek privacy, avoid tittle-tattle, pursue special interests, approach Group Hugs with distaste, evidence low-level use of faith words, testify minimally and mind their manners.'
'OK,' said Newbury, 'it's a start. And once our young friend has produced his list of people who fit this slightly depressing profile, what then?'
'We contact them, of course,' said Trafford, 'let them know that they are not alone. We begin to build a secret community. A network of people who want to think for themselves.'
'What do we say to them? No point just emailing to say, "Hi, we hate the Temple too." '
'The first thing we should do,' said Cassius, 'is send them a succinct summation of the theory of evolution. Evolution is the key; it is the idea that the Temple fears most.'
'Exactly,' Taylor said. 'Isn't that the problem? If we start chucking evolutionary propaganda on to the net willy-nilly, we'll get picked up by an Inquisition search engine in no time.'
'We won't be "chucking it out",' Trafford explained. 'We'll be sending secure emails to specific addresses and I shall set up a secure address from which to send them. None of us will be traceable even if the messages are uncovered. But I don't think they will be uncovered. After all, nobody's looking for us. The police monitor the web for seditious sites and chat rooms but they don't read emails unless they have a person under surveillance. As we all know, most emails are spam anyway.'
'And that's another thing,' said Billy Macallan. 'How do you expect to get this lot we're after to open these unsolicited emails, let alone read them? I personally junk 95 per cent of all the crap I get.'
'I've been thinking about that a lot,' Trafford replied. 'It's all in the title box, isn't it? We need a line that will grab them, something to draw them in. How about: Can you keep a secret?'
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29
About two months after the measles-plus epidemic had devastated the Inspiration Towers estate, a second plague struck. The local authorities had been expecting it, of course: the circumstances that favoured the incubation of one virus tended to favour many. Heat, damp, problems with waste disposal and water pumping, all these things contributed to the likelihood of a second dose of 'divine retribution'. Mumps-plus followed on the tail of the measles, borne once more on coughs and sneezes, and again the strain that took root among the children was of a previously unheard-of severity. Even within living memory mumps had been entirely survivable, a childhood rite of passage, unpleasant but not too serious. But with each fresh attack the virus had mutated until it had become deadly. Suddenly the fevers were back, along with the headaches, sore throats and telltale swelling of the parotid gland, and once more the little white coffins began emerging from the buildings of Trafford and Chantorria's little community. Most of the babies had been lost in the measles epidemic, so this time it was the turn of the toddlers and youngsters.
But yet again, as one by one they died Caitlin Happymeal seemed only to gather strength. She did not cough or run a fever and her glands did not swell. It therefore seemed more certain than ever that the miracle of the Love was upon the child, and so Chantorria basked in the undisputed position of one who was truly blessed.
Mothers would bring their sick children to Trafford and Chantorria's apartment in the hope that if he or she played with Caitlin Happymeal somehow their child might be saved too. Trafford had at first been surprised that Chantorria allowed these desperate, pathetic playmates into her home; after all, it was one thing to survive a plague and quite another to tempt fate so boldly by courting infection. He had been pleased and impressed by Chantorria's attitude, taking it as evidence that she had come to view the vaccination as a scientific fact, a process which could be relied upon. He was therefore most disappointed to discover that the opposite was the case. Chantorria had begun to distance herself from the steely truth of the vaccination. So devastating had been the plagues and so extraordinary did Caitlin Happymeal's survival seem that Chantorria simply could not bring herself to accept that such a miraculous thing could be the result of a mere pinprick. It was just too big a miracle to have been produced by the mind of man. Seduced by the jealous admiration that now surrounded her, dizzy with the attentions of Confessor Bailey and, above all, humbled with gratitude for the survival of her child, Chantorria was fast coming to believe that it had all been the work of the Lord and the Love.
Trafford was horrified and disgusted. The success of the vaccination had perversely driven Chantorria into the arms of the faithful.
'Our baby has survived because of a scientific process,' he exclaimed angrily on one of the few occasions when he was able to persuade his wife to mute the broadcast sound on their apartment webcast. 'The result of the intellectual activity of man. There's no mystery, no miracle, just cold hard facts.'
'No,' Chantorria insisted, 'I don't believe it. Have you seen what has happened to the children? The pain, the rashes, the fever, the swelling? They're all dying, Trafford. How could one little needle prick defend our child from that? Only the Lord and the Love could deliver her, just like Confessor Bailey says.'
'Confessor Bailey does not know that Caitlin has been vaccinated! You do! What's more, and speaking of little pricks, it seems to me that Confessor Bailey is rather more interested in you than he is in Caitlin Happymeal.'
'Oh, don't be ridiculous, Trafford!' Chantorria said, red with embarrassment. 'As if. As if an important man like the Confessor would show an interest in me!'
But in fact there could be no doubt that Confessor Bailey was taking an interest in Chantorria, although his attentions were always couched in references to the miracle of Caitlin Happymeal. Each week at Confession, as more and more mothers gave vent to their grief, the Confessor would summon Chantorria and Caitlin on to the stage. Ignoring Trafford, he would kiss Chantorria and hold up Caitlin Happymeal as evidence of the Love's deeper plan.
'He leaves us this one child,' the Confessor thundered, 'to show us that there is hope! He has not forsaken us. He has not washed his holy hands of his children, as we deserve that he should. He's still there for us! Caitlin Happymeal is here today to show us that the love that the Creator holds for all his children still lives! Just as all the children live! They still live! They live in Heaven and they live here in this child!'
The congregation would moan and wail and throw out their arms in worship, and as Chantorria took Caitlin back to her seat mothers would reach out to touch them.
Within her small community, as the second epidemic ran its course Chantorria came more and more to be seen as a living icon, even a saint. Stories began to circulate of minor miracles that could be attributed to her. Everyone outdid each other to speak of Chantorria's goodness and the goodness that flowed from it, anxious to show that they too stood in the reflected glory of the Love.
'It's like there's an aura,' Tinkerbell told people breathlessly, 'a sort of glow. Like a really spiritual vibe, you know what I'm saying? I'm not being funny, right? I had a terrible headache and I went and had a cup of tea with Chantorria, not because she's a saint or nothing, but because she's a mate . . . and my headache just went! It's true. She cured it! Honest, just by sitting there! I'm not being funny nor nothing, but she cured my headache.'
Stories abounded of similar extraordinary events. Food tasted better when eaten in Chantorria's presence, wounds healed faster, skin seemed smoother, softer and less prone to wrinkling. Breasts got bigger.
'I swear I was a C cup and now I'm a double D! Go figure. That is weird!'
The whole community beat a path to Trafford and Chantorria's door to witness the miracle child and be in the presence of her holy mother. Confessor Bailey himself took to calling regularly and often laid his hands on Chantorria's breasts in order to feel the Love.
Trafford stood apart, happy to be ignored. He was sad that his wife had allowed vanity to turn her head so ridiculously but delighted to be so comprehensively out of her loop. Chantorria did not need him any more. More than that; she actually did not want him around. She wanted to stay married, of course, because they were the chosen couple, but she was more than happy for Trafford to make himself scarce and for her to bask in the light of the Love alone. She had so many friends now and Confessor Bailey was being so attentive. Besides, Trafford's presence seemed to irritate her. He suspected it was because he was a constant reminder of the dirty secret about which she was now in total denial.
Trafford therefore had plenty of time to himself, which was fortunate because he had a very great deal to do. The more he thought about the plan he had presented to Cassius and the Senate, the more exciting it seemed to become. And the government would actually be paying him to do the work! That was the thrilling, subversive beauty of the idea. In its first stage it involved doing nothing more than Trafford did every day for DegSep anyway: making connections, constructing perfectly legitimate DegSep search programs exactly as he had been doing for years. The only difference was that, whereas before his activities had been soul-crushingly pointless, now they meant everything. He was a soldier doing battle against the Temple, a revolutionary seeking to foment a spiritual uprising.
Each day, therefore, leaving Chantorria with her friends and her alcopops, cake and chocolate, Trafford took his computer out into the stairwell of the building and logged on to work.
Propensity to doodle, he entered into his machine and was surprised to discover that doodling had so far not been considered at DegSep at all. A Temple banner appeared on his screen followed by a hologram of a fist punching the air in triumph. This was the computer's way of letting Trafford know that he had come up with an original search idea and that he would be receiving a cash bonus in his pay packet and a bottle of fizzy wine.
Trafford knew that the massive mainframe at NatDat would already be whirring. First of all, it would attempt to compute a seri
es of visual triggers to fit its dictionary definition of doodling. It would consult the police body-language program on which psychologists worked, trying to formalize the visual characteristics that evidenced a propensity for anti-social behaviour. Then, having constructed a profile to search the trillions and trillions of hours of webcam and CCTV footage of the entire population, it would look for images of people scribbling with a distracted air.
Words not pictures, patterns or shapes, Trafford typed into his laptop and then added, Whole sentences.
Then Trafford thought of Chantorria and her little kitchen palmtop on which she had, in the days before her religious awakening, written rhyming verses. Word processing without uploading, he wrote, and then, Pressing 'save' but not 'send'.
Again he was rewarded with a flag and an air-punching fist. No one had ever thought to ask DegSep to look for people who wrote things down but did not then post what they had written on the net. That was two bonuses and two bottles of fizzy wine. Trafford's mind wandered for a moment as he imagined sharing the wine with Sandra Dee on their next outing together.
Since he had started to lend her books, Trafford had begun to see Sandra Dee quite regularly. She had turned out to have every bit as enquiring a mind as he had expected and every few days, when they could arrange it, they would go together to the Notting Hill marina and drift away in her little boat. There they would discuss history and physics, geography and astronomy, journeying billions of light years away from the dirty water of Lake London to the very edge of time.
On one occasion they went to the great Museum of Creation, where the fossils were kept that proved the reality of the first flood. Sandra Dee loved fossils. They would dutifully read the information displays which explained how these ancient images of fish, set in stone, had been discovered by early archaeologists at the tops of mountains, thus proving that the waters on which Noah sailed had once covered the Earth. Trafford and Sandra Dee smiled together as they read, sharing the secret knowledge that in fact those mountains on which the fossils were found had once been at the bottom of the sea. Of course it did not take Sandra Dee long to see through the lie that Trafford was 'finding' the books that he lent her and demand to know how he came by them.