Chapters (58)
- Cover
- Also by Oliver Harris
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Deepfakes, they were called. Human Image Synthesis. Computer-generated images were being used in propaganda all the time now – Russia’s Internet Research Agency generated social media content using politicians’ faces superimposed on actors’ bodies. It had employed them in online influence operations, mostly domestic politics. You got some sophisticated stuff from Turkey on behalf of the Justice and Development Party: people making speeches they never made, etc. Otherwise it was used for faking celebrity porn. Maybe there were plenty of unknown figures being electronically manipulated as well; we just didn’t pick them up. I watched some deepfake porn posted on Reddit, then some of the political videos, and wondered how many teams were currently producing it.
I used the hotel gym, trying to work the acid out of my muscles, ran through some Vinyasa flows, which a former Marine once told me was the only way he got through five months of captivity, then ordered a plain omelette and a carafe of Pinot Noir from room service. I drank two large glasses sitting on the edge of my bed.
I browsed social media. If I’d been allowed my own I would have checked that. Instead I logged in to the Facebook account of a non-existent thirty-two-year-old woman in Afrin: photos of a child’s funeral, a glossy meme of a blonde female YPG guerrilla alongside a quote comparing their struggle to the Paris Commune of 1871. I logged out, logged in again as Yuri Cherchesov, a twenty-year-old second-rank seaman in the Russian navy; changed my status to: restless. Bohren himself had messages from people who didn’t realise he no longer existed: Christopher, I hope you don’t mind me writing. I dreamed of you last night. I know you are not superstitious but it made me worried.
I checked a couple of Middle Eastern accounts that always seemed to get news first – one, curiously, with Selena Gomez as an avatar but definitely run by the Electronic Syrian Army, posting content that looked like it came from Iranian intelligence. China sending troops to prop up Assad. There’d been another behind-closed-doors agreement between Moscow and Beijing over the future of the Middle East, details to come. European sites were heart-breaking enough: ‘You’re on your own,’ US tells rebels. I watched the news twice until I realised that the BBC presenter was saying Syrian government rather than Syrian regime. Sometimes a word is enough to tell you the game is over.