The currency is being converted to 100 percent cryptocurrency. The crypto freaks, many from Holland, are new to the island, and not entirely of their own volition. Instead it’s thanks to the flooding in their own country. Since their country is 70 percent underwater. And that, dear friends, shows how serious the situation must be, for somebody to voluntarily move to England. Thome glances at the social media boys. Technologically uninteresting, but they are responsible for 50 percent of the new world order. Memes have the impact of atomic bombs. Bots can fell governments, send shares tumbling, put companies out of business—therefore: respect, lads.

Hello all you clever developer twats who’ve come up with all the clever shite that functions only with

Hallelujah—an app, and now soon the hand-implanted chip will, you can already guess, optimize performance. All the devices, the TVs, radios, virtual assistants, tracking watches, automobiles that report and record driving behavior, texts, conversations, banking activity, printers that read and save all images, passenger information. Fingerprints, blood types (Hey, test your blood online!), urine (Hey, your toilet checks your alkaline balance!), the smart vibrators and artificial vaginas. Political disposition, health status, life expectancy, risk potential, creditworthiness, the chances of a tendency toward violent outbursts. Consumer behavior, sleep habits, alcohol and drug consumption, religiosity, criminal energy, social conduct. Because of terror. Terror, terror. Terror. Terror. There could be a plan behind it. Or maybe not. Thome spreads his legs wider and plants his feet more firmly on the ground. He is part of the elite. Performance, dominance, merit, virility.

And outside in front of the window the fanboys stand around with their paper cups of cheap coffee in their hands. Script kiddies who have no idea about anything, who wear hooded jackets, have no skills beyond a few tech catchphrases, the idiots, and they stare at the masters with open mouths. The little failures, who have completely buggered up their synapses with nonstop chatting, listening to hacker radio, trying to program, to blog, watching Netflix, reading, talking on the phone, taking photos, and then comes another message in a completely encrypted chat, where little poseurs talk among themselves about hacker radio shows and Netflix series. They’ll never belong, to anything. Losers. Thome belongs to the winners. It’s like being a rock star, in the past, when there were still real rock stars. It’s like belonging to the illuminati. Here—right fucking here—is where the power is.

Well—or a few meters away.

In the office of a friend of

THOME’S FATHER

A few old men are sitting around feeling pleased. Red velvet curtains, thick carpets, porcelain dogs, bookshelves, fireplace, all the shit that signals tradition and power.

A man who is sweating profusely had just given a PowerPoint presentation about various steps in the campaign.

“PowerPoint? Really?” Thome’s father had asked, leaving the young man briefly unnerved.

“So,” he said.

The young man.