Piet, who looks like most other men his age—vaguely approaching retirement, vaguely thinning hair, no mouth, eyes too close together and a creased neck. Piet, who looks as if he smells bad because there’s tallow in the creases of his neck, doesn’t move his mouth. He laughs inwardly. It was always the case that he had a good sense of humor, but, well, a distinctive type of humor. Piet feels superior to everyone. Like everyone else. He goes back to his work space, Eames chair and all that. He’d always had style. Born with it. The flat he decorated with his husband attests to his extraordinarily good taste. A flat in Chelsea. Thanks to the pay. Which has been somewhat in jeopardy ever since he had to start passing off his husband as his brother-in-law. Since the campaign against homosexuality and the reform of the marriage laws. Compliance with which he oversees. Bizarre, right?

Homosexuality isn’t punishable by law. Not yet. But it’s only a question of time, now that the country has started to recall its Christian roots. But back to the little hackers, thinks Piet. As head of command, he sees only what doesn’t bore him personally. The algorithms deliver him surveillance highlights. Live links to gay clubs, to opposition movements and shoe stores with a conspiratorial footnote. Piet is into feet.

The baby hackers have been under surveillance for a good long while already. They didn’t register themselves. Not clever, as the registration serves exclusively to detect portions of the population that aren’t registered. Nobody needs people with chips. In an era of biometric total surveillance. The firm where MI5 Piet works is private. It has a long, complicated name which even the people who work there can’t remember. So they just say MI5. Despite the outsourcing into private hands, Piet and his colleagues are paid from the government budget—put another way: the citizenry pay for his service, which is completely sensible, since he serves the people. Somehow. The secret service is a close partner. Which also has been privatized. Which, together with the privatized army and the privatized police force fight together toward the goal of privatizing everything.

Mastering the internet. Whereas ten years earlier MI5 Piet could access 40 billion data retrievals per day, today the scale of retrieved data must be in the trillions and contains—everything. From bowel movements to vaginal dryness, conversations with grandmother about debt, attitude toward the military, high school diplomas, streaming services. AI gets it right with some irregularity. Rarely does something go wrong. Sometimes, however, it does appear as if the program has developed a humor of its own. So-called malfunctions.

EX 2279

>++++++++++

[>++++++++++++>+++++++++++>++++++++++++>++++++++++>++++++++++>++++++++++++>++++++++++>+++++++++++>+++++++++++>+++++++++++>++++++++++>++++++++++>++++++++++><<<<<<<<<<<<<<-]

>+>+>—>++++—>—>+>>+>——>>+>—>

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

>.>.>.>.>.>.>.>.>.>.>.>.>.

Don’t exist.

MI5 PIET