Then we have this option here called Hotspots, that gives an overview of ten live camera views where the bigwigs think there’s suspicious activity or gatherings. But the console also allows for the definition of the Output option, which determines where the video stream with all the citizens’ traits is displayed. Check this out: here it says >localhost:1<—you see?” Don sees. She yawns. Inside. “Right,” Rachel says, still stuttering. “The main screen is associated with the console at the address IPv6-Address >>::1<< for the local device of the console. If we switch it to >localhost:0<, what do you see then?” Don stares at the screen. Linux bollocks, no organized graphics. “Forbidden,” says Don. “Ha,” says Rachel. “That’s the console itself! But if we go over to >localhost:2< and >localhost:3<, the results of the surveillance appear on other—screens. Here in this window, see?” Don doesn’t see anything. Except for Hannah’s back, which is long, and her vertebrae protrude through her hoodie. That takes quite a performance from the vertebrae, through such thick material. Hannah must be one meter eighty at this point, and she consists of only arms and legs and spine. “What’s that?” asks Don politely. On the computer are images from surveillance cameras somewhere in the city. “Covent Garden,” says Rachel. “You can see here, they know everything. That guy, for example.” Rachel reads aloud: “Sergej, thirty-three, Polish origins, he heads up a prepper group and is considered a right-wing extremist.”

“We’ve got him,” Don yells. “Peter, we…”

Peter isn’t there. He’s left without anyone noticing.

He’s been leaning against a tree for several minutes already,

PETER

Watching Thome in the first floor of the white box, behind curtains with tassels and a pair of matched and at the same time utterly pointless table lamps on the windowsill. Pant legs too short, fabric stretched across his backside, no chin—what an unpleasant person.

If only he would die,

Thinks

THOME