The File Read online

cortex with a thousand tiny filaments. Matheson’s irritation stemmed not so much from the difficulty of the surgery as from his nervous mood. If anyone were to find out that he was removing a File, he’d lose his medical license and face prison time. What he was doing he did only as a favor to a colleague, Doctor Sascha LeBruin, the woman whose head he had opened.

  “Alright,” he finally said to his nurse. “I’ve taken care of the problem. Go ahead and close up.”

  As he scrubbed up in the utility sink, he said over his shoulder, “And Abby, make sure to delete the last hour from my schedule record, and then reformat the calendar. I don’t want any kind of record of this.”

  “Yes, Doctor,” said Abby.

  Within two hours, the general anesthesia had worn off, and the thirty-five year old pediatrician wheeled herself out of the recovery room in a wheel chair. Her long blond hair covered the bandage at the base of her skull. To any observer, she simply looked like a normal, tired woman. But despite her weariness her beauty shone through.

  “Any idea when this headache will wear off?” she asked Matheson, placing her fingertips on her temple.

  “Hard to say – I’ve never done this before - I’ve only heard rumors about this sort of thing. Some say your head will pound for a few days. Here. Take these pills with you. You may need them to dull the headaches.”

  Sascha took the bottle of pills with one hand, and clasped the doctor’s hand with the other. “Thank you, Nathan. I know what you risked to do this for me.”

  “Tell me, Sascha, why did you want to remove it?”

  “A lot of children come through my office, Nathan. I know that none of my colleagues agree, but I think the File is causing problems in the kids. I’ve just gotten so turned off by the File because of what I’m seeing. Then, when the government passed the File Commerce Act, I just decided I’d had enough and wanted no more part of it.”

  Matheson squeezed her hand. “Well, I’m just an old doctor. I don’t know what to think of it, to tell the truth. But I do know I’m going to miss you, Sascha. Take care of yourself.”

  ۞

  Ezra Hendricks flew through the air and delivered a round-house kick to his opponent. He landed and crouched in a defensive position, glancing around quickly to assess the remainder of the men in the alley. A flicker of light caught the corner of his eye, tipping him off to a knife attack from his right. With cat-like fluidity, he leapt onto a stack of pallets, flipped over a nearby dumpster, and grabbed a steel rake that was leaning against the alley wall. With one smooth motion he swung the rake around, the tines making a low swooshing sound before embedding in his assailant’s neck with a thud. The knife dropped from the man’s hand as he hit the ground, and Hendricks grabbed it with lightning speed. Before his other attackers could figure out what was going on, Hendricks threw the blade with expert precision, pinning one man’s hand to a door. The third man started to run. Hendricks took off with almost super-human speed and dove through the air, landing on the runner’s back and taking him down to the ground.

  Hendricks pinned the man with his knee and pulled a set of mag-cuffs from his back pocket. Panting from the battle, he said, “Bureau of Communications and Commerce. You’re under arrest. You’re subject to Miranda-Three. If you resist further I’m authorized to kill you.”

  Hendricks looked around to make sure no further attacks were coming, then he hauled his prey to his feet and stalked out of the alley with the man’s arm locked in his fierce grip.

  A driverless car pulled up and the back door opened. Hendricks shoved the man inside and slammed the door. He sent an automated request for a medical security unit to be sent to the alley for clean up of the others. He reached into the passenger side and grabbed his trench coat, slipped it on, turned up the collar, and sent the vehicle on its way. Rain drops started to fall as he walked down the road. In moments the sidewalk was shiny wet. Hendricks rubbed his sore ribs and made File contact with his boss.

  “This is Irving Butler,” said the voice in his head.

  “Hendricks. Case is closed here in Philly. The last of them is on his way to be processed. What’s next?”

  Processing Ludds was a matter of forcibly implanting a File, one that could not be removed without fatal consequences. It was simpler than trying to incarcerate every Ludd in the world. The establishment’s explanation? It was for their own safety, of course, and for the good of civilized society.

  “I want you to head up a new assault on the Underground,” said Butler. “I’m pleased that you’ve shut down the Philadelphia network, but we have bigger problems. Word is that the Intermountain cell is amassing quite a following somewhere in Utah. We don’t know where. Hendricks, I am growing tired of all this opposition. My patience is wearing thin. I want it to be over. Find this cell and capture every member – if they don’t cooperate, kill every one of them.”

  “Acknowledged,” said Hendricks. “I gotta say I’m getting tired of chasing down these Ludds, Sir. I look forward to ending this.” He cut the connection, rubbed the stubble on his chin and stepped out of the rain into a coffee shop. Large drips fell from his coat to the floor. He sat facing the door in a corner booth at the back of the café, and used his File silently to make travel arrangements to Salt Lake City. As a government agent for the Bureau of Communications and Commerce, Hendricks’ File was specially coded for secure access to the NI. For those in the upper echelons of society with even higher clearance, such as Irving Butler, members of Congress, and powerful media moguls, even more elite privileges were granted for instantaneous command of unlimited information on the PowerNet.

  Hendricks wrapped up his business and switched his File to a heavy metal music channel, turned up the volume, and stepped back out into the pouring rain.

  ۞

  Kyle prepared to address a small group of Underground members. For safety reasons, the cell avoided gathering in large numbers. Kyle was the leader of a group of about twenty Undergrounders. Tonight, they met at his home to discuss the latest developments. To avoid detection, the group had arrived on foot, in ones and twos, several minutes apart.

  “Thank you for coming,” he said. The informal group sat in a circle in his furnished basement. Some fidgeted nervously, others just looked very tired. “I’m sure you’ve heard the news about the FCA crackdown.”

  “It’s ridiculous,” said Fred, a heavy-set man with graying hair and a deep scowl. “This is America. What ever happened to our Constitutional rights?”

  “Of course it’s not right,” said Kyle calmly, “but the Supreme Court has upheld it, like it or not. There are a lot of laws that the Supreme Court has upheld, despite everyone knowing they’re wrong. But they’ve got the power, so we’re stuck with figuring out how to deal with it.”

  “We’re just lucky we still have the right to bear arms,” said Rory. “Not that your crack-shot daughter would ever let them take that away!” Rory was referring to Mikayla’s penchant for target shooting and small game hunting.

  “Yeah, but I hear they’re not going to let you vote unless you have the File,” said a thin young woman with straight, black hair. She was a former nurse, and was relatively new to the group. “How can we expect to change anything if we can’t even make our voices be heard by the decision-makers? The people in power need to hear from the public that this is not acceptable.”

  “Phht,” scoffed Fred. “Voting is going to be the least of our worries before long, Abby. We have to hide like rats as it is. Pretty soon they’ll either round us all up or starve us out, because we won’t be able to buy or sell without the File.”

  “But there are ways around these things, Fred,” said Kyle. “Our barter network is growing. And I have heard from a contact I have in Philadelphia that other cells have been cooperating to form self-sustaining communities. The powers that be may be able to make things hard for us, but where there’s a will-”

  “Bah!” yelled Fred, ge
tting even more agitated. “Without the File we are at too much of a disadvantage. We have limited access to news, our educational opportunities are practically nil, banking is becoming impossible – we may be able to survive, but get ahead? Forget it. And that’s just not good enough. I’m starting to wonder if this is all worth it.”

  The room was silent for a few long moments.

  “Fred, that’s a personal decision,” said Kyle. “Our group is entirely voluntary – in fact, we’re all about freedom. But you know the rules if you decide to leave.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Fred. “If I choose to get a File, I can never attempt to contact any of you again, to avoid tracing.”

  “Fred, you should stay,” said Abby. “Remember why we’re here in the first place. It’s a matter of principle.”

  “Abby,” said Kyle, “let’s table this. Fred can make his own decisions. He knows the stakes, and in the end, what he does is his business.”

  “Thanks, Kyle,” said Fred. “And thanks for your support, Abby. I know you’re just trying to help because you care.”

  Fred’s demeanor seemed to soften and he settled back into his chair, remaining silent for the rest of the meeting.

  “Anyway,” said Kyle, “we can expect that things are going to get worse before they get better.