Ben blinked. Stunned, frozen.
On the screen in front of him were words that he knew could - probably would - get him killed. He had no idea what to do with that information.
He could come clean, talk to the partners, tell them he knew and swear himself to secrecy. Sign an NDA. Quietly leave the ring and retire to somewhere far out of the way. He wasn't a farmer or a pilot or an engineer, but he was clever. He could pick up the requisite skills, beg his way into a position working for room and board in the belts or on Mars or on a freighter... no, not a freighter. It had to be somewhere they could trust him not to leak the info, somewhere so distant and isolated that he would never run into anybody important, that he'd be hard to locate and harder to get to, away from everything and everyone he had ever known or loved. They'd allow him that, surely. He'd been a good worker, turned up on time, kept his head down and worked hard, had risen quickly in position. Maybe now that he had this sort of information, they'd even feel pressured to promote him, to accept him into the upper echelons of the company. But... but nobody knew about this apart from at the very top level, and to promote him to that tier would draw much more attention than if he just disappeared one day.
His thoughts raced. Detached, out-of-body, he noticed the mouse on the screen was shaking. Stared at the jiggling. It took him a moment to realise it was the quivering of his own hand. He was hyperventilating, dizzy. He'd always preferred the oldschool style of computer, a bit of good old WIMP, rather than more modern holographic or even touch-screen icon-based GUIs.
Fuck. Get it together, for fuck's sake! He was a prisoner in his own traitorous body. His mind screamed and his body sat, slumped, placidly. There wasn't time to sit here staring. Who knew where the information had come from, why it had been sent to him, whether it was intentional or accidental, or - and with this thought he let out a small mew of fear - that it had been tracked to him already. His own mind was now a piece of corporate intrigue. It didn't belong to him anymore. Every major player in New Saturn, from the corporations to the government to the media to the terrorists to everyone else would jack his head with experimental technology and worm around inside his mind until he was a gibbering husk for just a hint of what he now knew.
Ben was no longer a person. He was data. He was now guilty of a crime he had not committed, a plaything of courts with far more power than any actual judiciary, ones which acted as executioners first and judge and jury second. He felt wronged. He felt wrong. De-individualised.
He had to run. Thoughts of coming clean seemed abominably and stupidly naive in the face of his fear. A sluggish and lethargic calm finally came over him, his body enforcing the discipline his mind could not. He stood, downloaded the files to a small drive he kept on his person at all times containing his identity papers, and then deleted them from the computer. He burned the information out of it with the high-level security software provided by the firm to protect clients' interests. Then he smashed the computer. Dispassionately, he pulled out the power, tore off the front panel, and ripped the components to pieces with his hands, smashing them beneath his heel, murdering the information with a sort of passive ferocity. Deep down, he felt an aspect of fury that his life should end because of something so far out of his own control, and he channelled it into annihilating the machine that had brought that event to him. It was a little cathartic.
He walked out of the office, concealing his cut fingers in his pockets, eyes steadfastly forward. Don't run, don't move too quickly, someone might be about and can't make them suspicious, no, no...
He needed to get across-ring, lie low somewhere, and figure out what the actual fuck to do. He couldn't hail a taxi - it would require him to register his identity, and would thus be trackable. No, he needed something local, something off-grid (or, in other words, illegal), or at least an unexpected enough a mode of transport that they wouldn't think to check the databases for it for some time.
Ben remembered a mechanic's shop not too far from him, one of the few small businesses that survived in this area - one which had slowly been gentrified and was now home to high-flying tech, legal, and services-based corporations and a few of their most well-paid employees. But, people still needed their vehicles seen to, and so it had somehow survived on a good reputation and word of mouth.
He'd always been proud to go to work somewhere where there was actually a tree or two, a few small green spaces dedicated to public leisure, as opposed to poorer districts where homes and businesses and shops are tightly crammed into blocks of slate-grey metal and neon signage that stretch on for tens and tens of kilometres. Now he just felt depressed and frustrated that being stuck in this posh neighbourhood, where everything was quite above-board and classy, would probably ensure that he got caught and killed.
It was, pretty much, his only chance. Perhaps he could steal a vehicle, though it had been a long time since he had driven. He walked swiftly.
On the screen in front of him were words that he knew could - probably would - get him killed. He had no idea what to do with that information.
He could come clean, talk to the partners, tell them he knew and swear himself to secrecy. Sign an NDA. Quietly leave the ring and retire to somewhere far out of the way. He wasn't a farmer or a pilot or an engineer, but he was clever. He could pick up the requisite skills, beg his way into a position working for room and board in the belts or on Mars or on a freighter... no, not a freighter. It had to be somewhere they could trust him not to leak the info, somewhere so distant and isolated that he would never run into anybody important, that he'd be hard to locate and harder to get to, away from everything and everyone he had ever known or loved. They'd allow him that, surely. He'd been a good worker, turned up on time, kept his head down and worked hard, had risen quickly in position. Maybe now that he had this sort of information, they'd even feel pressured to promote him, to accept him into the upper echelons of the company. But... but nobody knew about this apart from at the very top level, and to promote him to that tier would draw much more attention than if he just disappeared one day.
His thoughts raced. Detached, out-of-body, he noticed the mouse on the screen was shaking. Stared at the jiggling. It took him a moment to realise it was the quivering of his own hand. He was hyperventilating, dizzy. He'd always preferred the oldschool style of computer, a bit of good old WIMP, rather than more modern holographic or even touch-screen icon-based GUIs.
Fuck. Get it together, for fuck's sake! He was a prisoner in his own traitorous body. His mind screamed and his body sat, slumped, placidly. There wasn't time to sit here staring. Who knew where the information had come from, why it had been sent to him, whether it was intentional or accidental, or - and with this thought he let out a small mew of fear - that it had been tracked to him already. His own mind was now a piece of corporate intrigue. It didn't belong to him anymore. Every major player in New Saturn, from the corporations to the government to the media to the terrorists to everyone else would jack his head with experimental technology and worm around inside his mind until he was a gibbering husk for just a hint of what he now knew.
Ben was no longer a person. He was data. He was now guilty of a crime he had not committed, a plaything of courts with far more power than any actual judiciary, ones which acted as executioners first and judge and jury second. He felt wronged. He felt wrong. De-individualised.
He had to run. Thoughts of coming clean seemed abominably and stupidly naive in the face of his fear. A sluggish and lethargic calm finally came over him, his body enforcing the discipline his mind could not. He stood, downloaded the files to a small drive he kept on his person at all times containing his identity papers, and then deleted them from the computer. He burned the information out of it with the high-level security software provided by the firm to protect clients' interests. Then he smashed the computer. Dispassionately, he pulled out the power, tore off the front panel, and ripped the components to pieces with his hands, smashing them beneath his heel, murdering the information with a sort of passive ferocity. Deep down, he felt an aspect of fury that his life should end because of something so far out of his own control, and he channelled it into annihilating the machine that had brought that event to him. It was a little cathartic.
He walked out of the office, concealing his cut fingers in his pockets, eyes steadfastly forward. Don't run, don't move too quickly, someone might be about and can't make them suspicious, no, no...
He needed to get across-ring, lie low somewhere, and figure out what the actual fuck to do. He couldn't hail a taxi - it would require him to register his identity, and would thus be trackable. No, he needed something local, something off-grid (or, in other words, illegal), or at least an unexpected enough a mode of transport that they wouldn't think to check the databases for it for some time.
Ben remembered a mechanic's shop not too far from him, one of the few small businesses that survived in this area - one which had slowly been gentrified and was now home to high-flying tech, legal, and services-based corporations and a few of their most well-paid employees. But, people still needed their vehicles seen to, and so it had somehow survived on a good reputation and word of mouth.
He'd always been proud to go to work somewhere where there was actually a tree or two, a few small green spaces dedicated to public leisure, as opposed to poorer districts where homes and businesses and shops are tightly crammed into blocks of slate-grey metal and neon signage that stretch on for tens and tens of kilometres. Now he just felt depressed and frustrated that being stuck in this posh neighbourhood, where everything was quite above-board and classy, would probably ensure that he got caught and killed.
It was, pretty much, his only chance. Perhaps he could steal a vehicle, though it had been a long time since he had driven. He walked swiftly.