Mamood tried to order his thoughts as he walked towards Adam. Whoever the man was in Adam’s barber chair, he could not be Morfeuse. They never intercepted Mamood abruptly, and never “made arrangements” – like getting him time off university work – to make him look suspicious. Yet, this man could now suspect two things: That both Mamood and Adam had something to do with Morfeuse and that there was a back door to Young Cuts.
Mamood slowly entered the back office again, and motioned to Adam – now turning pale and still staring at Mamood for guidance – to not say anything while Mamood talked to the man. Adam seemed reassured and nodded as they both walked back into the salon, where the man was still sitting with his chair reclined, facing the ceiling.
“I’m sorry sir, did you ask for me?” Asked Mamood in a calm, gentle voice.
“Yes, my friend, I’m here on orders from Morfeuse,” replied the man, still calmly facing the ceiling. “I am to escort you to an reporting office just outside Zinyanga.”
Mamood now knew for sure that this man was not Morfeuse. First, if they made verbal contact with him at all, they would refer to Mamood as R1, his virtual alias. Second, no one was ever escorted. Being part of Morfeuse meant you lived a lonely life, unless you were recruiting new members, in which case you would swear to not tell anyone else real names. Finally, Morfeuse didn’t have “offices”. Every reporter was potentially a walking office.
“I apologize sir. I’m not sure how I am involved,” said Mamood. Procedure was to deny involvement if possible, and then claim legal protection.
“Come on, son!” The man now arched from his seat and looked Mamood in the eyes. He had an elderly face, but Mamood couldn’t tell exactly because of the drying lather and half shaved beard on the man. “It’s us! We’ve settled it with the university, we have to brief you on a few things as soon as possible.”
The man was pushing it. He still hadn’t said anything that would hint he knew about Morfeuse operations. Mamood had met these agents before; they were what Morfeuse called news police. They were not ordinary police officers: They had been especially trained in copyright law and were hired by media companies to scout for people who penetrated the whole truth, people like Morfeuse. Nobody heard what happened to these people other than numerous lawsuits. After some time the defendants would simply disappear. You would never hear from most of them, but some would return after exile in other countries. The point was, if you were Morfeuse, these people threatened your work.
“I’m afraid you might have mistaken me for someone else sir,” said Mamood gently.
“Well then why did your assistant here come running at you in the back over there when I said I was Morfeuse?!” Asked the man incredulously, beginning to show signs of frustration. “What is that anyway, a getaway door?!”
“That is the door through which our barber supplies are delivered and in that room is where these supplies are stored. I simply use that door out of convenience to meet the baker next door,” replied Mamood. This was only slightly a lie. He continued confidently: “For some reason, people think Young Cuts has something to do with this Morfeuse thing. Adam was once beaten in the back of this shop because of similar connections you are drawing for me.” Mamood gazed at Adam who had been watching this exchange while pretending to arrange his tools on the shelves next to the mirrors. This was completely true; Young Cuts had many violent visitors.
“Must be a reason for this, no?” Asked the man, now smiling and looking at Mamood intently. Mamood was now losing patience. Today was not a day for time wasters like this guy.
“I still don’t see why, sir. We run a busy enterprise here despite what you’re seeing around you this morning. Now if you don’t mind, Adam can re-lather than beard and finish your shave and we’ll both be on our ways. If you refuse to pay your fair and leave after your shave, we have instructions from the university to let their security know. Although I’m sure you understand our situation.”
Mamood rarely called security. Young Cuts had their own security systems installed by Morfeuse engineers from Pajan. Still, he was going by Morfeuse procedure, which was not to reveal the operation if possible.
The man grunted and sat back in his seat. “I’ll be watching you,” he muttered.
“Excuse me?” Mamood asked, frowning at the man.
“Ah… nothing my friend. We have an understanding. Thank you. Now if you don’t mind, I’ll have that shave.”
“Cheers. Adam, please finish the shave and let’s make sure the gentleman leaves with a smile!” Said Mamood to Adam. This was code for “make sure you get a photo of this guy before he leaves”. They had cameras installed behind the mirrors so Morfeuse could conduct its own intelligence on people who asked problematic questions about their work.
Adam nodded appreciatively to Mamood, motioning that he had things under control. Mamood walked into the back office and out the exit. Although the encounter with the news policeman just minutes ago had been easier than most at Young Cuts, Mamood tried to examine his situation: He still had not made contact with Morfeuse today about the new reporter coming to work in north Zantinia. He still had a netbook to deliver… to someone he did not know yet. And now he had to open up a new file on the news policeman he had just encountered. He made a mental note to work with Adam on emergencies training more; this had been Adam’s first and he could have done better.
Mamood could smell the bread from the baker’s across the street as he walked past the side of Young Cuts, down University Street. He fixed his backpack behind him and prepared for the encounter he had predicted he would soon have with Morfeuse at the University of Zinyanga.
Triniti passed her half-eaten dinner tray to the hostess and settled into her window seat. She thought about her future as she looked out at the black star-filled sky. The plane seemed to be moving ever so slowly above the desert of clouds, and the constant murmur of the engine drowned her senses of everyone else in the plane.
The lunch just hours earlier had been an adventure. Morfeuse Prime – who had later introduced herself as 6mama – had taken Triniti’s alertness lightly. It had seemed to Triniti that 6mama had been part of this operation for a long time, and from the way she gazed at Triniti with an odd affection, Triniti could also tell that 6mama had met many new members of Morfeuse before.
6mama had laughed heartily as the others chuckled after Triniti had asked what was up at the picnic earlier.
“Sorry, love. You will soon find out that we tend to forget our individual selves when we are working with eachother. My name is 6mama.” She then motioned to the group of five. “This is Xita, Malkom, Yin1 and Yang2 and Dr. Jekyl.”
Triniti had been angry at first that these were probably screen names. And then she thought about her own name…
“What am I doing here?” Triniti had asked compulsively, her appetite shrinking.
6mama had explained to Triniti that Morfeuse had invited Triniti to join their operation because the five people she had just met had been watching her work at the Global Eye for several months. The Morfeuse network existed to maintain a database of news that originated from citizens across the world. The main constraint that Morfeuse was working under was complete secrecy, given the rise of the news police over the last decade. Due to this secrecy, the original collective that formed the foundations of Morfeuse decided they had to protect the identity of all news agents, who were in most cases ordinary citizens. And so, all theories and ideas about a centralized and hierarchical leadership had been dissolved very early on in Morfeuse’s evolution.
Triniti had asked questions about how Morfeuse thought it was actually getting the truth. As it turned out, there was one central system that kept everybody on track rather than governed their work. This was the Morfeuse data bank; it housed all contributed news reports – short, long, rough or final in audio, visual, textual or coded formats in multiple languages – and their corresponding comments. Every agent had access to it through their individual devices, but these devices needed to be updated regularly at what Morfeuse called “news cartels”. These were hubs where reporters – like Triniti was soon to become – would download latest updates to the data bank system so they could keep up with latest changes in both functionality and reports.
Who maintained the Morfeuse data bank system? 6mama had explained the cartels themselves were trusted for this. Since there were cartels spread all around the world, and since many cartels disappeared and reappeared in different locations, it was difficult to centralize system updates. So each cartel decides what systems for their areas work best and begin there. Of course, the hubs communicated with eachother to make sure the kernel system they used was intact across global distributions.
Now, as Triniti watched the clouds move slowly beneath her and the stars remain eerily still, she began to draw the big picture. Morfeuse worked towards the same goals on which the Global Eye had been founded: Bringing the truth to the people. But Morfeuse had what the Global Eye didn’t: Immersion in context. Then again, the Global Eye provided for its workers what Morfeuse could not: Protection and pay.
When Triniti had asked 6mama about her first assignment and how she would make a living, 6mama had explained that Morfeuse had experienced many reports from North Zantinia, where the mines were, about infringements on basic health provisions. Many Morfeuse reporters had been found by the news police, and Morfeuse had been seeking a new cover for reporting on those stories. By grace of time, Triniti had appeared to Morfeuse as seeking an opportunity just like this. There were agents who worked and lived in the same area who were arranging for Triniti’s accommodation, board and other needs. However, before Triniti was sent to this first assignment, she had to pick up a netbook with the data bank from a Morfeuse hub at the University of Zinyanga. Transport had been arranged from her landing point in Zantinia for the next day.
It was then that Triniti must have shown signs of shock, because what 6mama said next reaffirmed Triniti’s faith in this odd encounter with and story about Morfeuse: “Love, try not to think about the details. Although we consider ourselves a small organization, we have many friends who support us. Things tend to get taken care of when you are on the people’s side. The only thing you should think about now is whether you are still willing to take your new job. And if you are not, well, we can still remain friends online.”
6mama said this smoothly and with an affectionate smile, giving Triniti a warm sense of security. It didn’t take long for Triniti to respond: “Thanks guys. I’m in.”
The rest of the afternoon with 6mama and the other five had been pleasant and less shocking. 6mama had brought warm white rice and freshly boiled spinach and potatoes. Everyone had eaten well, and Triniti found herself trying to observe the others, especially the the so-differently-dressed twins Yin1 and Yang2 who ate in amazing sync. 6mama had filled Triniti in with a few other stories about the organization. Xita, Malkom and Dr. Jekyl had not uttered any sounds throughout their picnic, but she had noticed that Malkom looked particularly serious and constantly in thought. As if distracting Triniti from her own curious thoughts, 6mama had instructed her to take the last flight to Zantinia tonight.
“Tonight?!” Triniti had exclaimed. “Okay, I don’t have much to pack, but I think I’ll need to wait for my severance pay at least to buy the ticket and get a visa for Zantinia.”
6mama chuckled at this: “I should have mentioned, Morfeuse works at Rowheath airport as well. Make sure it’s the last flight today, and go to counter 5 at check-in. Your boarding pass and visa papers will be given to you there by a gentleman with ‘James O’Harry’ on his badge. He probably won’t say much but do expect your necessary documentation.”
And sure enough, about 6 hours later, Triniti was on her way to Zantinia. It was true, Triniti thought from her seat in the plane. The timing could not have been more perfect. She had been deeply disappointed by what she realized yesterday at the Global Eye before she quit her job. She was seeking more than a job that offered steady pay and security. She had been seeking a space to do what she had watched her grandmother Nur do: Be aware of the whole truth.
And now, as she thought about the days of underground reporting with Morfeuse in Zantinia, a country she had only seen on the news occasionally but never experienced first-hand, Triniti knew that her life was about to change in ways she could not predict.
What happens next? Stories invited!
Previous “Beyond the Global Eye” episodes:
