"The future no longer appears to us as wholly determined by the past; it contains an element of the unforeseeable and of creation."
— Henri Bergson, La Pensée et le Mouvement, Félix Alcan, 1934
May, D+3, three days after the election
He didn't move.
The footsteps in the corridor were growing louder. Several pairs of shoes on the concrete floor. Orders shouted — brief, professional.
Gabriel stayed in front of the central router.
In his ear, Zara's voice was counting along with him.
His hands were trembling. He shoved them into his pockets.
The device's light was still blinking. Green. Steady. Like a mechanical heartbeat.
How much longer?
Two minutes?
A minute thirty?
The alarm's shriek continued. He could feel the vibration in his teeth, in his bones. The red lights of the servers cast shifting shadows across the walls.
He scanned the room.
The server room was vast. A cathedral of glass and metal. Row upon row of machines blinking, breathing, processing the data of millions of people.
And in a few minutes, this whole cathedral will be broken.
They won't be able to track me.
They won't be able to track anyone.
The door opened.
Four men entered.
They wore black uniforms. Weapons at their belts. Helmets with visors raised. They fanned out in a semicircle, weapons trained on him.
— Don't move, said the first.
Gabriel raised his hands slowly. Palms open.
— I'm not moving.
The second guard stepped toward the router. He looked at the device. The green light.
— What is that?
— A virus, said Gabriel.
The guard looked at him. His eyes were grey, hard, professional.
— You're insane.
— Maybe.
The first guard spoke into a mic on his shoulder.
— Suspect neutralized. Unidentified device on the central router. Requesting instructions.
A voice crackled through the mic.
— Stay where you are. Don't touch anything. I'm on my way.
Gabriel recognized the voice.
Hélène Roussel.
She arrived thirty seconds later.
She wore a dark blue suit. Her hair was pulled back. She held a tablet in one hand, a coffee in the other. The guards parted at her approach.
She stopped two meters from Gabriel.
She studied him.
For a long time.
Then she said:
— You're more stubborn than I thought, Monsieur Moreau.
Gabriel said nothing.
Her eyes lingered on the device. The green light.
— How long?
— Enough.
— Enough for what?
— For it to work.
She shook her head. Not anger. Almost amusement.
— You know this changes nothing, don't you? Even if your virus deploys, we'll patch it within a week. We have entire teams dedicated to security. Engineers who do nothing else. You've bought yourself seven days of freedom. Nothing more.
She stepped closer. Her heels clicked on the floor.
— Seven days, Monsieur Moreau. What was your goal? To get people talking? To become a symbol? Because in a week, no one will remember your name.
Gabriel held her gaze.
He thought of Amélie.
"Plant the seeds. Let them grow after you're gone."
He said:
— It's not about the virus.
She raised an eyebrow.
— No?
— No.
He lowered his hands. The guards aimed their weapons at him. He ignored them.
— It's about the people who watched me do this. The people who will hear about what I did. You can patch the virus in a week, Madame Roussel. But you can't patch that.
She looked at him.
Her eyes were calm. Cold. But, behind that coldness, he thought he saw a glimmer of recognition.
— You thought about what you would leave behind, she said. Not just the attack.
— Yes.
— Who helped you?
— No one.
— Don't lie.
— I'm not lying.
She sighed. She took a sip of her coffee.
— You're an idealist, Monsieur Moreau. That's your problem. You believe people care about the truth. That symbols matter. But people want comfort. Security. They want to be told what to think, what to buy, what to vote for. Your little gesture will change nothing.
— Maybe.
— Certainly.
— Then why are you here?
She didn't answer.
The device beeped.
Gabriel stared at the light.
Green. Steady.
Done.
It's done.
He stepped back. He held out his hands.
— I'm finished, he said.
The guards moved in. One grabbed his arm. The other took the other arm. They turned him around, forced his hands behind his back.
He felt the cold of the handcuffs on his wrists.
— Gabriel.
Zara's voice. In his ear. Barely audible.
— Gabriel. It worked. The profiling system is collapsing. They're blind. You did it.
He smiled.
A guard noticed the smile. He frowned.
— What are you smiling about?
Gabriel didn't answer.
Another guard removed his earpiece. He considered it, dropped it on the floor, crushed it under his boot.
The small crack of plastic.
And then nothing.
Silence.
Hélène Roussel stepped closer. She leaned toward him.
— You know what happens now, don't you?
— Yes.
— You'll go to prison. For a long time. You won't see your family. You won't see your friends. You'll spend the rest of your life in a cell.
— I know.
— And it was worth it?
He looked at her.
His eyes were red. But calm.
— Yes.
She shook her head.
— You're a fool.
— Maybe.
She gestured. The guards pulled him toward the door.
One last time, he contemplated the server room.
The green lights.
The red lights.
The device, still plugged in, still lit.
Everything worked.
I did it.
They took him out.
The corridor was white. Bright. Sterile. Like a hospital.
They made him walk. His footsteps echoed on the floor. The guards' footsteps behind him.
He thought of Amélie.
"Plant the seeds. Let them grow after you're gone."
I've planted the seeds.
Now I have to wait.
They reached an elevator. A guard pressed a button. The doors opened.
— Get in, said the guard.
Gabriel got in.
The elevator rose.
He felt the pressure in his ears.
This is the last time I'll see this place.
The last time I'll be free.
He withdrew into himself.
He thought of his mother.
She won't know what I did.
Not right away.
But someday, maybe.
Maybe she'll understand.
The elevator stopped.
The doors opened.
They were in a lobby. Large. Modern. Green plants in pots. A receptionist behind a desk. Screens everywhere.
The screens were showing news.
Alerts.
— Profiling system offline.
— Critical error. Restarting.
— Please stand by.
Gabriel smiled.
A guard shoved him.
— Keep moving.
They crossed the lobby. Eyes followed them. VIVRE employees. Security agents. People in suits.
They examined him the way you examine a dangerous animal.
He held their gaze.
Look at me.
Remember my face.
Tell your friends what you saw.
Plant the seeds.
They reached a door. A metal door. No handle. A guard pressed a button. The door opened.
Beyond it, a darker corridor. Narrower. Cells.
VIVRE's prison.
The guard pushed him inside.
— All the way down, on the right.
Gabriel walked.
He counted the cells.
One. Two. Three. Four.
The fifth.
The door was open.
He went in.
The cell was small. A bed. A toilet. A sink. A screen on the wall.
The screen was showing news.
— Profiling system offline.
— Critical error.
He sat on the bed.
He heard the door close behind him.
The sound of the lock.
It's over.
I'm a prisoner.
But the plan worked.
He turned to the screen.
— Experts are describing a sophisticated cyberattack. No group has claimed responsibility.
He smiled.
They'll never know who struck.
Not right away.
But someday.
Someday, they'll know.
He lay down on the bed.
The mattress was hard. The pillow was flat.
But he was emptied out.
More emptied out than he had ever been.
He emptied the space around him.
He thought of Zara.
She's safe.
She's far away.
She made it.
He thought of Amélie.
She was right.
The seeds are planted.
Now I have to wait.
He thought of his father.
He'll never understand.
But that's all right.
It wasn't for him that I acted.
He thought of Solène.
She died for this moment.
So that I could live it.
I hope you're proud, Solène.
I hope you can see us.
He returned to reality.
The screen kept rolling the news.
— The profiling system is expected to be restored within the coming days.
— Experts say the attack was quickly contained.
— No data was compromised.
Liars.
They're lying.
Everything was compromised.
Everything is broken.
And they can't fix it.
He got up.
He walked to the screen.
He followed the news as it scrolled past.
— The Minister of the Interior has condemned the attack.
— Enhanced security measures are being put in place.
— The profiling system is essential to national security.
No.
It's essential to your control.
To your power.
And now it's broken.
Satisfaction shot through him.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor.
He turned.
A guard stopped in front of his cell.
— Meal in an hour, said the guard.
— Thank you, said Gabriel.
The guard studied him.
— You're calm.
— Yes.
— Why?
Gabriel shrugged.
— Because I did what I had to do.
The guard shook his head.
— You're insane.
— Maybe.
The guard left.
Gabriel was alone.
He stared at the screen.
— Profiling system offline.
— Recommendation services disrupted.
— Targeted advertising no longer functioning.
Everything is starting.
The first cracks.
In a few days, people will start to notice.
In a few weeks, they'll start asking questions.
In a few months, they'll start to act.
He let himself fall onto the bed.
He waited.
The meal arrived an hour later.
A plastic tray. Mashed potatoes. A piece of meat. Vegetables. A glass of water.
He ate.
The food was bland. But he was hungry.
He finished the tray.
He drank the water.
He set the tray near the door.
He waited.
The hours passed.
The screen was still showing the news.
— Profiling system still offline.
— Engineers working to restore service.
— No restoration date has been announced.
They can't fix it.
They can't.
Because it's not just a virus.
It's an idea.
And ideas can't be fixed.
He straightened up.
He walked over to the screen.
He touched the glass.
This is for you, Solène.
This is for you, Maman.
This is for everyone who was a victim of this system.
He fought no more.
He felt a tear run down his cheek.
He didn't wipe it away.
I'm free.
Even here.
I'm free.
He shook off his stupor.
He reread the screen.
— Profiling system still offline.
A wave of peace washed over him.
The seeds are planted.
Now I have to wait.
He settled on the bed.
He waited.
Night fell.
The light in the cell grew dimmer. Bluer.
The screen still showed the news.
— Profiling system still offline.
— Experts are baffled.
— The attack is unprecedented.
Gabriel lay down on the bed.
He contemplated the ceiling.
He thought about what was going to happen.
The trial.
Prison.
The years.
But I'm ready.
I'm ready.
He went still, listening.
Footsteps drew closer in the corridor.
Several people.
He stiffened.
Guards stopped in front of his cell.
Two of them.
— Get up, said one.
Gabriel got up.
— What's happening?
— You have a visitor. The visiting room. Ten minutes.
He frowned.
— Who?
— Follow us.
They opened the door.
They took him out.
They walked him down the corridor.
They reached a door.
A guard opened it.
Beyond it, a room. A thick pane of glass, floor to ceiling. Two booths. Two handsets.
And a woman.
On the other side of the glass.
Sitting.
She raised her eyes to him.
She had grey hair. Tired eyes. She wore a blue coat.
He recognized her.
His mother.
He picked up the handset.
— Maman?
She stood up.
She leaned toward the glass.
She picked up hers.
Her eyes lingered on him.
For a long time.
Then she said:
— Gabriel.
Her voice was trembling.
— Maman, what are you doing here?
— I came to see you.
— How did you find out?
— I saw the news.
She stared at him.
— It was you, wasn't it?
He didn't answer.
— It was you, she said again.
— Yes.
She paused.
— Why?
— Because I had to.
— Why?
— Because Solène died because of this system. Because thousands of people died because of this system. Because I couldn't stand by any longer.
She pulled herself together.
She looked at him.
— You could have died, she said.
— I know.
— You could have been killed.
— I know.
— And it was worth it?
He looked at her.
— Yes, he said.
She shook her head.
— You're just like your father.
— No.
— Yes. The same stubbornness. The same conviction that you're right.
— It's not stubbornness, Maman. It's conscience.
She looked at him.
For a long time.
Then she said:
— I'm proud of you.
He studied her.
— What?
— I'm proud of you.
She placed her hand against the glass.
He pressed his against it.
He watched her tears fall, on the other side of the pane.
— I'm proud of you, she said again.
He said nothing.
He kept his hand against hers, the glass between them.
I'm free.
Even here.
I'm free.
The guards brought him back to his cell.
He sat back down on the bed.
— Profiling system still offline.
— Engineers working to restore service.
— No restoration date has been announced.
Certainty warmed his chest.
The seeds are planted.
Now I have to wait.
He lay down on the bed.
He held his breath.
Footsteps came closer in the corridor.
They stopped in front of his cell.
He started.
A guard stood there.
— You have another visitor, he said.
Gabriel got up.
— Who?
— Follow me.
He followed the guard.
They crossed the corridor.
They reached the same room.
The same glass.
The same handsets.
And a woman.
On the other side of the glass.
She had black hair. Green eyes. She wore a red coat.
He recognized her.
Zara.
He picked up the handset.
— Zara?
She picked up hers.
She stood up.
She came to stand against the glass.
Her eyes settled on him.
— You're alive, she said.
— Yes.
— I was afraid.
— I know.
She pressed her palm against the pane.
He pressed his against it.
Their palms touched through the pane.
— It worked, she said.
— I know.
— They're blind.
— I know.
— You did it.
— I know.
She stepped back.
She sought his gaze.
— What happens now?
— I go to prison.
— For how long?
— A long time.
— And after?
— After, I'll get out.
— And then what?
He held her gaze.
— I'll start again, he said.
She smiled.
— I knew you'd say that.
— You know me well.
— Yes.
She leaned toward the pane.
She pressed her lips to the pane, facing him.
He did the same.
He felt the cold of the glass against his mouth.
He savored the moment.
I'm free.
Even here.
I'm free.
He was taken back to his cell.
He sat down, drained, on the bed.
He checked the screen.
— Profiling system still offline.
— Engineers working to restore service.
— No restoration date has been announced.
He breathed deeply.
The seeds are planted.
Now I have to wait.
He lay down on the bed.
He let the certainty take root.
The seeds are planted.
Now I have to wait.
A thrill of triumph ran through him.
But everything has already begun.
The process is already underway.
His eyes went to the screen.
The irony almost made him laugh.
They can't fix it.
Because it's not just a virus.
It's an idea.
And ideas can't be fixed.
He lay down on the bed.
He surrendered to the night.
I'm free.
Even here.
I'm free.
He fell asleep.
And for the first time in a long time, he slept without nightmares.