Jagen Robertsson part I
The western most island of the Scandinavgrupp, Fastvatn, had been quarantined, rumour was that it was volcanic or seismic activity which had moved the government to enforce a military perimeter, but there were other stories. One of those stories was his, the true story, the factually accurate story. How did he know this? Because he had been there.
Staring at his remote deck, he unplugged from his encoded link on the public network and folded it into a small tablet no bigger than his hand, he unhooked the physical scrambler unit from it and stowed it in one of the many small pockets in his jacket, his deck he slid into another. He had little time, he had to move. It didn’t matter how good his obfuscation was, it would only slow the government down for so long. So far that time had been his escape window, but he knew it was only a matter of time.
He rose from his seat and exited the cubical. The holographic figure in the corner continued to dance erotically, the music thumped a rhythmic beat, the pink and blue neon lighting flashed out as the door to the room closed behind him. The corridor was as dark as his future had become. But truth often lurked in shadows.