Conspiracy

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Today's short story is a fragment of a novel that I tried to start, on and off, for nine years. It seems some books aren't destined to be written, but the fragments can be interesting. I hope you think so.

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Inside the room was a table separating two chairs. Seated at the table, head bowed over a book, was a an white haired man who could have been anywhere between forty and seventy. Next to him, a large jug of steaming coffee, and a china cup with a saucer. The man looked up, and he smiled.

"Ah, good evening Mr Flint. Punctual as always. Please come in and sit down - you are quite safe, but we don't have much time."

After an uncertain pause, Flint sat. The man smiled warmly and leaned forward, as though to confide some secret to an old friend.

"It is so good to finally meet you, Mr Flint. Our mutual friend has told me so much about you. I am Mr Stone, but you guessed that already, naturally."

"How could I resist the trail of breadcrumbs you left for me to follow? Now. why?"

Mr Stone looked thoughtful for a few seconds, staring off into space, collecting his thoughts.

"Here we are, myself and my fellow travellers, a group of a hundred or so, scattered across nations and guilds, loosely tied together by an idea. An idea, a hope and a struggle. An idea that seems too vague to put briefly into words, a hope that seems futile, and a struggle that it seems we can only lose.

"Have you ever wondered what it is we actually do? Aside from sit and hope. We can't mount campaigns, we'd stand no chance in elections, and there's no way we could seize power militarily. And yet you know we make plans. Plans for what?

"The powerful know we exist, and though they could crush us they permit us to exist, because to them we're a safety value. A way for misfits to gain a sense of belonging, and work off their frustration harmlessly. But we're not so harmless they don't keep us under constant observation."

Mr Stone paused and took a sip of coffee. He swilled it thoughtfully around in his mouth, and swallowed.

"I take it you're familiar with the notions of Signal and Noise? The signal is anything you want to measure, and the noise is all the other signals you get that interfere with your measurement. When they point their hidden cameras at us, or send spies to infiltrate us, the signal they're trying to measure is our intentions. They want to know what we're trying to achieve, and how. The noise is everything we do and say that sounds relevant, but isn't.

"And as I'm sure you know, the noise is often louder than the signal. In fact, sometimes the signal is so quiet and the noise so loud, it almost disappears. And so we generate noise of our own, just for them to hear. We make plans that we have no intention of carrying out, just to let them overhear us doing it. We talk in elaborate codes that mean nothing, and they waste hours every day having their computers go over it.

Oh, they know we're doing it. They know that we know that they're watching. And they know we're jamming the signal with noise, which they have to analyse and decode, because hidden somewhere in that noise is the signal that frightens them."

Mr Stone took another mouthful of coffee, and spent another few seconds staring off into space. Then he continued.

"But what if there is no signal? What if all we're doing is making noise to make them think there's a signal hidden in there somewhere? What if everything we say and do is a distraction, not from some grand masterplan, but to hide the fact that there is no masterplan?

"Have you ever thought of that, Mr Flint? I'm sure you have, with a mind like yours. Always watching, always doubting, always trying to understand what's really going on. If you did think of it, you must have realised there'd be no point in carrying out such an elaborate and dangerous deception.

Unless there is a plan after all, and almost none of us know what it is. We know we're hiding something, we know it's important, but we don't know what we're hiding.

What if we hundred are a hoax, hiding the ten who really have a plan. Slowly moving into position, using the noise of the hundred to cover our footsteps. It is ten? Is it five? Or is it just one lone operator, planning ahead, waiting his turn? Who would that one be, Mr Flint?

Me? No! Too obvious. As their leader I could hardly be their secret weapon now, could I?"

Mr Stone grinned self-deprecatingly at the thought. He downed the last of the coffee, and with barely a pause poured another cup.

"But maybe the best agent is one who doesn't even know he's an agent. It's something to consider anyway. Goodnight, Mr Flint."

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