attractive. It was not that he had been unhappy with his life: withdrawal into a better world of his own construction was what he wanted to do.
Then, one day, his life changed for ever.
His parents had worried about their only child. Fretted about him. They worried about his ballooning weight and they worried about him squandering his obvious intellectual gifts. He found out later that it had been his mother’s idea to buy him a computer for his fourteenth birthday. Suddenly, a whole new world of possibilities opened up for him. The carefully constructed fantasy world he had built now had an environment outside his head.
His parents were, of course, devastated by his decision not to go to university. But it was also, in a way a relief: they had never been able to envisage their overweight, painfully shy, reclusive son functioning in a campus environment. And it soon became clear that he had a real and marketable talent for designing computer games; he found a job with a software design company which seemed more interested in the games Roman had devised in his bedroom than in any paper qualification.
It had not lasted. Roman’s inability to relate to other people meant that, despite his clear talent, he was let go from the software company. There had been another similar job but that, too, had not lasted. Then a less well- paid job. Finally the job in the computer store, selling Macs and PCs to morons who asked continually ‘How much memory does it have?’ without having the slightest idea what the question, or its answer, really meant.
Stuck at home with his parents, Roman had found it impossible to cope with the weary sadness in their eyes every time they looked at him. They had been good to him, however, and whenever he needed cash for a new piece of computer equipment they seemed to find it. Then, one afternoon that had become evening that had become night as he had lost hours in idle surfing, he had found his way into a secure company site. It had been easy and he had not meant to do anything, but he found himself able to make online payments to suppliers. So he did. Not much, and it was not technically fraud, because Roman in no way benefited personally from the transaction, but he had done it because he could do it. He had returned the next day to find that the security settings had remained unaltered, so he put the money he had moved back to where it belonged. Roman had realised that if the discrepancy was discovered, then the IP records of people accessing the site would be examined. Before he attempted anything like it again he would have to camouflage his presence.
It took Roman six months to set up his elaborate system of bot herders, shell accounts, proxy servers and bouncers to conceal his identity. The first theft was large: over thirty thousand dollars which he immediately transferred to the account of an environmental charity. No direct benefit yet. He was still working at the computer store and had to do his real work in the evenings and at night; it took him another three months to set up the elaborate web of bank and credit-card accounts around the world, through which he could channel the income from his fraud. He monitored transactions on the account from which he had stolen the money. It took the company a month to uncover the theft and another month to work out that it had been committed online; only then did they change and tighten their security.
It was then that Roman knew the course his life must take.
Of course, there was the risk of detection. Arrest. Conviction. Prison.
But, as someone whose expansive intellectual architecture was already confined by the dragging mass of his own body, there was a limit to how much a threat of confinement to a cell would be to the eremite Roman. And, of course, if he were to be sent to Billwerder prison in Hamburg he knew they ran computer training programmes. Even if they did catch him, they would never be able to track down all the money he had sequestered. He would leave prison a rich man. The risk was worth it. Worth it for the reward, worth it for the thrill.
His parents had been surprised when Roman announced that he was working as a freelance developer for a major virtual-reality games-design company. He showed them their website and the letters of contract they had sent. The website and the letters, of course, had been created by Roman himself. But they had satisfied his parents that all the new equipment that arrived was being supplied by his employers. They were delighted when Roman eventually announced that he had enough money to find himself a small flat somewhere, but it would be best if he rented it in their name. To alleviate their concerns he had given them a deposit of eight thousand euros.
Since then, Roman had amassed a personal fortune, stashed around the world, of somewhere in the region of four million euros. He knew he would never use a fraction of that amount: he could only access his funds in small bites and, in any case, Roman knew that the health problems associated with his obesity meant he would be lucky to live to see his thirtieth birthday. Setting up an automated transfer system meant that, if he were to die and could not enter the appropriate cancellation code at the end of the month, one million euros would be transferred to his parents’ account. He had left a note with his other papers that would explain that he had been paid massive royalties for one of the games he had developed and that the accumulated proceeds were to go to them.
Roman sat in his custom-made computer chair and gazed absently through the window. Today, for some reason, he had opened up the blinds. The sky hung over Wilhelmsburg like a grey curtain with a pale horizontal hem broken by the angular forms of the other apartment blocks. To Roman what he was looking at was no more real than the other world he watched through the windows of his computer screens. He contemplated it for a moment before diving back into his natural environment.
One of the things he did habitually was to intrude on the lives of strangers.
There was, he felt, no harm in these intrusions: no one knew that he had been there, there was no sense of violation as he carefully peeled away the layers of their identity, tracing their past, getting to know their families, their friends, their hobbies. It allowed him, for an hour or so, to live another life. To experience vicariously the society from which he otherwise felt excluded. Roman would pick someone at random from Facebook or MySpace or any of the countless other social networking sites and he would trace their cyber-radiative signature. The phrase was one of his own invention: ‘cyber-radiative signature’ best described, for him, the presence — the degree of presence — that individuals had in cyberspace.
Roman had come up with the idea late one sleepless night. His obesity meant that he suffered from a range of problems which threatened to kill him each night as he slept. He went to bed with an oxygen mask strapped to his nose to combat sleep apnoea and to boost the blood-oxygen levels that his obesity-hypoventilation syndrome pushed so dangerously low. It was ironic that someone as disconnected from the physical world as Roman was should live with the constant threat of being smothered, literally, by his own mass as he slept.
For Roman it was like diving into water. The risk of death from cerebral hypoxia, to which he was exposed each time he slept, was exactly the same as swimmers and free-divers faced. He had read of Shallow-Water Blackout and Deep-Water Blackout, where fit, experienced free-divers would lose consciousness because the instinct to breathe when the carbon dioxide in their blood reached dangerous levels was overridden. Their brains starved of oxygen, there was no warning, no physical symptoms. They simply passed out and drowned. It would be, thought Roman, a peaceful, painless death.
There had been more than a few nights when he had considered sleeping without his oxygen mask.
But most of the time Roman purposely avoided sleep and the hazards that lay hidden in its depths. He would stay at his desk until the small hours, only going to bed when exhaustion forced him to do so. Until then, oblivious to the time or the physical world around him, Roman would work and play in his natural environment. When he wasn’t stealing funds from businesses around the world, much of his time was spent reading and researching. This was often in the most arcane and abstract realms of knowledge, far removed from anything Roman would need to know as part of his criminal work. Quantum mechanics and physics, philosophy of mind and consciousness studies, biotechnology and the history of science were his favourite areas of reading. He would lose himself reading about or listening to video lectures on quantum entanglement, string theory, computer simulation. What Roman particularly liked to do was to explore every aspect of a subject, shining his searchlight into the oddest corners. For example, he liked to explore the genuine philosophical implications of quantum physics, but also the New Age wacky angles that many blogs and groups took on it. The holographic theory of the universe, for example, which solved the problem of black holes contradicting the Second Law of Thermodynamics was, at the end of the day, merely a new interpretation of the arrangement of matter, but Roman found scores of New Age-y sites and conspiracy-theory blogs that announced that we were, after all, really living in the Matrix.
Roman found himself totally immune to the paranoia of the conspiracy theorists and the ludicrous spiritual significance that New Agers attached to the innate beauty of some quantum theories. This, he knew, was highly unusual for his type. Schizotypes were famous for their magical thinking, as psychiatrists called it: beliefs in spooks and ESP; in UFOs and telepathy and telekinesis. They also had a strong tendency towards paranoia. But Roman had known that all these things were crap. There were no such things as ghosts or poltergeists or God. He found he
