Spark: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

and gather petitions. Using social media as a contact point, “bash mobs” of growlers would suddenly gather in a shopping mall, paint “NO JOBS” on the wall, and then destroy everything in sight. Sometimes they would break into luxury car dealerships at night and attack the cars with hammers. By the time the police had arrived, broken glass was everywhere, but the growlers had disappeared.
    There was a massive crackdown on the growlers and their supporters after the Day of Rage bombings. In the United States, thousands of people were sent to Good Citizen Camps in Utah and Kentucky. In Russia, anyone involved in the Day of Rage was executed by military firing squads. After the initial wave of arrests and executions, almost every large country established an EYE monitoring and normalcy program to keep their antisocial elements undercontrol. Any United States citizen who displayed TABS (Terrorist Activities, Behavior or Statements) could be held without trial for sixty days.
    And yet—after all this monitoring and control—the growlers could still be found in most large cities. There was also a growing movement of New Luddites who called themselves “Children of Ned.” The Luddites attacked the nubots and tried to sabotage the technology of surveillance. If a stylish person was strolling through Stoke Newington wearing G-MIDs, they might be forced to toss their special eyeglasses onto the sidewalk, and then watch as the Luddites smashed it with their boots.
    It didn’t bother me to be walking down a dark street dotted with drug dealers and growlers who had probably been arrested a few times. Since my Transformation, I’m incapable of experiencing fear. If someone attacked me, my actions would not be restrained by conscience or morality. The petty criminals in Stoke Newington had a certain animal sensitivity to danger. When I strolled past the different groups, they lowered their eyes or looked away.
    Mrs. Driscoll lived on the top floor of a three-story terrace house. When I rang the bell, she clattered downstairs and flung open the door. She had thinning old-lady hair, dyed blond. Her eyes were bright blue. She wore a white blouse and a gray ankle-length skirt with a great many pleats. And jewelry, lots of jewelry: beaded necklaces hanging from a skinny neck, earrings, and four or five bracelets on each wrist.
    “Are you the man who called about lessons?”
    “Yes. I’m Richard Morgan.”
    “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Please come in …” Mrs. Driscoll waved me into the vestibule and closed the door while a little white dog barked at the top of the stairs. “That’s Joey.” She called up to her pet. “Say hello to our new friend, Joey!” Then she turned to me and smiled. “Don’t worry, Mr. Morgan. Joey is more bluster than bite. You’re an American. Is that correct?”
    “Yes.”
    “Well, my little darling has met two Americans in his life and he liked them both.”
    Mrs. Driscoll’s bracelets clicked against each other as she led me upstairs to her flat and guided me into the front parlor. The room was crammed with heavy-looking furniture, tea tables, and lamps made from Chinese vases. Everywhere you looked there were framed photographs of Joey and black-and-white prints of Mrs. Driscoll acting in various plays. An oil painting of a thin man with a neatly trimmed mustache hung over the fireplace.
    “That’s the late Mr. Driscoll,” she announced, standing in front of the portrait. “I’m a bit of a flibbertigibbet, a sparrow fluttering through life. Mr. Driscoll was my rock, my center.”
    I declined a cup of tea, and then sat on the edge of a green brocade chair while Mrs. Driscoll and her dog took the sofa. As she chattered about her dead husband, Joey gazed at me in that curious dog manner. Dogs are the only living creatures I will touch and tolerate. But sometimes they’re wary of me, and they’ll growl and lower their ears.
    “Thank you for seeing me so quickly, Mrs. Driscoll. You