Interpol’s raid of the Utopic commune ‘Alliance Bleue’ in the early hours of January 15, 2013, was over in just 12 minutes.

Some attribute this to Interpol’s airtight running of ‘Operation Deep Blue’ in the leadup to the raid. Others attribute it to Alliance Bleue’s holographic walls. Whatever the reason, Alliance Bleue’s acolytes were sent scurrying into the undergrowth and the mission’s officers sent largely insane; the perceived power to walk through walls leading to a string of dischargeable offences and in many cases, institutionalisation.

But Sébastien Tellier, founder and leader of the free artisan society, vanished. Until now.

While inside the wall-less compound, some of Alliance Bleue’s Free Minds had perfected a form of digital absorption. Tellier, meanwhile, had been honing his burgeoning telepathic and psychokinetic abilities and forseeing the coming raid, was absorbed into the Internet. Where in the world is Sébastien Tellier? He’s everywhere.

“He’s in a better mood now” shrugs Marlon, brushing the sleeve of his white overalls. “He’s…refreshed…”

Marlon’s a cleaner. He spends his time sweeping junk code into the giant, slavering chutes studded along the glassy halls of the Internet. He will keep tipping code ceaselessly into these chutes until he’s told to stop. Then he’ll tip himself in.

“It’s what you would commonly refer to as a ‘house arrest’”, Marlon explains of Tellier’s living arrangements. “The prevailing nodes of wisdom felt it better suited their purposes if he remained here in his domicile, without the temptations of accessible technology or physical human form.”

“So he’s trapped here? How…is he?”

“There was a period of low mood” Marlon admits, looking down at the junk code caked over his feet. “He managed on three occassions to fashion wet bundles of rogue code into a sort of crude knife”

“Yikes”

“Yes…So we allowed him a short, heavily-supervised break, in fully flesh form”

“Where did he go?”

 

“You can talk with him now. But not in person, not with words, it’s too much of a liability. Use these.” Marlon hands me a small box of index cards. “No descriptions of the outside. No questions about Alliance Bleue. If you need me…I’ll be everywhere.”

I slide a card under the door.

 

“What are you doing?”

“Sorry Marlon?”

“What are you doing? I told you, no questions about Alliance Bleue.”

Marlon looks agitated, or whatever the digital approximation of agitated is, standing a little too close, voice volume raised 15% above normal speaking level. He steps back, lowering his oversized black broom.

“The rules…” he begins. He steps forward again. “The rules are important here. Please. You must abide them.” Then he turns, sweeping as he goes, ashen clouds of code billowing around the head of his broom. I hear a voice from under the door.

“Brle en enfer.”

 

I stand in the hallway for a full minute waiting for Marlon to return. Finally I can hear the sound of his metronomic footfalls slapping against the slick surrounding walls. He turns his head to me and empties a small heap of junk code into the jutting grey lip of a disposal chute. He continues staring at me, his features uncreased by any perceptible feeling or inclination. He opens his mouth to speak, but lets it fall shut. Then he eases himself into the chute.