The Tourist

by Robert Dickinson

  “What if they were strangers? How were they supposed to know?”

  “They weren’t.” If you saw anybody you didn’t recognise you were supposed to avoid them and alert the authorities. If it was somebody you recognised and they were in the wrong place you did the same. “We were warned against spending too long in the old city.”

  “I’ve seen some of the old cities,” he says, and looks surprised at his own words. “The Tunnels.”

  “The buildings were unsafe. There were criminal gangs. Thieves. Deserters. There are always selfish people. We were told to be careful.”

  That was the pattern of your life. You were told certain things were true and gradually discovered they weren’t. The old city was not as dangerous as your teachers claimed. All the children, given a chance, explored or took shortcuts. The ruins had been made safe—or safer—by the labourers who’d lived in them when they built the new city. Anything that hadn’t fallen down long ago was buttressed or shored up. Sometimes you’d find traces of recent occupation—the ashes of a fire, animal bones, shit. You rarely saw people, and then only at a distance, fleeing. They were scared of everybody, even children. If they were reported and caught they’d have to become citizens, which meant working in the waste farms and insect factories.

  A memory comes back unbidden: the room where the girls lined up to hear the latest announcements. Don’t stop, don’t take shortcuts, don’t talk to strangers. Yesterday our scouts saved more people fleeing from the enemy. How many mornings did you stand in that room? Lined up with the other girls, then sitting with them in classes, waiting for those moments between classroom, mess hall and dormitory when you could slip away to some alcove or cupboard and be alone.

  “Were you a believer?” Riemann’s voice drags you back. “The cathedral. Did you worship in it?”

  “It was unsafe.”

  The room had thick pipes overhead which, at twelve, you could reach up and touch. It was always too cold or too hot and there was always a smell of damp and shit and at least one girl would be crying because she was new and didn’t understand the language. After the messages and lessons there would be songs: stories from history, reminders of the need for discipline and others which you’d thought were nonsense until you learned they were from before when even the language was different. The teachers were determined to teach you the old songs. It is your culture, they would say. It cannot be lost. You remember the time one of the girls made a mistake and instead of shouting at her the teacher cried. It was the first time you’d seen an adult cry, or show any emotion other than anger or stern resolve.

  “Why did you keep it?” His voice is gentle. “I didn’t think you were religious.”

  He’s still talking about the cathedral. “We weren’t.” There had been believers, different sects allowed to pray in private if they thought it helped. “We were taught to rely on ourselves.”

  “Because everybody else was against you?”

  “Everybody was against us.”

  You can’t remember any of the songs now, only fragments. The first line of one, a refrain from another. There was a song about a birch tree. You didn’t even know what a birch tree was, but you sang the song with the other girls. You knew the words then. You could be the last person alive who once knew those songs and you’ve forgotten them all. What would the teacher say to that?

  He’s long dead. He wouldn’t say anything.

  The real danger in the old city, you tell him, was from other children, particularly the boys from the home under the courthouse—the older girls were full of stories about what happened to girls they caught. If you saw them you were supposed to stay hidden until they moved on. But even the boys weren’t so terrible. They were more interested in getting away from the city, heading west, hoping to avoid patrols. The girls shared stories about tunnels, hidden rooms, boltholes where you could disappear; the boys told each other how to leave the city.

  “Your whole city was mad.” He shakes his head. “So you had a cathedral that was unsafe and you didn’t worship there. Why didn’t you demolish it and build something useful?”

  “Because we weren’t you. We remembered our past.” You’re pleased with your answer. You’d be more pleased if it hadn’t occurred to you after a long and awkward silence.

  He goes back to staring at the side panels. There are three small dents at eye level. He’s probably wondering what caused them. Now that you’ve started thinking about your old city you can’t stop. Your favourite hiding place was a room beyond a room on the second floor of an old school building: you liked it because there were two ways in, both hidden, and because it had been your discovery. It had been some kind of storeroom, and still contained a single shelf of rotting books. There was a crack in the wall through which you could watch people hurrying along the old street: other girls, teachers, workers. It was like being invisible. Whenever you could slip out of the home you’d come to this room and stand by that gap in the wall. You spent hours there. It was the solitude, the view of the street. Sometimes you’d take a book off the shelf and turn the damp, gritty pages in the dark, trying to imagine what they said. Other times you’d pretend to be a sniper, deciding who lived or died. The memory of the room is vivid, but when you try to remember the view the image that comes is a mistake, a street from the 21st with ancient vehicles and people in old costumes. You blink.

  Riemann is watching you. You close your eyes and pretend to sleep.

  Bar Five

  Bar Five is in the city centre. It’s a native place, in that it’s owned and run by natives, but its customers are extemps and reps and the more adventurous clients. The name is supposed to remind us of home. It’s bright and white, a vision of a streamlined future that’s retro even by native standards. The staff speak Modern, or something like it, and, while they sell the usual local drinks, they’ve learned not to stock ones we can’t metabolise. Natives occasionally come in, but they never stay for long. Even if they can afford the prices they don’t like the atmosphere.

  Sergei, the rep who was leaving, had booked the room at the back. By the time I arrived he was already asleep at the head of the table. Li jumped up when she saw me. “Spens, glad you could show. This is getting dead.” Sergei wasn’t the only one not entirely in the room. Kelson and Petra had their heads on the table, and a man I recognised from Living History was awake but staring at the plain white wall with more interest than it merited. There were a few others I didn’t recognise: typical Happiness engaged in typical Happiness conversations about kin ramifications and where they studied, except at about half the usual speed. “It started early,” Li says.

  That’s the problem with rep events: tonin. They get nostalgic for an old-fashioned T-break, inevitably somebody has a supply, and they don’t moderate. That’s why rep events are held in back rooms.

  I haven’t taken T since I was in the Tunnels, when it was part of the end-of-shift routine and recommended by the Tunnel Authorities. They wanted to keep their workers sane. Tonin won’t make you forget but it distances the experience so you don’t have flashbacks or bouts of unfocused aggression. If I take it now it just makes me think of rambling discussions about what you’d rather be doing with your life and a particular orange stain on the ceiling of my room. Li doesn’t take it for different reasons. She’ll drink alcohol or listen to music to change her mood, but thinks chemical intervention this precisely targeted is cheating. She also hasn’t had any elective augs. “Another typical rep farewell,” she says. “Do you want to go somewhere else before Ivan turns up?”

  Ivan is the other problem with rep events. Unlike most extemps, he actively seeks out the company of reps, if only because he thinks we’ll provide him with tonin. Somebody will usually oblige. I disapprove: if he’s an extemp he ought to stick with the native population’s range of narcotics. Isn’t that why he’s here? Instead he pesters us. If there’s a farewell party he’ll sniff it out, even if he hasn’t been invited.

  Li says goodbye to the few
reps who are still awake and we head for the door. “I’ve never liked this place,” she tells me, which I knew already. “There’s a bar not far from here that’s not bad. And cheaper.”

  Cheaper. Li is concerned about money: she says it because she’s from City Three North, which rarely had any. Her wages are supposed to pay for her future travel. She doesn’t want to spend them in Bar Five.

  “Wherever you like.” We’re out in the main room. A few reps, a couple of clients looking around in wonder. It’s still early evening.

  Before we can reach the door Ivan steps in from the street. He’s wearing native clothes, layers of drab, inert materials. He’s rolled up his sleeves so that everybody can see his tattoos. They’re the kind you still occasionally find on Tri-Millennium’s older clients. Ivan’s in his forties but belongs to that generation. He’s been in the 21st ever since it became possible to live here openly and still thinks he’s a pioneer, full of advice and interesting stories. “Li.” He sees us and grins. “Spens.”

  Li nods at the back room. “Sergei’s in there.”

  Ivan stands in our way, arms folded across his chest so we can’t miss his antique body art. “I’ll be sorry to see him go.” The snake tattoos writhe slowly around his thin arms to emphasise how sorry he is. “No, I’ll chat to Sergei later. But it’s you I wanted to talk to.”

  He’s looking at me. This is unusual. I’m not a source of tonin. “Yeah?”

  “What’s this I hear about one of your clients wandering off?”

  “I don’t know, Ivan.” I wonder how he’s heard anything. It’s only been a few hours. News travels quickly but so far I’ve only told Erquist. Unless a client on the trip noticed and talked to another rep… “What have you heard?”

  “Rumours, Spens. Mish talk.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it.” I don’t like Ivan. He’s simultaneously sleazy and boring–actively, aggressively boring. He can take a subject dear to your heart and turn it into ashes. Plus I’m uncomfortable with somebody of my grandfather’s generation scraping tonin from reps. It’s undignified. “There’s nothing to it.”

  “I’ve heard there’s something.” The snakes on his arms freeze. “I mean, you know who she is, don’t you?”

  “Of course we do.”

  “But you know what she is?”

  For a moment I wonder if Ivan knows about Riemann. They’ve both been here for years. Somehow I don’t think Riemann would stoop this low. Plus Riemann spent most of his time in South and Central America. I don’t think Ivan has ever left this city. “We’re not concerned.”

  “Aren’t you?” Ivan looks pleased. His snakes resume their sinuous weaving. “So you don’t think she’s in any trouble? There isn’t a Safety Team trying to find her?”

  “Why would there be?”

  “Just curious. It can be dangerous out in the anterior.” The anterior: the slang that reminds you he’s not a contemporary. “I thought you might be taking precautions. Li!” He unfolds his arms and hugs her. She shudders and twists free. Ivan is known for his hugs and hand clasps. They’re part of his native affectation. “I’m sure Li knows all about the risks.”

  She says, “It’s not so dangerous.”

  “So where are you going?” For a moment it looks as if he’s about to invite himself along. “Looking for your client?”

  “Just a pub.” Li’s step back was part of a move to circumvent him. “If you want to say goodbye to Sergei you’d better hurry up. They started early. It might not last.”

  This works. Tonin isn’t addictive, yet Ivan has all the traits of a native addict. He grins and scuttles towards the back room, ready to give anybody still conscious a hearty greeting. He probably thinks he’s a larger-than-life figure. Ivan Ho, the one who went native, the one you need to know to find out what’s going on. It’s pathetic.

  Before the door can close behind him a woman runs out. She clutches Li’s arm. “Take me with you,” she pleads. “You can’t leave me in there with him.” She’s one of the reps I haven’t seen before. Tall, with the casual perfection and high gloss of a typical Happiness. I should be scornful, but when she smiles at me I smile back and notice she has piercing green eyes. The new fashion, just breaking as I left. Striking now, in a few years her illuminated stare will be as passé as Ivan’s tattoos.

  “This is Edda,” Li says, flatly. “She arrived last week.”

  “It’s my first time out.” Edda continues to smile. “Are you going to a native bar? Please let me come with you. I can’t stand that man.”

  Li doesn’t look entirely happy. She wanted to talk to me, not babysit this new arrival. We step out to the street. “I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” Edda says. “It’s just I didn’t come here to sit in a back room and pretend I’m home. And I’ve already met Ivan.”

  “I thought you said it was your first time out,” I say.

  “First time without clients.” The illumination fades slightly. “I had an excursion yesterday. He followed me around for an hour.”

  “The place we’re going is quiet,” Li says, as if this might discourage her. She leads us down a side street. It’s dark and lined with containers for unwanted food and other rubbish, the kind of street you walk through on your way somewhere else, the kind Tri-Millennium’s clients would avoid unless they had a guide. “This is already more interesting,” Edda says, touching my arm.

  “Wait til you’ve been here a year,” I say.

  Two-thirds of the way along, Li stops and pushes a button next to a wooden door. There’s a sign next to the button, illegible in this light. I assume this must be one of Li’s discoveries, a place where she takes only her hardiest clients.

  The door opens. I expect to hear music, but there’s nothing, or nothing I can distinguish from the ambient city noise.

  “Logan,” Li says.

  The native at the door is short, round-faced, pale, bearded–a neglect beard rather than a style beard, though, for some of Li’s friends, neglect is a style. “Li,” he says. He seems disappointed there are only three of us.

  “This is Spens,” Li tells him, as he stands aside to let us in. “And Edda.” He mumbles something as we pass. I don’t think it’s an actual word. When Edda smiles at him he looks pained and turns away.

  The door leads to a corridor as dark as the street outside. I still can’t hear anything that indicates we’re heading to a place of entertainment. The man opens another door. Beyond it is a storeroom, more brightly lit but just as quiet, with a few cardboard boxes on dusty metal shelves: paper towels, bar snacks. The boxes look like they haven’t been opened in years.

  “It’s a quiet night,” the man says.

  The next room is like a darker version of the back room at Bar Five. Low black sofas against the walls, glass-topped tables. It’s brighter than the storeroom but not by much. There’s another room beyond it, larger and brighter still, with some natives on stools by the greenish glow of a bar.

  Logan looks at us nervously. “What are you drinking?”

  I almost answer: Nothing, yet. Li recognises the idiom and orders beers. She pays in cash. I wonder if it’s the same money she took from the Shins. Edda sits next to me on the sofa. Li says, “What do you think?”

  I can see Logan and a native girl behind the bar where three customers have gathered. Two others sit at a table in the middle. The music—some kind of slow, angular jazz—is just loud enough to drown out whatever they’re saying. “You’re right. It’s quiet.”

  “But at least Ivan never comes here.” Li leans in. “So is it true what he said? Have you lost a client?”

  Edda is immediately interested. “You’ve lost a client? Is that even possible?” Her eyes seem to light up. They’re troubling. I knew people with layers like this in the Tunnels: first generation, functional, with a photosensitive switch for night vision. The catch was that the layers on each eye responded independently. We discovered that if you sneaked up behind somebody and covered one of their eyes it could
trigger an immediate migraine, a joke which soon wore thin. I preferred to work with torches and helmet lamps.

  “There are rumours about your clients,” Li says.

  “What sort of rumours?”

  “The main one is about tone.” Li glances at Edda, wary of talking about this in front of her. “If your client is missing it could be she’s a courier.”

  “Carrying tonin?” This is something I hadn’t considered. “What would be the point? It’s all over the resorts already. And you saw Sergei.”

  “That’s reps and clients. Small stuff. If she was carrying it would have been for extemps. They’re a market.”

  “Really? Why don’t they do what Ivan does and scrape it off a rep?”

  “Not all of them are close enough to a resort.” Li is patient. “And not all of them want anything to do with reps. They’re extemps for a reason.”

  “But they still want tone,” Edda adds. “There are some things they can’t give up.”

  “And they can’t make it here,” Li says. “And there’s no legal market outside the resorts. So they rely on our clients.”

  “Or your clients,” Edda says. “Tri-Millennium is notorious.”

  “No.” It’s one of those moments when you realise you’re not as observant as you thought. “Notorious?”

  “Because you’re the cheapest,” Edda says, as if it’s common knowledge. “Your clients can get a free holiday and still make money. Three-quarters of all the tone in Western Europe comes from your clients.”

  I wonder if Erquist knows this. I wonder how Edda knows this. I ask a stupid question. “Where does the other quarter come from?”

  “Geneva.” Li looks surprised I haven’t heard. “But that’s not the point.”

  This is less of a surprise. Geneva is the closest we have to sovereign territory in this era. We made a show of negotiating for islands, but we always knew we’d have Geneva and once we’d repurposed CERN nobody wanted to argue with us, even if they weren’t sure what we’d done. If there are any charters to the early 21st they come through Geneva. Geneva enforces the protocols and decides how much information we’re allowed to see.