The Tourist

by Robert Dickinson

That’s when I realise they’re not talking about a sequel to an existing entertainment. TWO is The War Ouroboros.

  EPP members are that kind of crank.

  The War Ouroboros, like DomeWatch, is one of those things reps find amusing at first. A Russian bestseller from a few years back, it’s never been published in the West, although there is a translation, a collective, volunteer effort on their internet. Millions of natives are supposed to have read the idiot thing. As part of my attempt to be the best possible rep—understanding the local culture—I once started it.

  It pretends to be the diary of an FSB officer sent to investigate a group of ex-army and intelligence officers who are believed to be stockpiling weapons in a remote industrial town. The hero infiltrates the group and learns they’re not terrorists: they’re preparing for war—against the future! They have evidence that our so-called resorts are staging posts for a planned invasion. The Whites (as we’re called) have been planning the invasion ever since they arrived. This is explained in a lot of detail—pages and pages and pages. The hero breaks into a resort to see this preparation for himself. There’s a description—a long description—that seems to have been provided by somebody who’d possibly seen the shell of a resort as it was being constructed and imagined the rest. These are the parts reps will tell you are hilarious. Anyway, convinced of the reality of the threat, the hero goes back to Moscow and tries to alert his superiors. They don’t believe his detailed and very specific warnings and give orders for his new friends to be arrested. Before this can be done the invasion begins: heavily armoured monsters storm out of resorts all across Europe and the United States. Moscow and other big cities are under attack. The hero’s superiors realise the hero was right and beg him to help them. He tries, but the only one he’s able to save from the initial assault is Natasha, his Chief’s beautiful assistant. They make their way through the war-ravaged countryside to the remote industrial town and prepare to fight back.

  That’s the first three hundred pages. It’s usually about as far as most reps get. I was determined to be the best possible rep.

  The hero undertakes a series of foolhardy missions, all of which would have failed had anyone tried them in the real world. He survives every time: weapons misfire; guards look in the wrong direction. After another two hundred pages—it’s a very long book—he finds out why: the leader of the Whites is his remote descendant, which means he can’t be killed as long as he doesn’t father any children. Fortunately he’s what they call Orthodox and believes sex has to be approved by a church. He tells himself he has to be pure “like the ancient warrior knights,” and insists the people fighting with him live the same way. I stopped reading after the chapter where the leaders of the demoralised NATO forces beg him to be their leader. The descriptions of the atrocities committed by the Whites were getting monotonous and there were still about a thousand pages to go.

  I’ve probably read further than Justin Bayer.

  Maybe it’s better in the original Russian, but the version I read was a dull and obvious daydream of power. The descriptions of the Whites—us!—start by being wrong enough to be amusing, including the obvious mistake that, for a number of reasons, we don’t have any resorts in Russia. It gets more disturbing when you realise the author actually hates us and that some of the natives take him seriously. They believe the invasion plans are real. They want the film to be made so that more people will hear the message. Plus the 21st doesn’t really believe a book exists until they’ve turned it into an entertainment in a different medium.

  If EPP are impressed by this rubbish they can’t be a serious threat.

  DomeWatch has a new story. Under the headline “Killed By Fanatic From The Future?” they have a picture of Alexander Metzger (“soft-spoken, scholarly defender of traditional values”) and one of arrivals taken on a different day. “Eyewitnesses claim that seconds before Dr. Metzger collapsed several ‘visitors’ were seen in the vicinity, yet the police made no effort to apprehend them. It is not enough that whole areas of our capital city are effectively no-go zones. It appears they are now taking their violence into our public spaces. We demand, etc.” It’s lurid, laughable stuff, and not a surprise they’re sympathetic to the hardships of Nazis. There are no no-go zones, just a few streets the natives can no longer afford. As for our violence, apart from the occasional Safety Team intervention (always in other countries and always carried out with the approval of the native authorities) the only trouble I’ve encountered was when two of them attacked me. With a machete! The next two stories are more typical: one claims that, by not taking sides, we are unfairly influencing climate change debate; in the other, a Reverend wonders if we are not the biblical nephilim (“giants,” etc.). He admits we haven’t shown much interest in the daughters of men—he clearly hasn’t met Picon Delrosso—but claims this is just a sign of our dangerous cunning.

  Happy Diggers doesn’t find anything useful. Diggers by itself brings up an ancient political movement and, unsurprisingly, more Nazis, this time in Australia. It’s depressing. I push the laptop away. I’ve seen enough for an afternoon. I can always ask Li about the March for Humanity.

  Twenty minutes later the routine pictures of flooding in Central Europe are interrupted by an excited native in a studio. “We’re getting reports of an explosion and a fire at the so-called Resort Number Three just outside Chichester…” And there’s a jump to shaky film of one of our resorts (they really do all look alike) where there’s smoke rising from a spot just to the right of the entrance. It’s filmed from about a kilometre away, and whoever’s holding the device can’t keep their hand still. There’s some incoherent talk—variations of, “Wow! Look at that! It’s on fire!”—before the programme cuts back to the studio, where the excited native now looks piqued. “Breaking news there. We’ll go back as soon as we have more details.” He gazes out hopefully. “No? Oh. The Prime Minister was surprised yesterday…” I stop listening. The Prime Minister’s surprise is unimportant. After a few minutes they’re back to the fire at Resort Number Three and this time they have information: it’s the result of a car being driven directly into one of the glass walls of the dome. Whether it was an accident, or the driver believed he could smash through the walls in a native vehicle isn’t clear, but there was an explosion on impact and the remains of the car are still burning harmlessly as the reporter speaks.

  I suspect it’s the work of somebody like Justin Bayer. More car-related crime… The driver, they say, is believed to have died in the explosion. He hasn’t yet been identified. I expect a message from Hayek but nothing comes.

  Li bips me. “Have you seen what happened at Resort Three? What do you think it means?” She’s excited, as if events are confirming her theories. “Are you meeting Edda later? I’ll see you there.”

  I have a feeling Bar Five is going to be busy.

  Welcome to the anterior

  Your chance to travel comes when Adorna Mond from City Three West strays too close to your home territory. She was picked up by scouts, held in an isolation ward and told she had an infectious disease. They gave you an implant to mimic her signature, turned on and off by a device worn on your wrist. Adorna Mond was roughly your height and build. The resemblance is useful. If the signature isn’t enough to fool their Safeties you can always claim to have had elective surgery, another Number City extravagance.

  You slip into City Two West, close enough to Adorna Mond’s home city not to arouse suspicion, far enough away that you don’t accidentally meet her kin (she gave her “doctors” a list of people to contact so you know who to avoid).

  The inhabitants surprise you at first. You expected slaves and monsters and find cheerful people who want to be friends. You repeat your memorised answers and soon learn the best way to deflect questions is to ask your own. Number City people are grateful for any chance to talk and quickly forget you haven’t told them anything. The other surprise is that they rarely mention your own city. You’d expected it to be a common topic of conve
rsation, or at least to be mentioned in official announcements, but they don’t seem to care.

  The company that arranges travel has three different names. You’re surprised it uses names: you’d been told the Number Cities used only numbers, but City Two West has restaurants named after the people who make the food and buildings named after architectural features. It seems the rules are softer for new institutions. You wonder if it will spread and the cities will be given names again.

  Adorna Mond, whose credit you use, could afford to travel with Heritage. You choose Tri-Millennium. It’s the cheapest and your instructions are to travel with low-status people to attract less attention. You might need Adorna’s credit when you return.

  The travel is easy to arrange. As long as they think you’re Adorna Mond they have no reason to stop you. You answer the questions and days later climb into the transport with other tourists, sit for several hours, then disembark in a resort.

  Your first task is to buy a device locally (they’re called phones) and contact Picon Delrosso using a memorised number. You can’t contact him from inside the resort in case communications are monitored. Picon will tell you what to do next. You carry a Dolman box, a Number City invention but useful. You don’t know what the box contains. It was closed when it was given to you, and locked using Picon Delrosso’s signature as the key. The only people who can open it are your contact, the tech who locked the box or the real Picon Delrosso, whose identity had been taken the way you’ve taken Adorna Mond’s.

  You spend the first week in the resort, avoiding the reps and trying to look like you are taking part in the cultural activities, surrounded by people you despise. They are complacent, frivolous; they think of nothing but pleasure. Worse, they keep trying to talk to you and you have to listen to them and try to smile. Finally there’s what looks like a chance to buy a phone: an excursion to a shopping mall that includes, as a bonus, a minor accident. You ask for a place.

  Everything about that first trip outside the resort is a shock: the crowded streets, the thousands of vehicles jamming the roads, the clamour and dazzle of the mall, the terrifying and pointless abundance—you could clothe and feed a city with what you see on display. Everything is bigger and brighter and louder than you imagined. Even the Number City idiots from your resort are shocked by it, and drawn to dimmer, quieter rooms that offer books or elaborate underwear. Fortunately you remember your training and brave one of the noisier shops to buy a phone using a card in your assumed name. The natives don’t question it: to them you’re just another traveller. They nod and grin at everything you say but you can recognise their contempt. You charge the phone in their shop and make the call. A man answers. When you tell him you’re Adorna Mond and give the code he sounds exasperated. “What’s taken you so long?” You tell him this was your first opportunity to leave. “At least tell me you’ve brought something.” “I have it now.” “Does the coach go straight back?” You tell him yes, but there’s going to be an accident. “What sort of accident?” “It says minor.” “How long do you stop?” “About fifteen minutes.” He sends you a tiny image of his face. “Get out then. I’ll be following the coach.” “Why can’t you come here?” It seems the obvious thing to do. “I can’t go to a mall. They’re watched.” This seems like excessive caution. The mall is crowded; the box could be passed on easily. You assume he knows what he’s doing and spend the next hour being appalled by window displays. This is the world the Number Cities will destroy. You’re meant to be outraged, but can’t help wondering if it’s a world worth saving. It’s a relief to get back to the coach and wait for the accident. When it happens you follow some of the other passengers off.

  In the next street a vehicle with tinted windows is waiting. The door slides open as you walk by. A man smiles as if he’s delighted to see you. “Welcome to the anterior.” He’s about the right age but he isn’t the man in the picture. You’re wary. You don’t trust the smile but you trust what Picon told you. You climb in.

  Mish talk

  It’s raining as I walk from the station to Bar Five. Even after a year and a half in the 21st I still have an instinctive distrust of rain. It looks pretty enough if you’re inside and damps down the usual stink of the city for a while, but I walk a little faster whenever it happens. I’m still uncomfortable when it touches my skin.

  There’s a crowd in the street outside Bar Five, mostly natives. Beyond them are a police vehicle and one of the red things they call fire engines. Two small, vicious-looking native police are keeping a row of people back. Fortunately I can see over their heads.

  Bar Five’s windows have been broken. There’s glass strewn across the pavement as if it’s been spat out. The inside, usually pristine white, is black, and not just because the lights are off. The interior is scorched, smoke-damaged.

  It’s building up.

  Li is at my side. “Let’s get out of here.” She’s with Edda and Jorge, a Heritage rep I’ve met before and didn’t like. On the other side of the cordon I notice Ivan gesticulating at a policeman. He keeps pointing at Bar Five, as if explaining why they need to let him in. I can tell he’s serious because his sleeves are rolled down.

  I follow Li to her native friend’s failing bar. There’s the same rigmarole of admission, the same bearded man guiding us through the storeroom to the same empty sofas. It’s no busier than the last time. The few native customers look like the same ones as before, in the same places. When we walk in they don’t react.

  “So,” Li asks once the bearded man has brought us drinks, “what’s going on? Resort Three, Bar Five. Is this connected? Is it the start of something?”

  “And don’t forget Spens was attacked,” Edda says.

  “You?” Jorge studied Early-20th History and Culture and thinks cinema is serious art, or was, until they started adding sound, and can explain why at length. He isn’t sure whether to believe Edda. “Where?”

  “By gangsters, a few nights ago. Leaving this bar.” Edda makes it sound like an achievement. “Did that have something to do with your client? Did you ever find her?”

  “She’s still missing. Our Chief Safety is in touch with Geneva.”

  I expect Li to be scornful. She doesn’t disappoint. “Geneva? They won’t help.”

  “They might in this case.”

  “You seem to attract trouble,” Edda says. “Wasn’t your car vandalised?” I wonder how she knows. Possibly Erquist mentioned it to another rep in one of his pep talks (“At least you haven’t been as unlucky as Spens…”) and it spread from there. The world of reps is small.

  “A local,” I say. “I think he was acting independently.”

  “Bar Five and Resort Three,” Li says. “And now your car. This could be organised.”

  “You think that’s organised?” Jorge says. “Where are you from, City Three North?”

  “They might not be accidents,” Li insists.

  “Resort Three was,” Jorge says. “You’ve seen how the locals drive.”

  Li ignores him. “The question is, why now? What’s changed? Is it to do with your client?”

  “That’s three questions,” Edda says.

  “You know what I think?” Li ignores her. “I think Geneva knew this was going to happen. Bar Five is too big. How could they not know?”

  “Because it’s not important,” Jorge says. “It might inconvenience a few reps, but it’s not Big History.”

  Li turns to me. “If they included your accident—”

  “Operational reasons.” Li’s theorising about Geneva is the one thing about her that makes me uncomfortable. It reminds me of Cantor, except he was never entirely serious. For him it was always a joke. He might keep talking long after everybody else had lost interest but he didn’t believe he was revealing a great truth. “They didn’t include my client going missing.”

  “But there might be a pattern. Your client, Bar Five—neither of them were in the records.”

  Jorge is delighted. “Are you’re saying they’re co
nnected? His client and Bar Five? Are you saying she might be responsible?”

  “Of course not,” Li says sharply. Jorge seems to bring out the worst in her: the last time they were out together, I remember, they argued the whole evening. “There are two answers here. Either Geneva knew about Bar Five and didn’t tell us, or their own records are wrong. Look, maybe they didn’t tell us because their records said something else.”

  “How can they be wrong?” Jorge, of course, objects. “We’ve had a few events we weren’t told about. So what? They’re all minor. The bar burned down, but was anybody hurt? If we were in danger we’d have been warned. So maybe it wasn’t an attack on us, but an accident. You can’t build an argument about their records based on what we’re not told. You’d have to find something they have told us is going to happen that doesn’t. If Spens is still here next month you’ll have a case.”

  “Or”—Li changes tack—“they suppressed the information because they didn’t want us to be prepared. They want us to panic.”

  Edda stays cool. “Why?”

  “So that they can intervene.” Li says it as if it’s a long-held conviction. She has contradictory ideas and can sound passionate about all of them. Jorge isn’t passionate about anything: he just wants to win arguments. It can make for a difficult evening. “Geneva isn’t enough for them. They want everything else.”

  “What do you mean by intervene?” Jorge slumps back to signal her opinion wearies him but he can’t let it go unchallenged. “Don’t we get everything anyway?”

  “We get what’s left. And you can bet somebody in Geneva’s wondering what we could do in the 21st if it wasn’t for the people already here.”

  “Isn’t that the plot of Ouroboros?” Jorge seems to think this is a killer strike.

  Edda is lost. “The Russian novel? Have you read it?”

  “Li finished it,” Jorge says. “It changed her life.”