The Tourist

by Robert Dickinson

  You wonder what it means when somebody from the Number Cities calls you a monster.

  “I take it you’re here for the same thing.” He loosens the grip on your arm without letting go. “One minute. Then I follow you in.”

  “I don’t need help.”

  “I’m not offering it.” He lets go and steps back into the doorway. “I’m just curious about what’s going to happen. One minute.”

  The door opens on the first knock. The local who answers is squat and heavy and wears a suit like a member of the business caste. You’ve never seen him before. He seems to recognise you. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

  A religious. To put him at his ease you return the greeting and add, “I’m expected.”

  He steps back awkwardly and waves you in. “About fucking time.”

  Inside the shop it’s bright. The walls are lined with empty glass cases, like a museum without exhibits. The Dolman box is on a glass-topped counter next to some kind of long blade. So that’s why you’re here: you’re being given another chance.

  The man outside must be another test.

  Another local, as tall as you, stands behind the counter. He’s dark, in a shiny black coat. He’s unfamiliar but, like the man in the suit, looks at you as if he knows you.

  The blade is a concern: it isn’t the kind of tool you’d use to try to open a Dolman box. It doesn’t look like any kind of tool. They’re prepared for trouble.

  You point at the box. “I’ve come for that.”

  The squat one shrugs. “So open it then.” He’s nervous. He must know about the local you hurt. “Get it over with.”

  A surprise: they expect you to open it. The woman hadn’t said. Even if you could open it, what then? What would they do with Picon’s instructions? And if you’ve been told to forget Picon, what are you supposed to do with them? Perhaps the woman needs them.

  The one in the jacket is still staring at you. “It’s not she.”

  The squat one is surprised. “What?”

  “It’s not she.” The tall one’s voice is low, pained. He seems to find it an effort to talk.

  “Of course it’s fucking her.”

  You take out the pin gun. The squat one limps towards you and peers warily. “What’s that?”

  “A key.”

  “She’s different,” the tall one insists. “The one at the airport is different.”

  The airport again.

  “Don’t be stupid. Of course it’s her.” The suit sounds as if he’s fed up with both of you. “Didn’t think they needed keys. Thought you just touched it and it opened.”

  “There are different kinds.” You wonder what happened at the airport: both Riemann and the suit think they saw you there. You pick up the box, not sure what to do next. “This one needs a key.” You don’t know if they’ll believe you. You can’t decide which one to shoot first.

  The tall one simplifies matters. “It’s not she.” He reaches for the blade. “Telling you.”

  You shoot him in the face. He spins away, making a choking sound.

  “Fuck,” says the squat one. You pivot to face him. Instead of running at you as a trained person would he retreats to the door. It opens before you can fire a second shot. Riemann steps briskly inside, closing the door behind him. The local stops so suddenly he stumbles and almost falls. “Fuck,” he repeats. “Another one.”

  Riemann has his own weapon, or a device you assume is a weapon. It is levelled at you. “I’ll take the box.”

  “Leave me out of this.” The local limps over to where the other one has fallen. “You fucking people.”

  You remember your instructions and surrender the box. Does this mean you’ve passed the test?

  Riemann doesn’t congratulate you. “Do you know what this is?” He balances the box in his hand, testing its weight. “Do you know where it came from?” You weren’t told to answer questions so say nothing. He shrugs and slips the box into his coat pocket, lowers his own weapon and walks over to the man you shot. “A tourist,” he says.

  His back is turned to you. You realise this is a chance to shoot him. You also realise it’s one you won’t take. Or can’t. His coat might be heavy enough to stop a pin; even a shot to the back of the head might not be effective. You keep your hand at your side. Killing him wasn’t in your instructions.

  There’s a door behind the counter. Riemann pushes it with his foot and looks through. “You,” he says to the local in their language. “Drag your friend in there.” The local, gasping for air, does as he’s told. “Now get the weapon.” The local limps slowly back to the counter. He picks up the blade, holding the handle by his fingertips. “Put it next to him.” The local does as he’s told, moving with exaggerated care, as if the blade might explode in his hands. “Now empty your pockets on the counter.” The local takes a deep breath. “Easy money,” he says, not quite talking to himself. “No trouble. Nobody gets hurt. We all end up laughing.” He makes an effort to look calm but his hands shake. “I should have known I couldn’t trust somebody like him.” He lays out what he has: keys, a leather purse, two phones. No weapons. “You people.” He looks exhausted. “Get in the room,” Riemann tells him. The local looks at you as if he thinks you might help. “You can’t do that to people,” he warns. He’s trying to cheer himself up. “You tell your friend there’s going to be repercussions.” He retreats into the room and stands as far as he can from the body.

  Riemann locks him in.

  You follow him out to the street. It’s busy: locals pushing their children, carrying the plastic bags that will outlast them. Old women who stare at you. You’re a long way from a tourist area. Here, you’re the sights to be seen. People will surely remember seeing you leave the shop.

  Good. They’ll blame the Number Cities.

  You were told to listen to Riemann; you wait to hear what he has to say.

  “I know you were at the airport because of Metzger.” Riemann strolls along casually, as if he hasn’t just seen you shoot somebody. “I know there’s a connection between you. I will work it out.”

  You’ve never heard of anybody called Metzger. “Who are you?”

  “I was impressed with your act,” Riemann says. “For a moment I almost believed it. But you can’t expect me to believe it now. You’ve never heard of Alexander Metzger but you turn up at exactly the right time and place to watch him die. And now I’ve seen you take a Dolman box from criminals and you’re carrying a gun which you obviously know how to use. There’s no point pretending you’re a tourist. You weren’t at the airport to watch the planes land. So, the box.” He taps his pocket. “What are people like that doing with a Dolman box? Do you know what’s in it, or are you just a messenger? It’s too light for currency. Is it information? Something nasty to bury in a mine? Which of our sites were you planning to contaminate with this? Or are you going to tell me we’ve got everything wrong?” He doesn’t give you time to answer. It’s a technique. They ask questions and try to read expressions. Non-verbal responses. You’re from City Two East, trained at Spad. Not responding is natural. You had to learn how to respond.

  “Not talking? At least you’ve stopped lying. That’s a start. Do you even know what you’re doing here? Are you just following instructions? Go there, carry that, shoot this person in the face? I know what that life is like. I can sympathise.” He stands in front of you. “I used to wonder what it would be like to meet you before you, well, did what you did. I wondered if I’d want to kill you. I knew I wouldn’t, obviously, but I wondered if I’d want to.” He pauses for a second or two, as if he’s still undecided. “So, what will you do next?”

  It’s a question you know how to answer. “I’m going home.”

  “No, you’re not.” The woman told you the right thing to say. He’s surprised. “You can’t be. When?”

  “Today.”

  “I don’t believe you. Of course I don’t believe you. What do you mean by home, anyway?”

  “City Two West.”

&nbs
p; “Now I know you’re lying. It’s too late for another translation today.”

  You keep walking until you reach a place where people are allowed to cross the road. He walks beside you. You have to wait for the traffic to be told to stop. “I don’t believe in monsters,” he says. “I’m going to break protocol again. Do you know why I didn’t kill you at the airport? Why I don’t do it now? Because one day, a long time from now, you meet me again.” The traffic stops. “I’m here because of that meeting.”

  It makes no sense. You walk away quickly. He doesn’t follow.

  Resort Six

  The big screen outside the station shows pictures of burning buildings. They alternate with adverts for shops, which is the first sign the rioting is not as bad as it looks. There’s a Resort Six bus outside the station with a two-person Safety Team which, they tell us, will leave in twenty minutes, sooner if there’s any sign of danger. A message has gone out to reps: everybody to head for the most convenient resort. They want us off the streets as soon as possible.

  It explains why I haven’t heard from Hayek. He probably has his own problems.

  Inside, the station looks the same as usual: natives waiting for a train, a handful of beggars, most of them watching the screen above the concourse. The burning building seems to be in London. According to the text scrolling across the screen buildings have been set on fire in a number of cities, including this one, but the images of the London building are all they show. Back at the bus a few Heritage reps and clients have gathered. Jorge is there. He can’t see why he was summoned: there hadn’t been any trouble in his neighbourhood. A rep I don’t know tells him her clients were surrounded by a group of natives demanding currency. She’d scared them off. “I told them I’d called for help,” she says, “with my mind.” The clients, who were supposed to be attending a Typical Nightclub, are excited, as if a riot is a local festivity. Li shares the story of how we were attacked. They find it hard to believe we didn’t know this would happen. Why weren’t we warned?

  “Events like this evening are nothing unusual,” Jorge tells them. “Paradoxically, they’re a sign of stability. They have what they call a summer of unrest every ten years and a winter of discontent every fifteen. A crowd will break shop windows and set fire to a few vehicles. A few days later everything goes back to normal. Tonight’s events were not on our records because they’re trivial.”

  “But what about the attacks on you?” one of them asks Li.

  “The attacks on us are opportunistic.” Jorge answers for her. “They’re made for the same reason as the attacks on their own shops. Because we have something they want.” He takes out a Dor and holds it so the pale metal catches the light. “Currency. This might not be much to us, but it’s worth more than most of them will earn in a week. And when those people look at us all they can see is this.”

  Li looks unhappy about his speech, but doesn’t want to contradict another rep in front of the clients. The clients are pleased: they’ve learned an important lesson about the early 21st. When he finishes Jorge turns away from them and stares out of the window, sunk in thought or possibly just admiring his own reflection. We sit, listening to the sirens: ambulance, fire, police. Li sends messages to her native friends. When the Safety Team decide no one else is coming I bip Edda and tell her I’m on my way to Resort Six.

  From the outside, Resort Six is the same as all our other resorts—a giant dome set a few kilometres from the nearest town, surrounded by the usual acreage of well-tended trees and discreet safety measures. There are supposed to be subtle differences between them, making each one a unique experience, and so on, though it’s rare for our clients to see more than one. A trip to the early 21st is usually once in a lifetime, and the few who make return visits prefer to visit the same resorts. The three I’ve seen have been functionally identical—Travel at the centre, the Entertainment Areas and Living Quarters disposed in the same optimised patterns, an experience of home even here, in a time before homes like ours became necessary. Resort Six had the same vehicle bays, the same gates to the interior. There’s a more obvious Safety presence than I’m used to, but that’s probably the same across all the resorts tonight.

  There’s a room marked Private at the back of Entertainment Area Three. The techs have set up a connection to the native broadcasts. There’s a dozen reps there, some off-duty and toning, some still in uniform, all watching one of the native channels. One of the more experienced ones (I don’t know her name) is translating the scrolling text. It shows the same clip of a burning building. We watch for a while, but it’s soon clear the native reports either don’t have much information or they aren’t sharing it with their own people.

  Edda bips me. She’s in the Entertainment Area outside, by the Theatrical Hall. I can’t see any reason to stay in a room full of Heritage reps. I leave Li talking to her friends.

  The area between the different halls is the same as in the other resorts: a broad avenue, with a central line of trees hung with lamps. The only difference is in the arrangement of the halls. The Theatrical Hall in Resort Six is by the entrance where Resort Four has a Sports Hall, Tri-Millennium clients being supposedly more interested in games than classic drama. It was late now, and most of the events are finishing. The clients have spilled out into the Entertainment Area and seem unwilling to settle. They move from bar to restaurant without staying at any of them, the same infected with mild form of the fervour outside. And then, among the crowd, I notice a familiar face: our client.

  She’s just stepped out of the Science Hall and joined the stream of people moving towards the Area gate. It’s her, unmistakably her.

  I bip Hayek. “She’s here, in Resort Six.”

  The response is almost immediate. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “I’ll advise their Safety Team.”

  “I want to talk to her first.”

  “If you must. Just don’t get in anybody’s way.”

  “I won’t.” Our meeting will look like an accident. The riots will give us something to talk about. So you’ve been brought here as well? I will pretend to be no more than a rep concerned for the welfare of a client. So what have you been doing? Seen any sights? No mention of tonin or airports or beating up local criminals. No hint that I know about her suppressed signature. Her replies will be equally fake, but I want to hear her say them. Tougher questions will follow when the Safety Team become involved.

  She walks slowly, unobtrusively, blending perfectly with the other clients. I follow, keeping to the other side of the line of trees. I let Edda know I’ll be another few minutes: something has come up. She’s waiting, as she said she would be, outside the Theatrical Hall, under a sign announcing a Günther Eich double bill. I wave at her and point to the exit; she points at Bar 3.2 next to the Hall.

  I think we understand each other.

  By the time I reach the exit gate our client is only a few paces ahead. We’re on the concourse on the Western half of the resort. There are people moving in all directions, between the Entertainment Zones and the Living Quarters. It’s a good place to disappear.

  She doesn’t disappear. She hasn’t seen me or hasn’t recognised me or doesn’t think I’m important. She stops for a moment and studies the messages on the big screens above the entrance to the approach: tomorrow’s entertainments, restaurant menus. I’m only a few paces away when someone seizes my right wrist.

  It’s Riemann. He has a firm grip. “Not yet.” He’s no longer dressed like a native. Here, he looks like another client, a retiree come to see the 21st before he (and it) dies. Our client walks away, more quickly this time, as if she hadn’t been looking at the screens for information but steadying her nerves. She walks like somebody with a purpose.

  She is heading towards the travel zone.

  I ask Riemann, “What’s she doing?”

  “We’ll soon find out.”

  “Do you mean you don’t know?”

  He doesn’t answer. Our client
pauses at the Zone Gate long enough to be waved through by the Safety.

  This should not have happened. She’s not scheduled to travel for another few weeks, and from a different resort. The Safety Team is supposed to know she’s here. Even if the one at the gate hadn’t been told he should have noticed she didn’t have a signature.

  “See,” Riemann says.

  “What have we seen?”

  Riemann releases his grip. “What we’re meant to see.”

  “And what’s that?” I don’t expect him to answer. “So where is she going? She can’t expect to travel.”

  “She doesn’t. This is a trick.”

  We watch as the Safety at the gate seems to get a message. He puts his hand to his ear and stares at the gate. He looks around the hall as if he’s hoping to see someone there. Then, his mouth moving—either arguing with his superior or swearing to himself—he runs through the gate.

  Riemann says, “Ha!” delightedly. He strolls towards the now unattended gate. I follow him. He doesn’t try to stop me.

  “What kind of trick?”

  “That’s what we’ll find out.”

  We walk through the gate. The actual transport is about half a kilometre ahead, but, because of the shielding the approach isn’t a direct route. The corridor spirals round for about five times that distance. The approach to the zone is our clients’ least favourite part of travel. No matter how many subtle lighting variations we build in we can’t hide the fact that it’s a walk along a very long corridor. We’ve tried food kiosks at the halfway stage and calming music. We found that after half an hour in the approach the clients were often confused about what they wanted to eat and the calming music hadn’t always had the expected effect. The kiosks had to be automated when staff refused to work on them. The problem wasn’t just the stress of dealing with bad-tempered and confused clients: there’s something about the approach itself that quickly becomes seriously disturbing, even, it seems, for the machines. They break down regularly; food spoils at unpredictable rates. Maintenance won’t make repairs on-site. They go in, disconnect the machines and carry them out as fast as they can. Nobody goes into the approach unless they have to. That’s why it needs only one Safety at the gate. And once inside there are no short cuts or back doors. You either walk all the way to the transport or go back the way you came.