The Tourist

by Robert Dickinson

  London, the natives like to say, isn’t one city: it’s a collection of villages. Most of them are badly organised jumbles of styles and shabbier than you’d expect for such a famous city. You grow up with the descriptions and the old images: the original world city, the heart of an empire, etc. Apart from a few older buildings the place itself is a disappointment. Extemps love it, which tells you everything you need to know about them. After the NEE the parts that survive become villages again.

  Edda stops outside a block of flats. “Double yellow lines,” Li says. The city has millions of vehicles and strict rules about where they can be left. There’s no sign of our client.

  “We’ll pay the fine.” Edda turns off the engine, but makes no move to get out. “Li, pass me the case.” Li complies wordlessly. Edda rests it on her lap and opens it, revealing a small, flat screen, another piece of local tech we’ve adapted. “Let’s see,” she says, not to us. She pauses, waiting for instructions. “I’m ready.” She lowers her window and looks at the block of flats. “Take the case,” she tells me. I lift it off her lap. There’s an image on the screen: the block of flats seen from Edda’s perspective. The colours are distorted. The walls are various shades of green. There are red blobs in some of the rooms. People. They blur if she moves her head. “Is this what you see?”

  “No. My vision is normal. But the layers are sensitive to other frequencies. It’s just a matter of applying the right filters. Are the images getting sharper?”

  “Yes.” From simple blobs they’re resolving into recognisable human shapes: torso, head, rudimentary limbs. The big one on the second floor left turns out to be two people in close proximity. “How much detail can you get?”

  “A little more.” The arms slowly become articulated. “You won’t be able to tell which way people are facing until they move, but you should be able to distinguish one of us from a native. Top flat left. What do you think?”

  A male figure, tall enough, is sitting on a chair with his back to the window. He could be eating a meal or cleaning a weapon. I check my handheld. “No signature.” The blinds are drawn. Whoever’s there is sensitive to natural light. Or depressed.

  “Right then.” Edda releases the seat belt. “Shall I go and see?”

  “What?”

  “I’ll go up to the flat and knock on the door. When he opens I’ll ask him if he’s somebody else, then apologise for my mistake. You’ll see his face on the screen and confirm if it’s him. Simple.”

  “You’ll need to get into the building first.”

  She’s already out of the car. “I’ll image the lock.” And strides confidently off.

  “Image the lock,” Li says. “She’s like a spy in an entertainment. You’re impressed, aren’t you? What is Hayek trying to prove?”

  Whatever imaging the lock means, it seems to work. Edda disappears inside. The picture on the screen changes to the normal human frequencies. Edda is looking around the hallway. It’s clean, as if it’s been recently renovated, and it’s empty. There’s a staircase leading upwards. Li switches cards in her phone and starts making calls. She uses This English and talks quickly and softly: “Ricky, yeah, it’s Li, what’s happening, man? Call me, if you can.” The second floor is a copy of the first and equally empty. Edda skips up the next flight of stairs while Li leaves another message, or the same message with somebody else. Edda reaches the top floor, goes through a door to a hallway with a window at the other end and two doors facing each other at midpoint. She pushes a button by the side of the door. The door opens.

  It’s a man, one of us. Riemann and not-Riemann. This version is in his thirties. The features are not quite right: he might be an older version of the boy I knew but I can’t see how he becomes the man I saw in the approach. He smiles guardedly at Edda, who looks straight at him and recites her story. He shakes his head, closes the door. Edda retraces her steps. The hallway is still empty. I see myself on the screen as she runs back to the car. Then the screen goes black. She jumps into the seat and closes the door. “They don’t tell you how strange channelling feels. It’s like the back of my head has been removed.” She takes the case from me, closes it and hands it back to Li. “Was that him?”

  “No.” I realise why I was perplexed, why I thought it was Riemann and not. “It’s his brother, Cantor.”

  Edda drives to the next street and parks in a space outside a terraced house. We’re close enough to walk back, far enough away to be out of sight if Cantor looks out of his window. “At least,” Li says, “he’s not overlapping.”

  Edda is more serious. “What were your friend’s interests?”

  “When I last saw him he was eighteen. I was about to go to the Tunnels; his kin were moving to City Five South.”

  “What sort of things interested him? It might tell us why he’s here.”

  “He was a tech. His whole kin were techs.”

  “Travel?”

  “Bio-chem. His parents were med research.”

  “But what were his interests?”

  “All sorts of things. He’d have a different subject every month. The last time I saw him he was interested in reconstruction politics.” Interested is putting it mildly. He was cranky without actually being a crank, obsessed with theories about distortion in the historical record. There were people who thought the whole history of the period immediately before the NEE was a fabrication. Cantor was fascinated by the different claims—that it was the consequence of a failed attempt to halt climate change, an accident caused by the Richardson expedition, or an earlier, secret incursion, and so on. He had tech friends who could talk for hours. I’d stay and listen out of loyalty, but thought they were all wrong. The NEE was too big to be the result of a single cause. It was a relief when I left for the Tunnels. “He was young then. It could be nearly twenty years ago on his line. He must have grown out of it by now.”

  Edda is silent, listening for instructions. Li says, “Not all of those ideas were stupid.”

  “They’ve made a decision,” Edda says. “Hayek wants you to talk to him.”

  We leave Li to mind the vehicle and walk back to Cantor’s block. There’s still nobody about. It’s beginning to feel ominous. Yet people are around: we can hear voices and snatches of music as we pass the houses.

  A solitary police vehicle drives slowly by. Two people in the front seat, one in the back. The passengers look at us as they pass, but they don’t stop.

  Edda opens the door. I follow her up the stairs, along the hallway I’d previously seen through her eyes.

  Cantor opens his door as if he’s expecting someone. It isn’t us. “You?” he says to me. “Spens?” And to Edda: “I knew you couldn’t be a rep.”

  “Can we come in?”

  “Are you Safety?”

  “We’re just reps,” I say.

  “You might be.” He stands aside to let us pass.

  It’s strange seeing him in the flesh. The last time I saw him we were the same age. Now his face has lost its adolescent edges. You could see how he’d look at fifty: softer than his brother, less self-possessed.

  I duck through the door and into his hallway. It’s a standard native unit, about the same size as Justin Bayer’s. One wall of the main room is stacked with equipment, some native, some probably in breach of protocols. There’s more equipment on a table, along with a pizza box. It’s a telling detail: Cantor has been here long enough to acquire the taste. Apart from a chair there is no other furniture.

  “I heard you were becoming a rep. Long time ago.”

  “I’m still a rep.”

  There are printed images on the wall above the table. Cantor stands in front of them, blocking our view. “I remember when you went into the Tunnels. Riem was so impressed he decided he’d do the same. I tried to talk him out of it, but he was stubborn.” The words come in a rush. I’m reminded of his brother. The difference was that Riemann needed the delirium of the approach; Cantor was always like this. “Of course, it was different by the time he star
ted. Mostly, they just patrolled. I thought it was a strange choice for you, but you always seemed to make strange choices. There must have been an easier way to qualify for the education. And then I heard you became a rep. Riem went into Awareness. They recruited him the day he finished. I’m surprised they didn’t do the same for you. It would have suited you better. I know you did it for the travel but they make you travel as well. They set him forward.”

  I’ve never heard of Awareness. I’m not sure I like the sound of it. “Where did they send him?”

  “Never had the chance to ask.” Cantor grimaces. “I tried to, when he came back. They wouldn’t let me talk to him and then, well, we both had work. That’s the trouble with forward. People get so precious about what might have been seen. All I know is it was a charter, and asymmetric. He was gone for about two years. I don’t know how long he spent wherever they sent him. It might have been five years; it might have been days. But it’s obvious he saw something they didn’t want him to talk about. That’s Awareness for you. They don’t even like admitting they exist. Did you ever do that Beethoven thing?”

  “Not yet.” I wonder if he knows his brother was also here. I try to do the calculations. How old was Riemann when he left for the 21st? Will Cantor have returned by then? Does Cantor tell him about this meeting? The adult Riemann hadn’t been surprised to see me…

  “Sorry. Of course you haven’t: you’re still a rep.” Cantor looks down and mutters something under his breath, an old habit. I realise he’s also making calculations. “How long since you last saw me? On your line?”

  “About five years.”

  “On mine it’s fourteen. Fifteen. It must be the same event.” He grins. It’s probably meant as a grin. “Travel is confusing. What are you doing here?”

  “We said. We’re reps.”

  “I mean, what are you doing here, in my flat? I’m not a client.” He turns to Edda. “Which brand are you with—Heritage?”

  “We wanted to talk to you.” Edda looks at him with the same attention she gave to his tech. “We think you might be in danger.”

  Cantor shakes his head. “No. I’ll talk to you but I can’t go to a resort. I have work here.” His attention is caught by her eyes. “I assume you’re relaying this? Are you using third-gen layers?”

  “Second.”

  “Had them long?”

  “A few months.”

  “Have them stripped out as soon as you get back. Second gen is unstable. They start to break down after a year. You can repair the damage to your eyes but you won’t be able to use augs again.”

  “Thanks.” Edda is amused. “I’ll probably do that. But we are concerned.”

  Cantor turns away. “Do you find listening to their radio gives you headaches?”

  “Cantor,” I say.

  “Just trying to help.” He steps away from the display. “I’d thought of getting third gen. They’re less obtrusive. Then Awareness turned up and made it clear I shouldn’t.”

  I step around him and look at pictures on the wall. Most of them are maps, a few of cities, most of open country. There are also images of buildings and faces. Two of them I recognise immediately: our client and Alexander Metzger. The Metzger picture is the one that’s been used to illustrate every story about him. The picture of our client shows her leaving an office building. She’s not the focus: it’s a picture meant to illustrate something else, financial success or the pressures of urban living. She’s one of us among a crowd of natives. “This is the reason I’m here.” He watches Edda’s gaze sweep across the walls. “Got everything?”

  She indicates the picture of my client. “Do you know who she is?”

  Cantor gazes at it as if she’s the love of his life. Perhaps it’s as simple as that: a romantic entanglement across decades, centuries. “We’re not sure. There’s a hypothesis she’s from City Two East.”

  Two East again. He doesn’t know she has stood outside this building. “Why do they think that?”

  He gestures at the image of Alexander Metzger. “He was my main concern.” We expect an explanation, but he falls silent.

  “Why?” I ask. “What did he do?” Metzger should be a safe subject: he’s already dead.

  “I saw him die.”

  I’m too surprised to say anything. Edda asks, “Who is he?”

  Cantor looks at her as if seeing her for the first time. “I was told to. Awareness, City Five South.” He’s fascinated by her eyes. “I’m sorry. I haven’t seen anybody with those for years. I was thinking of having third gen. There are some applications for my work…” He shrugs, or twitches. “Awareness. They approached me after Riemann returned from whatever he did. They told me they wanted me to come here. I was a climate historian, part of a project trying to reconstruct the NEE. You know I was always interested… They told me I could do important work here.” He gestures at the array of equipment. “And that’s what I do. What happens in the early 21st is part of the picture. It helps us reconstruct what actually happened. We’re beginning to get a clearer idea of the sequence of events. And in return for them helping me…” He stops and wanders over to the window.

  “In return,” Edda prompts.

  “I’ve spent five years here, gathering data. It’s not what I would have chosen to do, but it’s still important work. Did you know we had no detailed records for the first half of the 21st? It was almost all maintained on computers, hundreds of them spread all over the world. All lost.” He peers through the blind.

  “What’s out there?” I stand next to him. “Are you expecting somebody?”

  He moves away from the window, stopping exactly halfway between me and the table. “Five years. In all that time I’d never left this flat. Almost never.” I can’t be sure if he’s ignoring my question or didn’t notice it. “Six, seven times. They contact me. There’s a joke they have in Awareness. If they ask you to do something you don’t understand you shrug and say it and nobody laughs. One of those jokes. Go there, carry that, shoot this person in the face. They send me equipment, instructions. I don’t see anybody. No contacts, except with a few locals, and you can’t really make friends with them. So I collect and analyse data. That’s most of what I do. About the weather, about these people.” He indicates the pictures of the other natives. They’re the kind taken from official records: men of different ages, most with shaved heads, which gives them a family resemblance. “And then I was told to fly to Berlin. There was a conference. Climate scientists from this era. I couldn’t participate obviously, but as an observer… It was all so I would come back on the same plane as him. That’s how they work. They make your work possible, but there’s a price. You’ll find out when you go to your concert. They’ll want something in return. They arranged the tickets. I sat next to him on the plane. Do you know how uncomfortable they are, those seats? My back still aches.” He catches my look and stops himself. “He was terrified the whole flight. Something scared him. He wouldn’t look at me. So I sat in this uncomfortable seat and tried to read the conference papers. All the time I’m watching him, thinking, why him, why him. And I follow him off the plane and through all the security checks. And then, as soon as he reached the hall, he fell over, like he’d been tripped. And then he was surrounded by people and I left.”

  Our client had been there. Gurley and Knight had been there, watching our client. “Did you see anybody else?”

  “No. I just wanted to get away as quickly as possible. They told me to pay attention to him. I did that.”

  “Did they say why?” I ask.

  “Why doesn’t matter. They said I had to be on the flight. I wasn’t given a reason.” He’s puzzled, resentful. “It was an obligation. Five years of collecting data, then they tell me to do this. I’m supposed to be here another two years, collecting data. Then I go back. After that, I have agency again.”

  I indicate our client. “And what about her?”

  “I don’t yet know. It’s the others I’m interested in.” He jerks his arm at t
he pictures of the natives. “You remember the polonium traps?” We look at him blankly. “Ah,” he says. “When did you leave?”

  “47,” Edda tells him.

  “Ten years before me,” Cantor says. “Then you know about the contamination of sites 28 and 49? 52 and 71? Spens, you must remember site 28.”

  Edda looks at me. “You mean the 28 incident?”

  “We don’t call it that any more. Not with what we know now. They weren’t accidents or mistakes.”

  “Should you be telling us this?” Edda asks.

  “Your parents, Spens. Even at the time I thought…” Cantor shakes his head like a small child refusing food. It was a gesture he still had at eighteen, one of those character traits it was safe for his friends to mock. “Those resources were bought in the 21st, buried and marked for recovery. Hundreds of sites. Rare metals, material archives. Some of them were contaminated. Mill tailings, spent fuel rods from local reactors. Whatever they could find. The name ‘polonium trap’ stuck. People liked the sound of it.”

  “And you think he had something to do with that?” Edda has slipped into the past tense.

  “After the disaster at 71 we started taking precautions. There’d been protests; teams were refusing to work. It slowed us down and it meant some of the materials couldn’t be recovered. And then we found human remains at 83. They were well preserved. It was him.” He points at one of the images on the wall. “Miko Halaz. He had identity papers from the 21st. They were still legible. They think he’d been accidentally contaminated and his accomplices sealed him in. Or maybe they just didn’t like him. But it gave us a place to start.” Cantor gazes at the man’s face. It looks to me the same as all the others. “Awareness think they weren’t acting on their own initiative. Somebody was organising them.”

  “Metzger?” It seems unlikely. His face doesn’t fit with the others. It’s the only one not taken following an arrest.

  Cantor shakes his head vigorously, as if trying to loosen something. “They told me they had evidence City Two East was involved. It was based on personal testimony, inconclusive. That’s why I’m here. To see if it’s true.”