“City Two East don’t travel,” Edda says.
“That picture, it’s from a newspaper, a physical copy. A few years ago South Four were interested in the activities of extemps. They went through the archives, all these scraps of paper they had. They saw that picture and sent it round. Somebody from Awareness saw it and recognised the company. It’s a report about an energy company winning a government contract. The picture just shows the company’s main office. The contract was for securing radioactive waste materials. I’m supposed to find out if there’s a connection.”
“Without leaving the room,” Edda says.
“I don’t need to. The body we found in site 83, Miko Halaz, he’s alive now. I track his contacts. They communicate through their internet. They use code but it’s trivial. They’re wide open. I monitor their network the same way I monitor the weather. I’m waiting to see if she contacts them. I’m waiting to see if his death”—he nods at the picture of Metzger—“is going to make a difference…”
I wonder if Justin Bayer is one of these contacts. Justin’s brother had mentioned code names: Happy Diggers, Snow White, Sleeping Beauty. I wonder why Cantor has been given this job, why he’s working alone in a London suburb. Then I realise: what he’s doing is a breach of protocol. If it’s ever reported, Awareness—whoever they are—will claim he was acting alone. “Have they mentioned her?”
“So far, no. They talk among themselves. If she contacts any one of them personally we’ll have our evidence.”
“And then what?” Edda asks.
It’s Cantor’s turn to look blank. “Then I report back and go home. I have agency again.”
Edda won’t let it go. “If she’s responsible and she’s working for City Two East that’s an act of aggression.”
Cantor is glum. “That’s a possible interpretation.”
“You’re here to make the case for war.”
“That isn’t my decision. I’m just here to find out what happened.”
“If it’s her,” I say. I remember Riemann’s last words: The next time you see my brother. Did he know Cantor was here? Was he here because of Cantor? Gurley thought our client had killed Metzger. He might have misinterpreted what he saw: our client was taking a picture, but not of a man having a heart attack. “Do you have any evidence?”
“It’s inconclusive.” He shakes his head. “That is, I don’t have any. Yet. Apart from a picture, and it might be an accident she’s in that. It hasn’t been taken yet. See that newspaper stand in the corner? There’s a headline, the death. That hasn’t happened. You know, I’ve looked into him.” He gazes at the image of Metzger. “Afterwards, when I learned his name. I read his book on Parthenius. I can’t see his connection to this. I can’t see why his death was important.” He begins pacing up and down. “Have you ever heard of Parthenius?”
“The woman—” I say.
“It’s relevant,” he says. “Or not relevant, but important. Parthenius was a Greek poet. That was his subject, Metzger’s, old poetry. Parthenius was brought to Rome as a slave. Ancient Rome, Julius Caesar, Nero, that time. You know me, Spens, history isn’t my subject. But Parthenius—he wrote poems, but they’re nearly all lost. It was like the NEE, except without the extinctions. All Metzger had—all that’s left—is one little book about unhappy love affairs. Everything else is fragments, allusions. A reference in a poem here, a line quoted there to demonstrate a point of grammar. He may have taught one Roman poet, he might have known another. Fragments, allusions. Metzger tried to make sense of them. There’s one thing he wrote, Metzger: even if the written record was complete we’d still have only a part of the story. The most important events in people’s lives are unrecorded. The only trace they leave is in their consequences. I can read the messages they send each other but I can’t hear what they say when they talk. I don’t know if the woman is already involved. I don’t know her name.”
“It’s Adorna Mond,” I say. “She’s my client.”
He stares, open-mouthed.
“She’s here already,” Edda says. “She’s been here for weeks. We think she’s looking for you. You should come back with us.”
“No.” He scowls, his lips moving, miming a harangue. Something else he did as a boy. “I don’t go back. I stay here. Two more years. The record says I stay.” He jabs a finger at the floor.
“She’s been seen outside this building.”
“Then I won’t let her in.”
“It might not be safe.” I look through the blind. Outside is still quiet. It looks completely safe. “Do you know what’s going on out there?”
“I track communications,” he says distractedly. “I monitor the weather. That’s important. What’s out there—it’s a mostly peaceful decade.”
“The military has taken over the resorts. Their army is being mobilised.”
He’s unmoved. “That’s theatre.”
“Are you sure?”
“That’s what they told me. They tell me what I need to know.” Cantor suddenly appears to remember he’s in a room full of equipment, some of which might be listening. “What they think I need to know. If I was in any danger here they would tell me. The work I’m doing here is too important to them. They want me to find this evidence. Last week, after the riots, I asked if I was safe. They explained. People are upset, so their government pretends to be upset. Then they pretend to take a stand and we pretend to take them seriously. There’s a conference, and we agree to some trivial changes and carry on with whatever we were doing. This march? It’s just theatre. Their government didn’t want to allow it. We told them to let it happen, give people a chance to let off steam, show they’re still independent. I’m in no danger.” He stares at the faces on the wall. They seem to calm him down. “I need to stay here. I’m not supposed to leave.”
“She knows where you are.”
“It makes no difference. Perhaps she’s supposed to know.” He gestures at the equipment. “Perhaps they told her. I don’t leave this.”
Edda doesn’t argue. She turns to me “We should go. Unless you have any questions.”
Of course I have questions. They’re ones I can’t ask. “Let’s get back.”
She heads for the door with no more than a nod to Cantor, who’s still staring at the image of our client. I touch his shoulder as I pass. “Be careful.” He grimaces and makes no attempt to stop us.
The man who collapsed
Metzger had been soft, asthmatic, overweight. You could tell he was marked for an early death simply by listening to him breathe.
You’re not sorry: Metzger was useful, but there was something unnerving about the way he would gaze at you in meetings. Even as other people talked his eyes would be fixed on you. His attention reminded you why you’d once carried a knife: this teacher, that guard. He wasn’t a physical threat but after the second meeting in the park you were careful never to be alone in his company. You didn’t want to be in a situation where you might have to hurt him.
His death simplifies things. And it’s useful: a story to inspire the others. When he collapses you photograph the crowd that gathers around him, meaning to examine the pictures later, even though you’re not sure what you expect to find. Any face belonging to a Number City traveller will be enough. This person was present. There must be a connection. Show it to the diggers, let it circulate through their networks. Given them a reason, an enemy, and a moral.
You don’t see Riemann until you’re almost back at the station for the London train. Even though you’ve been expecting him he still manages to surprise you. He steps out of nowhere and catches your arm in a grip as casual as it is firm.
You allow yourself to be led out of the building and across a road where taxis and coaches disgorge their passengers. He never once loosens his grip on your arm. You reach a fenced-in plot with spaces for twenty vehicles, half of them taken. The low metal gate swings open as he approaches. “I almost didn’t recognise you.”
He expects this to unsettle you: he
thinks it’s the first time you’ve met him. You wait until he talks.
He talks. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but on my line this isn’t our first meeting.”
He stops at one of the vehicles. Four doors, a dull silver-grey, the usual tinted windows. Empty. He lets go of your arms and produces a key fob and pushes a button, holds open a door. “Please. It’ll be easier to talk inside.” You climb in and sit next to the driving seat with your arms folded lightly across your chest, a defensive posture. You want him to think you’re frightened.
He climbs in the other side. “I can take you wherever you want to go.” He looks at you carefully, as if he still can’t believe it’s you. “Or we can sit here and talk. It’s up to you.”
You face him. “Who are you?” You need him to tell you his name. “Are you a Safety?”
“No.” His expression is mild, almost regretful. “My name is Riemann Aldis. Ever heard of the Anachronists?”
“What are you?”
He rests his hands on the steering wheel. “How about the self-consistency principle?”
An interrogation technique: change the subject, keep the prisoner off balance. You don’t answer.
“You should look it up,” he says. “It’s what’s keeping you alive.” He doesn’t wait for a response. “I’m in a strange position. I know what happens. I know what you’re going to do and what you might be doing already. I can’t help thinking I could stop it all now.”
“Stop what? I am a tourist.”
“What are you doing here?” He looks straight ahead. “Meeting a local contact?”
I came to see somebody die. You wish you could tell him this. I came to see who was implicated in the death. It would be a pleasure to see his self-assurance punctured. Instead you play the frightened tourist. “I wanted to see an airport.” You hold his gaze, wide-eyed. “I wanted to see what it was like when ordinary people travelled from one country to another.”
He seems amused. “Did you notice what happened back there? The man who collapsed? Do you know anything about that?”
“No.”
“Did you know you’re being followed?”
You’re wide-eyed again. “Why would anybody follow me?”
“Two locals. I was watching them. So you don’t know why they would be following you?”
You’d spotted them moving to the back of the bar when the crowd started to form. The squat, red-faced one and the taller, dark one you’re going to shoot. “No.”
“Have you ever heard of Karia Stadt?”
Even with your arms loosely folded across your chest you can feel your heart beating. He knows more than you expected. “Who is she?”
“A woman I met, a long time ago. At least, on my line it’s a long time. Travel is confusing, as they say. I was younger then. I hadn’t heard of her, didn’t appreciate who she was. I wasn’t even sure what she’d done. I could have asked, but it wasn’t in my instructions. I had to be careful I didn’t learn anything I wasn’t supposed to know. Forward is like that.”
Your throat is suddenly dry.
“I did some research.” Riemann doesn’t look at you. “Later, when I came back. There was the trial, the whole show. It turns out Karia Stadt wasn’t even her real name. It was the name given to her by the people who killed her parents. Her real name—and you might find this interesting—was Ester Liens. Her parents had been part of one of those communities that rejected all the cities. Religious, left over from some old cult from before the NEE. Does any of this sound familiar? According to the survivors they were attacked by soldiers from City Two East. The soldiers killed every adult they could find and took the children. There are a lot of similar stories from the time. Two East had a low birth rate and high infant mortality. They had to get children from somewhere. If I met Karia Stadt, I’d want her to know this.”
“Why?” It has to be a lie, a provocation. You change the subject. “Who were the Anachronists?”
“You haven’t heard?” He brightens. “You don’t remember Kai and Victor Meet the Inquisition? I thought everybody knew that one. I always felt sorry for poor old Victor. You really haven’t heard of them?” He’s mocking you. He knows you haven’t. It’s the technique again. At any moment he’s going to ask a question. “The Anachronists wanted to see if they could change what had already happened. It’s understandable—you see somebody about to make a mistake and you try to stop them.” He stares out at the car park. “When I was a lot younger, I was sent forward. That’s rare. I suppose it was a privilege, though I didn’t appreciate it at the time. I saw City Two East. What was left of it.”
Another provocation. You don’t respond.
“What I saw there…” He stares at the windscreen as if overwhelmed by the memory.
You recognise this trick. He pretends to be lost in thought, leaving a silence you’re supposed to fill with a confession. You count to twelve and ask, “Why did you go?” A tourist question.
He ignores you. “They poisoned us. They were ingenious. They came back here and found where we were stockpiling materials and added radioactive elements. A long-range weapon. They’re doing it now, or maybe it’s next week or next year. They think they can get away with it. But, like I said, we find out eventually.” He falls silent again. This time you don’t have to prompt him. “We responded. Collective punishment. It was controversial. I didn’t know this when I was sent. When they send you forward you travel in a bubble. This woman, Karia, Ester, whatever, was also in the bubble.”
“Why are you telling me this?” They travel, and then they invent elaborate protocols to avoid the consequences. If his story was true he wouldn’t tell you. “I’m just a tourist.”
He smiles. It’s an interrogator’s smile, the smile of someone who wants you to think they have information. Smug. “But there I was, in a bubble with this woman. She’s older, more scattered than you, but you still have a lot in common. I didn’t blame her at first. I thought she was a soldier, brought up in a closed city and taught to follow orders. But I discovered she was responsible for a lot of deaths. They were her idea. Should I try to stop her? It might be she thinks she’s doing the right thing. What if I told her that what she’s doing leads to the destruction of her city? And that it’s destroyed using the same materials she used against us? What if I told her she not only gave Five South the reason they’d been looking for, she provided them with the tools? If you knew this, what would you do?”
You stare, as if you haven’t understood. “I would tell the authorities.”
“I wish I could.” He smiles again. It’s hollow. He’d thought he could—what, persuade you? “I used to wonder, would she still do it if she knew what was going to happen? Or was the destruction an end in itself? What was she trying to do?”
You don’t answer.
Panic response
On the stairs Edda says, “Do you think he was telling the truth?”
“He was telling us what he believed.”
“Yes,” she says, not to me. “We’re on our way now. Nothing? There was a lot of equipment in there. It must have created interference. I’ll report when we get back.” The street outside is empty. “They didn’t get a thing. There’s no signal.” I take out my handheld: she’s right. I bip Hayek and Erquist: nothing. “Come on,” Edda says. She breaks into a jog, and quickens her pace as we reach the next street. I don’t feel comfortable running, and stride along behind her. Edda comes to a dead stop at the corner, allowing me to catch up. Our vehicle has been boxed in by two police cars. Two native police, a man and a woman, stand on the pavement, talking into the wound-down passenger window. The man looks up as we approach. His hand moves to his belt. He’s armed, but not with a gun. It’s a crude electro-shock device. His partner takes a step back, giving him room. “What’s going on?” I say in This English. I stop at what should be an unthreatening distance.
He keeps his hand at his belt. He’s jumpy, nervous out of all proportion to any threat we might pose. If this is thea
tre, not everybody has been told. He looks if he’s been expecting trouble all day and thinks we might be it. Or he’s the sort who believes what he reads on DomeWatch.
He says, “Is this your car?”
“It belongs to our resort.”
Li puts her head out of the window. “That’s what I’ve been telling him.”
“I need to see your identification.”
I take out my card and hold it up. It’s rare to be asked. Normally they can see at a glance we’re not local. He doesn’t move. The woman steps round him and takes my card, squints at it, then back at me, returns the card and nods at the man. He doesn’t relax. “What are you doing here?” His voice sounds constricted. A third policeman, another man, appears behind him. Two more, both men, stand behind us at a safe distance.
“We had a report a client was in the area.” I try to sound calm, pretending this is a routine conversation. I don’t want him to use his device. I’ve heard electrocution is unpleasant. I don’t know how it would affect Edda’s augs. “We offered to take them back to the resort.”
The policeman stares at me. “So where is this client?”
“He declined our offer.”
“Where is he now?”
I don’t immediately answer. Edda says, “Why do you need to know?”
The policeman stares. His hand twitches. “You people.”
“We would like to leave now,” I say without moving. I don’t want to give him an excuse.
He doesn’t move either. None of them move.
“Is there a problem?” Edda steps forward. “I am relaying this to our Safety Team.” She looks into his eyes.
The policeman’s face goes blank. The woman puts a hand on his shoulder. “Sir.”
“You people,” he repeats. He turns on his heel and walks away. The man behind him takes his arm and guides him to the forward car. The two behind us drift away, like a tiny crowd realising there’s nothing to see.
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