The Tourist

by Robert Dickinson

  And we both ended up in the early 21st. Seeing him again had awoken a kind of nostalgia. Perhaps when I get back, I’ll visit him, or his younger, 24th-century self. I could hand Riemann the Dolman box and see if it opens. Surprise!

  No. I’d forgotten. I can’t see Cantor again. If I did, he would have remembered the meeting. Besides, it would be awkward if he asked what I’d done recently. And I don’t think I could face Riemann, who’d be fifteen. Hi, Riem, I saw you die.

  The play can’t hold my attention. I can’t concentrate enough to follow the language. I listen as if it were music. On my first translation I’d passed the time reading the political and social history, the background information that was supposed to make me a better rep. It hadn’t turned out to be useful. Now I keep thinking about Riemann. Perhaps he didn’t die. Perhaps he caught up with our client and changed history.

  Except Hayek says he wasn’t there and that the woman we followed—that I followed, alone—was somebody else, a known tourist. If another rep had told my story and been contradicted by the data I’d have attributed it to the delirium of the approach or post-trauma confabulation or a dream. Because only in a dream would a man like Riemann talk about changing history.

  I’d followed a woman I’d mistaken for our client into the approach. There had been a problem with the barriers and an unscheduled translation that was now unlikely to be investigated. Resulting in passenger inconvenience and a non-fatal injury.

  I should look it up when I got home. Unscheduled translations from Resort Six. It was a fixed link: there was only one place it could go. Whoever was on the transport would have been stopped by Safety. The report might even name them…

  There’s another jolt. Iphigenia falls silent mid-speech and doesn’t resume. The jolt is enough to wake Erquist. He looks around, startled, seems to remember where he is, smiles ruefully and closes his eyes. Edda is jabbing at her control panel. “Is that normal?” She leans as far across the aisle as the straps allow. “I’ve lost sound.”

  Li says, “I’ve heard of it before. Sergei says it happened on his translation. They lost the whole entertainment system for an hour. There were some angry clients.”

  “At least we don’t have those.” Edda stares glumly at her panel. “I should have brought a book.”

  Which is when the lights go out.

  “Li.” Edda’s voice, sardonic. “Did this happen on Sergei’s translation?”

  “He never said.” Li sounds cheerful. We sit in the dark, listening to the hum, which sounds louder now there are no other distractions. There’s another jolt, the most violent so far. Beside me, Erquist yelps, then apologises. “What happened to the lights?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Announcements?”

  “We’ve lost the system.”

  Erquist swears. That’s when I realise this is possibly serious. One of the Safeties by the door calls, “Everyone stay calm. This is nothing to worry about,” which doesn’t help. Erquist swears again, more quietly his time. “Do you know what this means? A loss of power like this could be a sign we’re no longer fixed point. Something’s happened either at the resort or at home.”

  “You think the military might have accidentally shut it down?”

  “They’re unlikely to be that stupid. They would have left travel to the techs.”

  “Unless they had a response cascade.” I can imagine the scene: somebody drops a cup and for the next fifteen seconds the Millies are blasting at everything that isn’t another Millie. “Is there anything we can do?”

  “In here? Nothing. We just have to wait until the techs resolve the problem.”

  “Isn’t it possible to take control from inside a transport?”

  “You can start one. If there’s a fixed link. Once we’re underway there’s nothing we can do. Do you remember Living in the Past? Well, it’s not like that.” His sigh merges with the hum, which rises in pitch. We sit in absolute darkness.

  “What are you doing?” Edda’s voice. I can see her eyes: faint green dots. Or think I see them. It might be a hallucination.

  “Everybody stay calm,” repeats the Safety. He sounds terrified. “There is no need to panic. Everything is under control.” Another jolt. This time it feels as if the transport has been hit from the side. The shock reminds me of the accident in the coach, with the difference being we knew what was happening then. We knew nobody would get hurt. This feels like it could soon get worse.

  The surprise is that it’s exhilarating. If I wasn’t strapped down I’d be running—or limping—in the aisle, and not from panic. This is the spirit of Joy itself, the daughter of Elysium, the glee for which tonin is a weak substitute. I’m strapped to a chair in the dark with no idea what will happen next and I’ve never felt so alive. Even if it turns out that Living was good science and we step out into the 9th century I feel I’ll be prepared. Within a year I could be running my own fiefdom. We’d never be able to generate the energy to go home, even if we could reconstruct the tech, and, if what Cantor said about second-generation augs is true, Edda would start going blind after the second year. We’d leave behind a legend about wounded giants and some buried pleas for rescue to baffle future generations.

  Another jolt: the whole transport seems to lift and then drop. I have a sudden sense that we are upside down. The sensation soon vanishes. “This isn’t normal,” Li says. “Are they letting this happen because there are no clients?” Nobody answers her. I can’t see Edda’s eyes. The hum grows louder than ever, somewhere between a whistle and a shriek. “Spens,” Erquist says gently, “it was a pleasure to work with you.” And then the noise stops. The lights come on, dimly, just enough for us to make out our silhouettes. There’s still no sound from the system, no automated message explaining what just happened. “We must have a fixed point again,” Erquist says confidently. He’s part of the Happiness Executive: his job is to reassure. “It should be easier from now on.” Which is, of course, when we crash.

  Loose ends

  You travel north to the city where you had your first glimpse of the 21st. You call Picon to tell him you’ll see him soon. There are loose ends to tidy up first. Also he needs to send supplies to Adorna Mond. You tell him what to include.

  You think about what Riemann said: She thinks she’s fighting for something but she destroys it. You tell yourself it’s an obvious lie.

  Even if it’s true it’s too late to stop now. The plans are laid. Your Diggers are ready to start.

  One loose end is the extemp who stole the Dolman box. You have a clue: the word anterior. Pretending to be a tourist, you approach a Living History rep, tell him you’d met a man who’d pestered you for tonin and used language you’d never heard before. The rep laughs. He said anterior? Everybody knows him. He’s a nuisance. He’s at Bar Five most nights so he’s easy to avoid.

  Or find.

  You don’t want to face him in a bar full of tourists. You try asking in a few local pubs; none of the locals you question admit to knowing anything. You have an idea: if Bar Five is closed he’ll either go home or somewhere less public. Metzger had given you a handwritten list of contacts. It doesn’t take much to persuade a HumanTruth local to heel a bag under a seat in Bar Five, early evening, before the tourists arrive. Nothing spectacular, just enough to start a fire and make sure the place is closed. And then you stand and wait with the other travellers until the extemp appears. He doesn’t recognise you: you’re part of a small crowd and wearing the headgear and eyeshades of a nervous first-time tourist. Your helper follows him, calls twenty minutes later with an address. Two floors above some kind of shop. Not typical extemp luxury, but he isn’t a typical extemp. You take a taxi. You turn up at his door without the headgear. On his line it’s only a few days since he took the box and pushed you into a room so when he sees you he’s puzzled, pleased and then scared in roughly that order. The snakes on his forearm are frantic. You push your way in, close the door, show him the pin gun. He starts with bravado. You don’t
shoot me. I’ve seen my line. Is that even a weapon? He’d never seen a Dolman box, doesn’t recognise a pin gun. You explain how they work. The projectile breaks down in the target causing immediate systemic damage. A shot to the head or chest is fatal; a hit to a limb causes the loss of that limb. You ask for the box. You know you won’t get it, but you have to make sure his people take it to the shop so that you can meet Riemann for the first time. As you were once told, the knowledge of what happened creates an obligation: the meeting with Riemann doesn’t happen by chance. The extemp insists he doesn’t have the box, hasn’t had it since he took it from you. His friends kept it. They’re bringing in an engineer, a specialist, to open it. “Call them,” you say. “Tell them I’ll save them the trouble.” You don’t need the box, its contents are now irrelevant, but Riemann is following it and you need your younger self to meet Riemann. That needs to be arranged. The extemp hesitates, gabbles, tries to be friends, becomes stern, warns you don’t know who you’re dealing with and shuts up only when you point the pin gun at his thigh. Finally he makes a call. On the phone he’s cheerful, as if passing on good news. Whoever he speaks to seems unconvinced but eventually tells him what he wants to know. He gives you an address. “Tomorrow, four-fifteen.” He tries to be a concerned older friend: I think you’re making a mistake. Offers the benefit of his wisdom: After what you did to them I’d be careful. Becomes bitter again: And you’re doing this for that selfish fraud. You ask him to tell you everything he knows about Picon Delrosso and he does, gleefully. He’s a fool and a coward but without him you wouldn’t have learned the truth about Picon, you wouldn’t have met Riemann and learned what you were meant to do. By locking you in a room he put you on the path that led you here.

  You let him live.

  Your helper has been waiting in the street outside. You tell him to go home, you don’t need him for the next part. “What about him?” he asks, nodding up at the extemp’s flat. He’s angry, like all of your helpers. (His handle is, in fact, Grumpy7.) You tell him he’s done enough for one night.

  You make the call, give the address and the time. “Take the gun. If you meet a man called Riemann Aldis do what he tells you…”

  Picon doesn’t recognise you. He blinks. You tell him your new name and give the identification codes. He recognises these. “You,” he says glumly. And then, as if it’s a pleasure to pass on bad news, he says, “We have a problem.”

  You follow him through his door. It’s a big house. You ask, “How many work here?”

  “It’s just me.” He walks briskly. There’s a large room at the back of the house with sofas along the walls. A native girl sits on one of them, gazing at a slate. She doesn’t look up. “I wasn’t expecting you this soon,” he says. “It could be serious, the problem.”

  “What problem?”

  He sits on a sofa, next to a small collection of phones and other devices. “Adorna Mond. The courier, travelling as.”

  You glance at the girl. She’s not listening, intent on her slate. You doubt she speaks your language. She’s safe. Her slate, however, will be connected to the local networks which might have been compromised. Your helpers have warned you about the extent of the local snooping. Picon takes the hint and picks up one of the devices next to him on the sofa. Music starts.

  Now you can talk. “Why do you think she’s a problem?”

  “She didn’t make the rendezvous.” Picon tries to sound serious but you can tell he’s enjoying this. “That was only the beginning. I’ve had a rep here, asking about her. He said he was a rep. Looked more like a Safety.”

  You look around his room. “You’re too comfortable.”

  “That’s because I’m supposed to be one of them.” He twists in his seat and checks another phone. He’s trying to make you think you’ve interrupted serious business. “This is how they live. Anything else would look suspicious.”

  “You were sent here for a purpose.”

  “And I’ve been carrying it out. I’ve made a full report.”

  “Things are going to change.”

  Now he looks concerned. “Are you sending me back?” The fight goes out of him. Useless.

  You take a taxi to the tourist area and find Arne Vasilis, the traveller who wants to stay. It’s easy: you already know her name and what she looks like. She’s soon persuaded. It’s an odd conversation: you’ve met her before, but it’s the first time she’s seen you. Afterwards you call your younger self again, which is less strange each time. Arne Vasilis is exactly the person you remember—a day younger, no more. Your younger self is less familiar: terse, asking few questions, a good subordinate. You feel something like pride. This must be how the Assistant Director felt about Picon. You tell her she needs to stay in public places at the resort, what time to go to the approach, what to tell the Safety at the gate. You explain what needs to be done at home, what story to tell, which officials to approach, what arguments to make. It only becomes strange when you end the call. You have told yourself exactly what you remember being told, but it hadn’t felt like a repetition: it felt like the only way it could have been said. You know you will carry out your instructions because you remember carrying them out.

  It’s one of the circumstances you were warned not to think about too deeply.

  The riots get you into Resort Six. It’s busier than its Safety Team is used to: people are coming in from everywhere. Even extemps and reps and clients from other resorts have been allowed to take shelter. As long as you’re not a local they won’t even look twice. You are able to slip away from the newest arrivals, through an unmarked door and down some stairs to a room where information relays are kept. You would need approval to input instructions at the appropriate desk and even more to enter the rooms where instructions are processed and routed to different systems, but in this resort there are four rooms where information is held temporarily, where instructions wait until it is time for them to be processed. Here, if you know what to do, is a weak point.

  There are limits. You can’t do anything that would cause serious damage. You can’t change translation parameters or start a translation, but you can set a delay on the security gates for the approach so they won’t close until the translation sequence begins. Another memorised procedure, a kind of magic: you perform the actions, certain consequences follow.

  You don’t get caught. Adorna Mond makes her public exit. Riemann, you’re sure, would have taken note and will turn his attention elsewhere. And now she’s gone you’re no longer bound by her schedule.

  Resort Six provides a room for temporary guest En Varney. You contact Acquisitions in Geneva and tell them you will be delayed for a few days: local trouble. You’ll be back at work as soon as you can. That night you stay in your room and examine the images you captured at the airport, looking for a person you can blame for Metzger’s death.

  The Richardson expedition

  At first it feels like another jolt, no harder than the last one. Then there’s the whooshing sound that means the outer door is opening. One way or another, the translation is over. I’m out of my seat before the inner door has unlocked. If I’m going to die I might as well do it on my remaining foot. Erquist stays strapped in. “Don’t you think the Safety Team should go first?” They’re taking no chances, as if staying in their seats could save them. The inner door opens with a very human sigh.

  The good news is that we’re not in a field, or two kilometres above a field and falling. We’re on the ground, inside a structure. There are dark walls with sparse, dim lighting and solid black material on the floor. There’s a ceiling of dark material maybe fifteen metres overhead. It’s a zone, but not one I expected. This is starker. There is no marked path to the approach, no message of greeting.

  Edda joins me at the door. “What do you think?”

  “We’ve arrived somewhere.”

  “Military?”

  “This is old.” Erquist has joined us, carrying two bags of bottled water and energy bars from the transport supply. He
hands the heavier bag to me, and looks out. “This is what they looked like sixty years ago.”

  None of us have yet stepped off the transport. The Safeties have disentangled themselves from their seats and are hanging back. Li pushes past me and walks down the ramp which means the rest of us have to follow. I join her on the floor of the cordon. There’s still a sense of residual energy, but fainter than you’d expect. We look around. “Do you recognise anything?”

  “It’s new to me.”

  Off to our right a metallic gate opens with a ponderous scraping noise. “We’ve landed in a museum,” Li says. She walks towards the gate. “Come on. There’s nowhere else to go.”

  We follow her. Edda walks beside me, then Erquist. Finally, and reluctantly, the Safeties, who give the impression they’re only following us because they don’t want to be left alone.

  This approach is different architecture. Instead of a spiral corridor like the ones at the resorts this is made of straight lines and right angles. “An early design,” Erquist says. “Abandoned around the turn of the century. People found the sharp turns disturbing.” I can see what he means. Rather than having a sense of slow progression it feels like we’re lost in a maze and about to double back to where we started. There’s lighting at each turn, simultaneously harsh and ineffective and the ceilings seem to slope at odd angles. “Of course,” Erquist says, “this wouldn’t have been for commercial use. This was for research.” He’s talking from nerves. “I’m surprised something like this is still working. I would have expected it to have been decommissioned years ago.” He dutifully emphasises the positive: “At least we landed somewhere. When we lost the fixed point I thought we were going to die.”