The Rise of Saint Fox and The Independence

by Corin Reyburn

  “Five thirty-three p.m. April twenty-ninth, two-thousand-thirty-eight,” the drone voice informed about five seconds after he’d given up on it.

  “Well, there you have it. Pub o’clock, just like you said,” Sam announced. “You’re buying the first round.”

  “With what, my arse?”

  “If the trousers fit.”

  “Maybe they’ll slash the rent if we cut out the pet deposit.” Sailor moulded his face into a cartoonish frown. “Go on now, Binky, get! Off with ye into the wide, cruel, world. We can’t care for ye no more. Mummy and daddy can barely afford a pint.”

  Sam laughed, clasping a firm hand around Sailor’s lanky shoulders. “If only Binky were real, and not a product of your drug-addled imagination.”

  “Sacrilege.” Sailor stuck his hand into Sam’s back trouser pocket. “Binky’s as real as you or I.”

  They made sure to leave a light on for him when they went out, electricity costs be damned.

  The Tube was late again.

  Sam and Sailor stood on Platform 3, waiting to board the train for Oxford Circus. When it finally arrived, they crammed into the last car along with the rest of the blank-faced commuters, pressed together like cardboard cutouts, half-finished sketches, virtual avatars piloted by their users at home. They interacted with their cleverbands and no one smiled. Dressed to impress in the latest fashions—bright pops of orange, white, and green, the cute mass-manufactured woolen caps that were a must this year, sensible and stylish boots for city or country that came up to the knee with designer jeans tucked inside. Most had gone into debt to maintain this season’s current look. All looked fabulous, yet no one looked at one another.

  Ten years ago, we had one of the smoothest running subway systems in the world, Sam thought. Now it’s just like any other metro in Europe—smelly, covered in graffiti, failing to show up. He stared mindlessly out the window while Sailor rested his head against his shoulder.

  Sixteen stops to Oxford Circus. Sam disliked Oxford Street, but they were only stopping there to pick up his mate, Benson, and the pub they were headed to in Soho wasn’t nearly as precious as most in the area. Armloads of shopping bags, too-sweet snacks, screaming tots, and ladies dressed to the nines. Luxury shopping for trivial goods was the side product of the Exchange’s distribution of profit and loss.

  London in the 21st century was a poker game of bits and bytes. The stock market soared or plummeted based on a series of digital entries made by faceless assistants. The free market soared or plummeted based on carefully controlled, artificial values created by those with strong wills, weak constitutions, and no liabilities.

  Sam was fourteen years old when his parents lost the house, and had lived on his own ever since. He didn’t want to worry his mum by telling her he’d just lost his fifth job this year. He was always on time for work, and his managers recognised that he went above and beyond to see that customers were happy. But Sam liked to work for small businesses, and small businesses were never able to afford the rent for very long, so he found himself unemployed more often than not.

  He told himself he wasn’t attached to anyone, thinking himself a bit of an orphan, and made a habit of never asking for much of anything, save for maybe a couch to crash on from time to time. Even then, he made up for favours in trade—he bought the beer, made dinner, tidied up the place.

  Still, people tended to grant him favours he’d never asked for.

  After exiting the train at Oxford, they rode two escalators and climbed twenty-six stairs to the crowded street above. Sam and Sailor did their best to evade the mass of shoppers, weaving through the area’s side streets until they reached Urbani, a high-end camera shop where Benson worked. Sam knew a thing or two about photography—he’d even snapped a few photos on film with his father’s old camera, caught landscapes and architectural planes and people unaware. Unfortunately, the few places where one could get them developed cost a fortune. Even Urbani failed to offer film processing, and sold only digicams that claimed to have all the capabilities of any outdated analog model ever to freeze-frame the earth.

  They entered Urbani and spotted Benson Bridges, a 22nd century geek, standing behind the wooden counter against the far wall. He was scrutinizing components of a homemade circuit board under a magnifying lens through his ridiculously narrow eyeglasses—Sam couldn’t imagine how he managed to actually see through them. From bottom to top they were no taller than a slice of bread on its side, and the lenses were thin as a razor. Benson said he absolutely needed them to see; he couldn’t do his work without them. All his clothes were black and faded from fastidious washing, and his always serious face was paper pale in contrast to the rough shock of dark hair that sprouted from his head like a patchwork of burnt weeds.

  “Oi, Bezza, you ready?” asked Sailor, ready to get properly trashed.

  “I’ll be done in five,” Benson said, without glancing up from his work. He was hand-soldering tiny chips under a brightly illuminated lens. “They’ve got shittier cameras in America,” he said. “Exactly the same, but shittier.”

  Benson closed up shop and they headed for the pub. As they walked, Benson lit up several fags and left them dangling between his fingers without ever taking a drag, letting them burn down to their ends.

  “You’re wasting tons of money,” Sam said, a confused grin on his face. “Why would you do that when a pack costs twenty quid?”

  “That’s exactly why I do it, mate. It’s in line with the Society’s rules, I think. Also, I’m saving some poor sod from getting lung cancer. If I kill this here little pack o’ fire sticks, well then no one else can smoke ‘em, can they?”

  “And they call you a genius,” said Sam.

  The last vestiges of the sun dissipated, fading the sky from blue to black. Benson took a drag from one of the cigs, then coughed for about three minutes straight.

  “We’re here, my lovelies,” Sailor said, holding the heavy wooden door open for the others.

  Sam stopped in front of Sailor, bowing to him cheekily before waltzing through the door like he owned the place.

  “Let’s make tonight a night to remember, lads.”

  Chapter Two

  THE JESTER AND THE KING

  The pub in Soho was not quite Sam’s idea of a perfect pub. The locale itself was not guilty of any grievous errors—minimalist décor in warm strokes of reclaimed wood and rust orange, plenty of comfy seating in a stripped down atmosphere where the ale was cold and crisp. And the clientele were colourful enough, a mix of characters both savory and unsavory—blokes in suits, vagrants, blokes in feathers and derbies and stripes, disgruntled West End queens, disgraced literature professors, those who were all of the above.

  Still, Sam felt uneasy inside the pub’s four walls for some reason he could not put his finger on.

  Sailor arrived at their table with a round of drinks, sliding into the booth beside Sam and across from Benson.

  “Say, what are ya, Bez? Glaswegian? Korean? Californian?” Sailor teased, having only met Benson recently through Sam.

  “All that and more, probably. My parents were both mutts so by the time I was born, no one knew what the fuck I was. Was born in Suffolk but grew up in Florida. Then I came back here an’ been movin’ around the city. I’m in a new flat ‘bout every month. Soon as they ask for the rent, I move.” Benson fiddled with his glass, avoiding eye contact.

  “Must be why I can’t figure out your accent. Usually I’m spot on,” Sailor said.

  Sam steepled his hands together, elbows resting on the wooden table. “Speaking of rent, we’re past due again. Sailor and I are about one step away from whoring out our arses down by the docks.”

  “I tried that once,” said Sailor with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Made a decent chunk of cash but blew it all straightaway. Besides, it made me feel dirty.”

  “I have a tough time believing such acts are below your moral standards.” Sam smirked behind his beer, earning him a smack against his ribcage.


  “You’re hilarious. I’ll have you know that my moral standards are perfectly in line with the times. Now, I came here to dance. You coming, smartarse? Bezza?”

  “I’m good here,” Sam answered as Benson shook his head. Sailor disappeared behind a crowd of impeccably dressed lads and ladies moving in liquid-slow motion.

  Sam tipped his head back against the booth. “All kidding aside, mate, I’m skint this month. You know anywhere I can find work? Is Urbani hiring? I know some stuff about cameras.”

  “You don’t need to know anything,” Benson said, eyes solemn behind his thin specs. “The cameras operate themselves, practically. I think the shop’s gonna fold soon. I mean, we basically deal in antiques.”

  “Then what’ll you end up doing?”

  “I do some hacking on the side for this group. Might start doing it full time.”

  “The Arcana, right? Grassroots anarchists and shyte?”

  “Something like that.”

  “You’re a braver man than me,” said Sam, grinning.

  Sam knew a thing or two about the Arcane Society. Bits he’d gleaned from Benson, stuff he’d watched on vlogs. He knew they thought credit was a farce. They shunned large cities, yet were usually found in the heart of them. They minimised patronisation of corporate-manufactured goods and services, were known lawbreakers, non-participants, many without any family or formal identification, though authorities tried their best to tag and file.

  The Arcana wanted to reset the balance of monetary power. For the U.K. at least, globally if it were possible. They’d been called radicals, anarcho-capitalists, even terrorists, which Sam thought was a bit extreme—it wasn’t like anyone had gotten hurt, at least according to what he’d heard. No one knew exactly how they intended to achieve their improbable goal, and their actions thus far did not fall outside the range of any similar organization—protest rallies, setups to recruit new members in artsy public locales, minor theft and vandalism of targeted corporations.

  Benson had asked Sam once or twice if he wanted to join. Sam always laughed and said he’d think about it. He’d sign on for something eventually. He just hadn’t gotten around to it yet.

  Sam grimaced as the murmur of the pub was overpowered by the sound of bad karaoke—if there was anything that murdered a good buzz, it was the murder of a good song. A wailing rendition of Pulp’s “Common People” by some wasted ginger bloke had him cringing.

  “Blimey, gives new meaning to the term ‘misery rock,’” said Sam.

  “You can do better than that, can’t you Sammy?” asked Benson. “I’ve heard you crooning on the Underground with your eardiscs in. You could kick that guy’s arse.”

  Sam drummed his fingertips to the beat as a grin spread across his face. “Challenge accepted,” he said. “Sign me up.”

  In the darkest corner of the pub, Jeeves watched the crowd with quick-darting eyes, obscured by the changing shadows of young people moving to and fro, and they did not notice him because he wished it so. This was no small feat considering his unusual appearance, how his very being vibrated with centuries-old electric energy. The young people slid against one another with laughter on their lips and false promises in their eyes.

  In his private corner booth he sat and watched and learned, quietly sipping his scotch. A very attractive young man with a microphone in his hand currently held the attentions of almost everyone in the pub. He was perched up on the small wooden karaoke stage, and though his voice was silky and sweet, this was not the aspect of him that alerted Jeeves to the presence of someone valuable.

  The young man held the audience’s focus because he was making them laugh. For his song choice he had selected “Subterranean Homesick Blues” by Dylan—Jeeves’ old mate from his third lifetime. The lyrics were a mouthful.

  “...wants eleven dollar bills, you only got ten,” the boy sang, letting out a self-deprecating laugh every time he ran out of breath or tripped through the landmine of lyrics. The crowd laughed along with him, charmed by his grinning antics and the way he hit his stride when he got to the chorus.

  Aha! And there it was. A new plan. A plan to grow in numbers, a better plan than all his plans before. Better than Julian and the films. Films were too long, anyway. People have trouble paying attention these days.

  The best pop songs are only three minutes long.

  The lad on the stage had style. Like Dylan himself, it wasn’t about vocal prowess. It was there, that intangible somethin’-somethin’. The way his voice curled around the words, sang ‘em like he knew ‘em, like he’d been there.

  Jeeves grinned as he sipped his drink. Look out kid, you’re gonna get hit.

  Sandy brown hair, almost the same colour as his. It would have to be dyed, something much more vivid, Jeeves thought. Bright red, perhaps, like Ziggy. The lad’s clothes were offensively lackluster, torn-up jeans and a Jack Daniels t-shirt—he would need more flare, clothes that were much tighter. He was in pretty good shape, but might need to lose a few pounds in order to achieve that shaking, shimmering, starving musician look.

  There was something else about him. Something in his large, watery eyes that threatened to awake dormant memories. This was not the first lifetime in which they had met. The boy, of course, had forgotten, but Jeeves would always remember.

  The young man finished the song with a little ragman dance, bowing low at the edge of the stage and receiving friendly cheers and back slaps from patrons before returning to his mates. He slid into a booth across from a man Jeeves knew well—Benson Bridges, coder extraordinaire.

  The lights in the woodsy orange pub brightened a tad. Janus Jeeves straightened his spine and crooked his bowtie as he emerged from the shadows.

  He waltzed over to the boys’ table, where Benson and the karaoke singer sat drinking and chatting. Jeeves clasped Benson round the shoulder with a silver-bangled right hand.

  “So, you do come out of your blue-lit computer lab,” he said, startling the young programmer.

  “Jaysus. Didn’t see you there, appearing out of nowhere like that,” Benson said, hiding behind his specs and fiddling awkwardly with his pint glass. “I don’t go out much. I only know about this spot ‘cause you and some of the guys dragged me here once.”

  “Yes, yes of courssse.” Jeeves said, drawing out his S’s like a snake. “Who’s this?” he asked, openly appraising Sam.

  Sam introduced himself, extending his hand before Benson had the chance to answer.

  Jeeves was suddenly seated next to him when a moment ago he’d been standing on the other side of the table.

  “So, bet you’ve heard all about us,” he sang into Sam’s ear.

  “You’re the bloke who runs the Arcane Society,” said Sam, meeting Jeeves at eye level and looking curious enough.

  Jeeves’ lips spread into a wide, all-knowing grin. “So, you have heard. Has Benson here told you much about our little group?” He slung a silk-clad arm across Sam’s shoulders. “Not so much a group, more like a Movement. An Idea. A Militia. Heh, heh, a New World Order, of course.”

  The pub lights had dimmed again and Jeeves couldn’t make out whether this Sam kid was keen on hearing his bit, but continued anyway. He drummed his fingers against the dark wooden table, peering curiously at Sam through strands of stone brown hair that fell in strings across his face.

  “So, Sam, was it?” Jeeves asked, leaning close. “Our little society could always use more members. Tell me, son. Are you good at getting people to like you?” He raised an angular eyebrow, interlacing bony fingers together.

  The expression on the lad’s lovely face grew thoughtful as his gaze returned to Jeeves, index finger circling the rim of his glass. “I think so. Not much to it, really. Just got to get to know ‘em. Most people have got something going on underneath once you get them to open up a bit.”

  “That’s right, babe, that’s right,” Jeeves said. “What I need is bodies, Sam. Lots of bodies. Live ones, of course. Dead ones do me no good.”

  �
�What do you need bodies for?” Sam inquired.

  Jeeves leaned in close, touching heads with Sam. “To build an army. An indestructible one. To turn our way of life into, ‘Life!’” he said with a starburst motion of his hand.

  “I’m not usually up for joining any kind of club or society,” Sam said, pulling back minutely. “But the Arcana...you guys are different. I believe in leveling the playing field. Not sure how I’d be of any help though. I ain’t no one special—not a whiz-kid coder like Benson or a great speaker or anything like that.”

  “Oh, no,” answered Jeeves. “You’re much more than that. Have you looked in the mirror lately? Your face! Your face can help me, baby. Yer arms, your legs, your wedding tackle. Annnnd, most importantly, you’ve got natural charm, and a real pretty voice on you. I saw you singing up there. You had everyone’s attention.”

  Sam watched Jeeves through squinted eyes, regarding him with a mix of skepticism and curiosity.

  “So, how would you like to front a band for the Arcana?” Jeeves asked. His grip across Sam’s shoulders tightened.

  Sam glanced over at Benson. Jeeves recognised that look. It was the What the fuck’s he on about? look.

  It had never deterred him.

  “You’re it, Sammy. I just know it, can feel it in my bones. I look at you, and I know. Benson knows, don’t you grandmaster Bridges? You must have brought us here together tonight. It must be fate.”

  “I gotta take a leak,” Benson said, leaving Jeeves to his prey.

  “You ever thought about playing music before? Gaining thousands of adoring fans?”

  “I’ve fooled around, played a little guitar,” Sam said. “But it’s hard to get things going these days.”

  “You let me worry about getting things going,” Jeeves said. “Getting things going is my specialty. I like your voice. You sound like a male Janis Joplin. We’ll write honeysuckle words, we will. We’ll write ‘em together. I’ll make you a star, make you a god, make you a martyr—the story of success since the dawn of time—it’s an oldie but a goodie. You can’t go wrong with the classics.”