“S’cause I usually do his laundry,” Sailor said, leaning his head against Sam’s shoulder.
“Well, I’ll leave you boys to it then.” She smacked her palm against the doorframe, turning to leave.
Sam stood up. “Wait, hold on a sec.”
“Where’ya goin’?” asked Sailor, pulling at a loose thread on Sam’s trousers.
“Just stay here. I’ll be back in a second,” he said, hurriedly pulling on a t-shirt.
“Suit yerself.” Sailor flopped back onto the tiny bed, humming “Love Junkie,” his favourite Saint Fox and The Independence song to date.
Kit was trying and failing to light a cigarette with a finicky lighter when Sam caught up with her round the back of the flat.
“Here, lemme get that for you.”
“S’fine, I got it,” she mumbled, finally managing to light it on the next try.
“Hey, so um, what you saw in there, that was…”
“It’s fine, really,” she cut him off. “What, you think I didn’t know?” Her eyes were hooded as she stared off into the distance, arms wrapped around herself to keep out the cold.
“Know…what do you know?” Sam asked, shivering a bit and hopping up and down as the trickling rain outside grew to a steady pour. “Know that I’m gay? I’m not. I’m bi, I guess, I mean if you have to put a label on it. It’s just…like, people, not gender, right?”
“I know.” The wind picked up then, blowing mist from the rain in their faces that clung to their hair and the tips of their eyelashes.
“I like you, too, you know.” He removed the cigarette from between her lips, taking a drag.
“I know,” she said again. “I told you, it’s fine. I wasn’t just saying it. It really is fine.”
“Yeah?”
The street lamps flickered on as the sky grew dark. Kit saw their light reflected in Sam’s eyes as she at last made eye contact.
“So… no Fiji?” she asked, a small smile on her lips.
“No Fiji,” he said. “Anyway, I’m sick of planes.” He closed in on her, sheltering out the rain with his back and bracketing her in against the brick wall. He kissed her twice. Tentatively at the first, then slowly the second time, sucking her bottom lip between his and pressing closer. When they broke apart she breathed in, smiling softly with her eyes cast downwards, watching the drops fall against the pavement.
“We good?” he asked.
“Yeah. We’re good.”
And they were. It truly didn’t bother her, the Sam and Sailor thing, at least not by much. She wondered if maybe it should, if her jealousy deficiency made her somehow less human. Was it because Sailor was a bloke? It didn’t matter either way, she decided. Sam wasn’t the kind of guy you kept in a gilded cage. She wasn’t the kind of girl you kept in one. Love is always a gift, and one should be open to receiving as much of it as possible.
The rain slowed to a trickle as the sun set in hues of orange and gold. It was as though the weekend had arrived, and felt, for a moment, that it was here to stay.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
LULLABY
Benson zoomed the camera in on a tight shot of Janus Jeeves, looking abnormally solemn and refined. He was seated upon his blue velvet throne, jewelry and makeup kept to a minimum, classy shit—a black and silver pinstriped suit, brass bangles on his wrists, a thin pair of stainless-steel-rimmed specs, wing-tipped shoes, and the faintest smudge of charcoal eyeliner. He sat with both his feet on the ground, back straight, hands on his knees. He did not shake and he did not shiver.
Saint Fox stood to his left just out of frame. It had been Jeeves’ intention to have Sam as the focus of the advert, but the lad looked like he was feeling about as under the weather as those he would promise to cure. He’d lost weight and was sweating a bit, thin beads misting on his forehead and upper lip. Jeeves had given him a few lines to speak, hoping he could handle as much.
Keeping Sam at the forefront of the movement was in the Arcana’s best interest. After all, it was his face that people recognised. Honestly, it was a bit of a blow to Jeeves’ ego that he still needed the rock star, but kids these days have such short attention spans, and it’s best not to disrupt them from the familiar. Besides, he liked the lad.
At least Sam looked the part. Eyes wide, glittering and earnest, tight black trousers, hair slicked back, a techy-looking black denim jacket with rivets and bolts he had borrowed from the past lives of Montreal.
Time for the second act.
Janus Jeeves focused his attention at the camera.
“Ladies, gents, and those both or neither, have you been feeling a bit poorly lately? Everything not right as rain? Do your side effects include nausea, heartburn, swelling, rapid heartbeat, ulcers, weakness, jitters, rapid weight gain, rapid weight loss, confusion, memory loss, depression, anxiety, altercations with loved ones? Some of the above? All of the above? At least one or more of the above?” He leaned forward, cocking his head to the side. The camera zoomed out to reveal the king on his throne, his knight in shining leather by his side.
Sam spoke in a strong, steady voice, summoning his stage presence through shattered nerves. “We’re not heartless. We don’t want to hurt anyone. The goal of our mission is not to terrorise, it’s to revolutionise. We never meant to cause any harm, but drastic measures were necessary.”
Jeeves patted Sam’s arm, staring up at him sagely. “The lad speaks the truth. And today, we’re here to tell you that we don’t plan to leave you high and dry. The virus...it was never meant to harm. It was meant to heal. And heal you we will,” he finished with a wink.
“We have the cure,” Sam announced. “We’re giving it out on a first come, first serve basis, but supplies will never run out. Members of our coalition will be dispensing the cure at various locations listed on our portal.”
Jeeves crossed one leg over the other. “Now, I know what you clever clogs are thinking. But, as the saying goes, ‘Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.’ The cure only works once. A reinfection will synthesise differently, and this patch will be unable to counteract it, so don’t reinfect yourselves by using the Dot again once you take the cure. We invite you to get clean, and join our system of equality. Don’t waste time. Log in now. Be safe. Be healthy.”
“Never use the Dot again, never get the virus again. It’s that simple. Our network grows by the hour. Millions are using GGcoin. Join us and be free,” Sam affirmed. He looked straight into the camera, and held his shaking hands behind his back.
Benson touched the Stop icon on the recording.
“Well,” said Jeeves, immediately dangling off the chair sideways at an impossible angle now that the camera was off. “How d’ya think it went, Foxy?”
“Fine. God, how’s Bez able to create an epidemic and a cure? He’s a bloody programmer, not a doctor.”
“Aww baby, you know human bodies are all hardwired now. He can create a virus, he can create anti-virus software. He just writes infinite loops, equations, stop commands, dontcha Bezzy?” Benson was waving fingers across his holo display, shutting down camera mode and uploading the video through his network of virtual hiding places.
“Yep, I’m a regular Dr. Frankenstein,” Benson said. Today his black strawman hair was unwashed and unruly.
Sam hunkered down onto the floor, the back of his head hitting Jeeves’ footstool. “Right. So how’s the cure administered?”
“Same way it was put in, really,” said Benson. “App on the cleverband. See? Touch the display here. Transmits an electric signal, carries through the bloodstream. Distributes antibodies to block the initial virus. Users should show improved results within a few days.”
“Wouldn’t it be easy for others to get a hold of it?” Sam asked, crossing his long legs at his ankles. “Start distributing it amongst themselves without our help?”
“No way, man,” Benson answered. “Only way anyone can get it on their cleverbands is if we put it there. Only authorised members of the Arcana have d
istributor access codes.”
“We got enough guys to get this done? This thing is everywhere now.”
“And so are we. Just like the movement—it starts with us. It grows as it needs to grow,” said Jeeves definitively. “You gotta trust the motion of the ocean.” He punctuated his statement with a corresponding dance move.
“Better hope we don’t have a mole or something,” Sam said, closing his eyes and leaning back. “You know how these things go.”
“There are no moles in our home, baby. I look into their eyessss, every single one of them. If they ain’t one hundred percent sincere I knows it, can feel it in my blood, can hear it singin’ between my ears, can feel it tingling in my nether regions.”
Sam and Benson exchanged pained glances.
“No one will betray us,” said Jeeves.
“This could go fuckin’ wrong,” Sam said, his voice raspy. “Just putting our boys and girls out on the line like that? It’s completely dangerous.”
“It’s phase two, baby,” Jeeves said, standing tall on the tips of his toes, bracelets jangling on his outstretched arms. “There were always gonna be risks. We’ve gotta expand the community… and even though they’re suckers, we gotta get the squares on board, ‘cause I suppose at the end of the day, they’re people, too, made of blood and dirt just like us. We just about outnumber them now—the baddies.” He ran piano fingers through Sam’s hair, twirling gelled bits into little twigs. “And you just wait and see what happens when they show up. Don’t you worry your lovely head about our boys and girls. We safeguard our own.”
“Let me guess,” Sam said, eyes growing unfocused as his gaze floated between Jeeves and Benson. “Dr. Frankenstein invented something which does just that.”
“Correctamundo,” said Jeeves.
Jack-of-all-Trades and his brother James went to the Women’s Refuge on Leicester Road, hope in their hearts and the remedy in their hands. The refuge was barely used as such anymore—funds had been cut so drastically that only a few diehard champions of the organisation remained. They opened their arms to the Arcana readily, offering to help wherever they could, setting up plastic chairs and tables, tea and biscuits, for the guests about to arrive.
Already, the line was out the door.
“You nervous?” Jack-of-all-Trades asked his twin. Today they wore clashing plaid jumpers, green and orange, each sporting the opposite hair colour of their shirts.
“I trust Jeeves and Benson,” said James, wringing slightly shaky hands together.
“They’ve never lied to us,” Jack-of-all-Trades agreed.
“How does this thing work again?”
“You just launch the app, then have ‘em touch here where it says GET CLEAN,” Jack-of-all-Trades demonstrated, patting his twin solidly on the back.
“Well, then. Shall we open up shop?”
As the doors opened, a stream of people entered in systematic fashion, successfully funneled by volunteers who guided the anxious and tittering arrivals to the appropriate stations as though organizing a soup kitchen. The first group let in were mostly day jobbers from a variety of backgrounds. Luckily, Jack-of-all-Trades spoke all languages.
“Kanagatu venna epa,” he spoke to a woman in Sinhalese. “Safe, no worries, see?” He touched the display himself to show her.
Fear and resentment were abated by the fact that people would try anything to get rid of the Dot virus’ symptoms. Some of them had even become fans of Saint Fox and The Independence post facto, jumping on the bandwagon a second too late after swiping across Pay Now.
“So, Saint Fox himself has officially endorsed this method?” asked a tall, well-groomed blonde man in a powder blue shirt and sports coat. “He endorses it as a cure for the Dot virus?”
“If you mean does he approve of it—yes, he does,” said James. “Like you heard them say in the video, our organization never meant to harm anyone. Think of this as a reboot. A reboot of the financial system, a reboot of your health. Tomorrow’s another day. Brand spankin’ new world.”
“Well, I’ve got to do something about this chronic fatigue I’ve been having. It happened right after the virus was dispersed, when I purchased a bottle of milk thistle extract at Boots. My employer’s not happy with my decrease in efficiency, to say the least. Which brings me to my next question,” he said, placing his index finger on the bright blue GET CLEAN square.
“My employer has the virus, and he couldn’t make it down here today. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? Lucas Norcoford, of Primary Illusion Industries. I’ve got to bring him the cure right away.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” said James, glancing wearily at his twin, who was conversing with a couple in Swahili. “This app can’t be transferred to other devices. It can’t be purchased. He’ll have to come to us.”
The blonde man smiled falsely, drawing a gun from his coat pocket.
“That won’t be necessary,” he said.
James froze, the colour in his ruddy cheeks fading from pink to ashen white. “What the—how did you...”
“How’d I get past your so-called security? Entered through the fire escape. You boys really should be more careful.”
“Jack...” James looked to his twin.
Silently, Jack-of-all-Trades raised his cleverband. He spotted the app he was looking for, one installed just two days ago by Benson Bridges— ‘Code Red’.
The blonde man aimed his gun squarely at James’ forehead.
“First casualty of the cause,” he said. “Maybe now you boys will learn not to mess with the men in this country.”
He pulled the trigger.
Nothing. An empty click.
He fired again—once, twice. Nothing save for the hollow clicking mechanism that refused to launch a bullet.
Bewildered, he stared at the gun like it was a foreign object. He aimed the gun at James, then at Jack-of-all-Trades, pulling the trigger furiously.
“What have you done?” he demanded, angry and confused.
“Stopped you from committing an act of violence,” Jack-of-all-Trades said, walking over to stand beside his brother.
The man glared at the twins, tossing the gun across the room. The cold metal object hit the wall with a heavy sound. He looked to his colleagues, another man and a woman with grim expressions and similar pedestrian attire. They drew their weapons and fired, only to encounter the same malfunction.
“Nice trick,” the man said, his knotted brow smoothing as an eerie calm crept across his face. “We’ll see how many more you’ve got left. You’ll run out soon enough.”
The next moment, he and his colleagues were out the door and through the crowd of frightened onlookers, people frozen to the spot.
“What just happened?” James asked his brother once his breath had returned to him.
“Electromagnetic weapons disruptor,” Jack-of-all-Trades answered. “Freezes the bullets in their barrels. Wouldn’t have worked ten years ago, but all guns are electronic now, so...” he took his cleverband off his wrist, cracking it in the air like a whip.
“Fuck, man,” said James. “I thought I was a goner.”
“I’d never let that happen,” Jack-of-all-Trades said, linking arms with his twin. “Our father and our whizkid brother would never let that happen.”
“Does this mean we’ve accomplished world peace?” James asked on a shaky exhale.
“I wish that were true, but you never know. Maybe this is just the calm before the storm.”
Jack-of-all-Trades turned to face the people. Some had fled immediately following the incident, but others remained, watching and waiting to see what would happen.
“So, who’s next?” he asked.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
MAP OF THE PROBLEMATIQUE
Sam Numan was dreaming a cycle of four lifetimes. In the first one he was a tired old folk guitarist, busking in subway stations and hoping to earn enough for a kidney pie at Paddy’s down the street. In the second, he was
the head of a multi-million-dollar corporation; he drove a black Lamborghini and fucked a ginger-haired girl with impossibly long legs while high out of his mind. While the girl gave him head, he crashed the car into one of the warehouses that stocked what he sold—military tech.
In the third life, Sam was himself, but not himself. Flitting between jobs and treading water, playing in a band, but he was much less famous. There was no Arcane Society, no Janus Jeeves. One night he came home to his flat and Kit and Sailor were there—Kit was a man in a smartly tailored suit and Sailor a daft bird in silver high heels—he found them on his couch doing the horizontal tango. When they invited him to join them, he refused, headed straight into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, which was stocked with car batteries. He kept taking the batteries out and stacking them on the countertop, figuring there must be a beer in there, somewhere. Soon he was trapped on all sides by an impenetrable fortress of batteries. He could hear Kit and Sailor shrieking and laughing from beyond the wall, having a grand old sexy time.
Suddenly, he spotted what he was looking for in the back of the fridge—one final can of Boddington’s. Just as his fingertips brushed the aluminum surface, he fell into the next cycle of the dream.
In the fourth life he was falling, falling, falling, through darkness both instant and limitless. People say that you wake up before you hit the ground. That wasn’t true for Sam. He hit the ground, and then, he kept on falling.
He awoke in a suffocating sweat, laying in stark post-nightmare paralysis for a while. It was dark by the time he wandered out into the main room, where everyone was talking and laughing with drinks in hand.
Kit and Muzzy sat against the wall in a couple of wicker chairs, debating the pros and cons of different guitar models. On the other end of the room, Jeeves was animatedly talking to Sailor about the Arcane Society’s evolution over the course of many years. Sailor’s eyes grew wider as Jeeves’ explanations grew louder and increasingly nonsensical.
In his opiate haze they all seemed distant and sinister. Jeeves was a two-bit salesman who’d traded in his three-piece suit for freakishly-patterned vintage apparel, Benson a soulless sleek-black computer console, Kit a neo-feminist in disguise who wasn’t really as okay with men as she pretended to be, his parents part of a beige-coloured generation lost in a never-ending cycle of debt and adverts.
The Rise of Saint Fox and The Independence Page 18