by Roy C. Booth
“Luckily the technology isn't perfect: The pickup range is limited, and RFIDs are relatively easily blocked. So a certain tag that disappears for a while is not suspicious in itself, and a few do fail—after all, they're mass produced, and some minimally damaged ones do slip by the quality control—so as long as we don't set off a certain pattern we're okay.”
“So you'll be joining me in Siberia?”
“In a very roundabout manner, and it's safer if you don't know how.”
“You seem to have planned this quite a long way back.”
“We have our reasons, and in Siberia we can talk freely. But now, darling, we better start shagging again.” Her hands are touching him in all the right spots, wreaking havoc with his concentration.
“Again? All for the good cause?”
“Not only that, Nero: I do enjoy it immensely.”
“Tell me about it! I didn't know it could be so good, last so long.”
“Hate to disappoint you again, darling, but there's more fueling our mutual attraction.”
“You mean that the Panopticon is encouraging our sex life?”
“Not only ours: It saturates every bedroom with pheromones, making everybody do it like there's no tomorrow.”
“You've got to be kidding.”
“Afraid not. A happy couple is a productive couple and a well-spending one. Break-ups are bad for the economy.”
“What the fuck?”
“Indeed, even that is not sacred: Everything for the corporate state ideal.”
“It can't be that bad.”
“It's worse. Now: Let's do it.”
“Ehm...”
“Darling, those pheromones only enhance feelings that are already there. Come on.”
“Well, if you put it that way...”
*II: Mother Russia*
This restless man
Has seen too many things
In the wrong kind of light
Watching how the full moon
Turns the day into night
The sleepless girl
Has heard new things
Over the sea, across the sky
Between the buildings of the city
You can hear the people cry
Oh, new winds can carry
Fresh voices across the sea
Oh new winds will carry
Freedom of choice back to me
[Fragment of The Unassailable Light: Aura Aurora's international Summer hit single.]
In his window seat, Nero Pogolas has an almost perfect view of Salekhard and its surrounds as the chartered plane approaches the polar city. The mighty River Ob cutting through immense tundra plains, glowing golden brown in the middle of Summer. Salekhard—“Cape Town” to the Nenets—is located on the Ob's east bank, spot on the Arctic Circle, before the river enters the Kara Sea through the Obskaya Guba basin.
The sheer vastness of the landscape is overwhelming and has an intoxicating effect. No monitoring equipment, as far as the eye can see. The idea alone brings him that little bit closer to heaven. Old Soviet political prisoners will disagree as Yamalo-Nenets used to house some of the old regime's numerous gulags. But to Pogolas the near-endless Arctic plains spell freedom: Splendid isolation from the all-seeing eyes of the Panopticon.
Still, he breathes a little sigh of relief as the old Tupolev-154 touches down safely on the airport's single runway. While he loves the absence of hyper-advanced spying equipment, he reckons that a more modern plane won't hurt. Don't forget to take the complimentary eye-covers along, Pogolas thinks, it doesn't get dark at night. Then he gets out with the rest of the solar eclipse group, and as he steps on the tarmac, the tundra seems even more immense under the gargantuan, cloudless sky. Pogolas lingers on the Arctic asphalt, fascinated, but eventually rejoins the group.
After they've picked up their bags, the solar eclipse enthusiasts are transported to the Yamal hotel in a bus that looks like it's been around since the October Revolution. Leaving a cloud of black smoke in their wake, and every pothole emphasizing the non-existence of suspension, they drive into town, but Pogolas hardly notices, loving every minute of it.
Where old, wooden single-story houses dominate the outskirts, the center is more modern, with several eclectic high-rise apartments painted in vivid colors. The road has become smooth, and the town's mixture of old and new seems so peculiar to Pogolas that he decides to take a long walk after checking in at the hotel.
It's like a new frontier opening: Pogolas can't keep the smile from his face as he walks around Salekhard's center. Houses with small minarets, built by Turkish workers brought in by the oil company. Deep blue, pyramidal penthouses on vibrant four-story buildings, housing immigrant Canadians, also working on the Yamal peninsula's immense gas fields. A wooden church with wrought-iron fences still bearing the town's original name: Obdorsk. Quaint lampposts, Communist-era, Zadkinesque statues, and wall paintings of imaginary cities that look almost modern in these schizophrenic surrounds. Shining new dock cranes in rusty shipyards, robust fishing boats alongside anchor handling tugs in the harbor, and old wharfs that are built to last. The River Ob, a good three miles wide near the end of Summer, dwarfs the River Cam, and the fast current of melt water discourages any notion of punting.
Friendly, if somewhat subdued people that, irrespective of Salekhard's isolated location, are already used to foreigners. Mostly Russians, but interspersed with the indigenous Nenets—whose brightly textured, intricate traditional attire is a pleasing eye-catcher—bawdy Canucks in lumberjack shirts, animated Turkish women with headscarves and the occasional wide-eyed tourist like him. But, most of all, the complete lack of intrusive advertisements of any kind. To Pogolas's ad-jaded senses, the sporadic wooden billboard and lone neon-sign are quite charming.
He enters an establishment that resembles a guest house, and has a simple but rich meal of Borsht, reindeer steak with cabbage and potatoes, and a double, local vodka, all heartily recommended to him by a charming waitress through broken English and improvised sign language. The very warm goodbyes indicate that he has probably over tipped, but he couldn't care less. Sated, exhausted and still somehow invigorated he returns to his hotel room.
Fight the wind and weather
With the music of your soul
All firewalls together
Try to keep the world from us all
Chase the facts around the world
I bring you choice—the unassailable light
[Fragment of The Unassailable Light.]
Very early next morning he's woken by an insistent knocking on his door. Groggily recalling that DON'T DISTURB signs are non-existent here, he somehow manages to get in his underpants before he opens the door. Arms are wrapped around his neck and he's covered with kisses before he realized it's Henson.
“Tara! How did you get here?”
“Arrived with the night train from Moscow. Let's hit the sack.”
“But how did you know my room number?”
“Come on, Nero: Euro bills do wonders, here,” she says as she undresses. “But right now, I need some sleep.”
“Me too. I hardly started.”
“My eyes are tired; I couldn't stop staring in the distance. These endless plains...”
“Yeah, they're near-hypnotic. Blooming in more colors and patterns than I thought possible, so far up North.”
“The permafrost is thawing, the tundra is changing,” Henson says while getting in bed, “but that's another story. I'm tired.”
“How about me thawing you out,” Pogolas snuggles up and embraces her.
“Not now,“ Henson, ignoring his advances, “I really am knackered.”
“Sorry,” Pogolas swallows his frustration, “but I really missed you.”
“Me too. I just can't keep my eyes open.” As she turns around and falls asleep.
Later, their deep sleep is disturbed by Henson's relentlessly ringing PDA.
“Get up, Nero.”
“Not yet. Later.”
“Oh no, we have a lunch meeting. Now do you get out, or do I get you out?” she asks as she starts shoving him out of the bed.
“Lunch meeting?” is all he can say as he swiftly swings his feet to the ground just before Henson pushes him over the edge.
“With some people you should meet.” she says and jumps out of bed on the other side.
*NOVATEK earns environmental recognition.*
OAO NOVATEK today announced that the Company was among the winners in the Russian “National Environmental Prize” contest in which it was nominated and received an award for “Contributions to Sustainable Development.”
The “National Environmental Prize” is sponsored by the State Duma of the Russian Federation's Environmental Committee and the Vernadsky Fund, a non-governmental environmental organization, and is the only official award in Russia recognizing the social and environmental contributions made by Russian companies.
[…]
NOVATEK plans to continue increasing the effectiveness of its environmental and social policies based on the fundamental principal that the current generation has a responsibility to protect and improve environmental and social conditions for future generations.
[From ITAR-TASS News Agency.]
Some fifteen minutes later Nero Pogolas follows Tara B. Henson into a nondescript restaurant filled with sturdy furniture, yellow-plastered walls and huge, kitschy chandeliers. The place is full, and the gathered, mixed clientèle is talking animatedly at a volume that will make your average Italian second-hand car dealer proud. Somewhere in the back of the bustling café a black-haired man with huge eyebrows waves at Henson to come over. In her wake, Pogolas suddenly recognizes the tall blond woman sitting next to the heavyset man. Before Henson can introduce her, Pogolas smiles and says, “Dr. Sletjana, I presume?”
The Caucasian beauty's face lights up with a smile that's both flattered and flattering, gets up from her seat, puts out her hand and says, “Ivanova, please, Dr. Pogolas. Very honored to meet you.”
“The honor is all mine. And please call me Nero.”
“As you wish, Nero. This is Sergey Korbyshev, our administrator.”
“Nice to meet you, too, Dr. Korbyshev.”
“Sergey, please, Nero.”
“Sergey. What brings you people here? The solar eclipse, as well?”
“We will certainly watch it. But the reason we are here is you: Nero Pogolas.”
“Some of our international friends mediated this meeting, Nero,” Henson says, “And it was vital that you didn't know anything about it, as not to give it away.”
“Okay,“ Pogolas says, only slightly miffed, and very curious, “what do you people want?”
“Nero, ever since the UK fell under the Panopticon Singularity's spell, you haven't published a single research paper,” Sletjana says.
“But I submitted several,” Pogolas blurts out, baffled, “and they were published!”
“The scientific papers you receive, Nero, are all carefully edited and partly faked by the Panopticon,” Henson says.
“Faked! And how about my international correspondence?”
“Also partly edited and partly faked. The exchanges of you and your colleagues are finely orchestrated to think you are interacting with the international scientific community, but in reality your most important research results never leave the Panopticon.”
Pogolas can only stare at Henson in disbelief.
“I'm afraid it's true,” Sletjana says, “the papers published in your name were so obfuscated, and revealed nothing new. Completely different from your clear and insightful pre-Panopticon publications. Anybody with half a brain could see they were fake.”
“And you are one of many UK scientists that are handled that way.” Korbyshev joins the discussion, “Now with Japan and even the USA showing dangerous signs of going down the same road as the UK, the scientific community is becoming quite distrustful.”
“Jesus,” Pogolas says in desperation, “I thought it was bad, but not that bad. Fusion power should be for everybody, not just the select few.”
“Indeed. That's why we ask you to come work for us.” Korbyshev says.
“Work for you? But the T-15 tokamak was shut down.”
“And ITER in Cadarache is probably a dead end,” Korbychev responds.
“A dead end? The whole international scientific community—”
“—is divided and is not sharing all their data. Even we have started to hold back.”
“Some people even think that ITER is supported by the big oil companies because it will never work, so that it's not a threat to oil,” Henson says.
“You mean to say that all my work was nothing but a giant decoy?” Pogolas asks, exasperated.
Korbychev aims a questioning look at Henson, who answers with a smile and a semi-innocent look. “Not your work, just ITER,” he says, “And we are in the process of building a new fusion reactor at the Kurchatov Institute.”
“That's impossible,” Pogolas says, as he does a quick mental calculation, “the costs are astronomical.”
“For a tokamak, but not for a Farnsworth-Hirsch fusor, based on Bussard's research. The costs for a real-scale model with a projected net power output are about 200 million dollars, something our current sponsor is willing to invest.”
“Your sponsor? The Russian government? The one that has critical journalists and old spies eliminated, cold-war style?”
“That was in the Putin days: Since Glazyev things are, if slowly, improving. But the government isn't our sponsor: It's Novatek, our biggest private oil company.”
“An oil company?”
“An oil company that intends to remain an energy company in the future. One with a real long-term view, and with an excellent environmental record.” Henson adds, “And they're already behind: The Panopticon is building one at a secret location.”
“The Panopticon also thinks that the Bussard plant might work? We haven't heard anything from him in years.”
“He's been silenced after he tried to make all his research and plans public—so that literally everybody with an interest could use them,” Korbychev says, “We got hold of them, through an idealistic Usenet group that was shut down soon afterward. And if Tara's info is correct, we're not the only ones.”
“To quote Bussard,” Sletjana says, “'It is the details that make or break the device.” The particular set of details that dominate the performance are exactly in your field, Nero. You are the world's leading expert on these, and possibly the key to a net power fusion device.”
All this overwhelms Pogolas and an uneasy silence falls, one that Henson eventually fills: “Think about it, Nero. But you must make your decision quick, because once you return to England, you might find it extremely difficult to leave again.”
“But I got here now.”
“You're a well-known eclipse enthusiast that books his trips well in advance, and luckily this one happens here,” Henson explains.
“This is very difficult. You're asking a lot of me. Let me sleep on it.”
“Of course. Sorry to spring it on you like this, but your circumstances leave us no other choice.”
“I understand that. Now can we order something? I'm starving.”
Flash of light
Still picture
The man I used to be
Some quick-forgetting stranger
How naïve he seems to me
Lack of light
Moving shadow
Moments caught in fright
Make the image seem much darker
Or its surroundings too bright
Oh light waves can carry
Clear sights over the sea
Oh light waves will carry
Freedom of thinking back to me
[Fragment of The Unassailable Light.]
The next day, Pogolas is restive. He's walking along the banks of the River Ob with Henson, and a sky filled with cirrus uncinus unsettles his eclipse-focused mind. It's not the only t
hing clouding his thoughts, though.
“What's eating you?” Henson asks, “You haven't said a word all morning.”
“Lots of things. I just wanted to see a solar eclipse, and I wind up having to rethink my whole future.”
Henson takes his left hand, squeezes it, and looks him in the eyes: “You are important. You can make a difference.”
“It very much seems so,” Pogolas says, meeting her gaze, “which makes me wonder how much you really care for me.”
“I do. Very much.”
“You weren't exactly open to my advances last night, either.”
“I wasn't in the mood.”
“So what we had in England was only fueled by the Panopticon's bedroom pheromones?”
“No! I do love you, but I don't want to—”
“—give me a reason not to stay here, right?”
“It's not like that! I'm torn up, too. Yes, I want you to stay here and screw bloody Big Brother England. But I also don't want to lose you. My stomach's in knots, and I feel guilty.”
“You feel guilty? You seduced me in the first place!”
“It wasn't meant to be like this. Yeah: I met you with a purpose. But along the way, I did fall for you, despite your naivete, despite your social...ineptitude.”
“My social ineptitude?”
“Sometimes you're such a nerd. When I'm very agitated and don't make love to you, it doesn't mean I don't love you anymore. Can't you understand?”
Pogolas looks downward. “I—” His voice falters, and he takes a deep breath, “I'm sorry. Sometimes I can be such an idiot.” A blush forms on his face. “But I have to make a very difficult decision, and it tears me up inside.“
“You're not the only one,” she says, and takes him in her arms, nestling her head against his chest, “My mind wants to go back to England and fight the good fight. My heart wants to stay here with you.“
“Yeah,” Pogolas returns her hug, and kisses her on her forehead, “I guess I'm just a half-assed romantic: I want to change the world, but don't want to change along with it.”