He got up off his chair and stood between Isaac and Michelle.
“Please leave the easy way.”
“And what if I don’t?” asked Isaac, starting to get angry and immediately regretted it. His aggression only made Michelle more frightened. A good half of the restaurant was already watching their table, including the irate manager, the acquaintance who had sent Isaac the text.
“All right, I’m sorry. I’m leaving.” Isaac looked at Michelle one last time, she was so beautiful and so indifferent. She realized she would never make any kind of ally and was reveling in her own life of admirers and luxury. People like that would never risk disrupting their own comfortable stability. Michelle didn’t even seem so very beautiful now. Her alarm had turned her face pale and slightly drawn. Her charm had evaporated instantly and her eyes peered out spitefully from under brows. Isaac suddenly smiled. He realized that he was stronger than many brilliant or rich people. Even in his present condition he was capable of far more than many of the people around him.
“See you later, Michelle,” Isaac said with a wave of his hand and walked away with a confident stride. Maybe his mission had failed, but he felt an incredible rush of energy at having moved from theory to action.
Chapter four
Isaac’s legs carried him home without any thought. He wanted to run, not walk and get back to his computer as soon as possible. He didn’t really know what had happened, but his head was absolutely clear and working at maximum capacity.
It was time to search among the ones who had nothing to lose, those who attacked COMA openly. He had to look at all their social networks with a maximal focus on the marginal types. To hell with any society celebrities. To hell with the rich ones. First he had to create the backbone.
Isaac carried on working and analyzing until morning. It appeared that the most suitable candidate was the marginal Bikie after all with his obvious contempt for COMA. Some posts reeked of disillusionment and rage, everything that Isaac himself felt yesterday. A conversation with him would go differently for sure. One of Bikie’s strong points was his profession as a systems administrator and programmer. And the candidate worked as a barman, had no money, all the makings of an anarchist, and on top of that was as strong as an ox. If things worked out with him, physical security would come as part the deal. It wouldn’t take much to find Bikie, he definitely didn’t have a concierge for correspondence and so tracking him down would be easy.
Thinking about physical protection, Isaac spotted another candidate, a husky young athletically built, black guy... With such high creativity rating, what could have attracted him to sport, Isaac wondered. If you had enough natural talent both for sport and for using your brain, then why not? Abdul Djebali, age twenty-three, a member of the national track and field team. A French father and Algerian mother. A Muslim. Training, training, more training. “Aha, I know that gym,” Isaac exclaimed, examining his Instagram. “That’s where I’ll find him.”
Isaac went to bed, but tossed and turned restlessly even though it was already past sunrise. He fell asleep around eight, maybe later, and then woke up at least twice, the clock showing 8.40 and 9.30. He had to force himself to sleep a bit longer: He had two candidates for today, and the second one worked until three in the morning. Isaac closed the curtains tightly, plunging the room in total darkness and fell sound sleep.
The administrator at the gym said that the afternoon training would finish at four o’clock. Isaac went to grab a pizza and came back a little earlier than that. When he spotted Abdul, he introduced himself and asked what he was doing after the gym. They agreed to sit and talk in a café in the port at six. The sportsman turned out to be a very amiable guy. That was the pattern – the less money people had, the more accessible they were.
With nothing else to do, Isaac went straight to the café. He took a table on the terrace and examined the yachts. Some were empty; some had jolly groups sitting on them, with music playing. Sailing into Monaco was always an event and the people were in an excellent mood.
Around five, a huge white ocean liner with an aqua-park on its upper deck sailed into the port. “Fortune Transatlantic «was printed on its side in large letters Probably from America. The liner took about twenty minutes to dock, and then tourists started pouring out. God, there were so many, like a huge anthill! Cameras held at the ready, lots of them in identical baseball caps, the people just kept coming out, on and on. Isaac heard their shouts of enthusiasm. “I live here,” thought Isaac, “but I don’t see the beauty of this place. My eyes stopped registering it ages ago; I can’t even remember the last time I looked at the sea. It’s probably been a year, maybe more, since I even went swimming. That’s how we live, not noticing anything, submerged in our day-to-day cares, our work. But people are willing to cross the ocean to be here for just one day.”
Abdul found Isaac engrossed in these thoughts.
“Like a coffee?” Isaac asked him.
“No, I don’t drink coffee, just water.”
Isaac called over a waiter and ordered a large bottle of water. There was an awkward pause.
“Abdul, I’d like to ask you a couple of questions and make you a proposal. A week ago I almost became a Happy, but I was lucky, God spared me or maybe I was just fortunate I decided it wasn’t just a coincidence. I didn’t like the present system and the downloading craze. My gut feeling told me it was wrong. And if you dig under the surface, some points that are very unpleasant for COMA will come creeping out.”
Isaac made sure that Abdul was listening to him and continued
“I know you have a very high creativity level. You had it measured two years ago in the local branch. Why didn’t you download?”
“Well, apart from my creativity, I have couple of other things I can use to pull through. I can always download if I wish. Meanwhile I am in training and getting excellent results. In just a little while, I’ll make the national team.”
“I see. I am glad you chose a different path. With your level you could already be sipping a cocktail in a pretty decent villa.”
“I could. But maybe I’d be able to do that in any case. If I make the team, that’s good money too. Ad sponsorships, all sorts of bonuses. I could get rich anyway.”
“Same here, but we’ll talk about that later. I want to ask you to join a team, a team of people who will sort all of this out independently. And maybe put an end to all of it.”
“All of what?”
“COMA, downloading creativity. It all looks just too smooth.”
“And what do you want from me?”
“To take part. I want you to help.”
“But how?”
“Abdul, can I trust you?”
“Sure. No matter what, this conversation is just between you and me.”
“Great. I’m looking for partners, those with high intellect and tons of creativity to work together to stop this idiotic trend of turning people into stupid amoebae. I want to find the weak spots in the system, I want to creep up as close as possible and hack it, literally or metaphorically.”
“What do you mean, hack it? It’s not one computer, it’s a network. Destroy one and the others will still be there. You can’t destroy the system.”
“If someone created it, it can be destroyed. I have a reason to think that Professor Link is alive.”
“What? – Abdul sounded astonished. - Where did you get that information?”
“I just have grounds for thinking that. Happies say that they’re happy. But a drugged-up junkie is happy too, as long as the drug is still in his blood. A junkie is just a sick person. What if the Happies are sick too? Like being on a high. No Happy has ever returned to a normal state.”
“That’s just paranoia. Of course they’re happy, you can see it, and you can cast doubt on any achievement that way.”
“Well, maybe it is paranoia,” Isaac retorted. “But haven’t you noticed that paranoiacs are always the most vigilant ones? Remember in the movies? There’s always one p
aranoiac that no one listens to, but in the end he always turns out to be right. A paranoiac is the guy who saves the human race at the last moment and what if the last moment is just about to arrive and we don’t know it?”
“Anything is possible, but why do you need me?”
“You’re strong.”
“Are we planning to beat someone up then?” Abdul chuckled.
“No, we’re not, and I hope we won’t have to. I read that you’re a hot-shot mathematician and that’s important for my plan.”
“But just what is your plan, I don’t get it yet.”
“Find COMA’s vulnerable spots and destroy it.”
“And more specifically?”
“There’s nothing specific as of yet. We’ll create the specifics together. We’re going to figure out where Link is.”
Abdul thought hard about what he was telling him. Isaac caught himself thinking that if Abdul did get into the national team, his advertising contracts were as good as guaranteed. Tall, six feet two, broad-shouldered, white-toothed and with a massively wide smile. His ordinary gray t-shirt looked so good on him that Isaac felt the urge to buy one for himself.
“You know Isaac, maybe I’ll regret this later, but ’m going to pass. I’ve slaved too hard to get where I am, spilling sweat by the bucketful in the gym. I’m just a step away from my goal and the doors of the national team are open to me. I’m not exactly against helping you somehow, but you haven’t even got a simple plan, just bare ideas. Sorry bro, but I can’t. I’ve got two younger brothers, a father, a mom and an uncle and I’m their only hope. You get on with it. You know where to find me, when you have something more specific and then I’ll think about it. But I’ve got no time for sitting at home and looking for a needle in a bundle of hay, I train two or three times a day. I won’t tell anyone about our conversation, but as for joining up – I pass. No hard feelings?”
Isaac was upset. He liked Abdul. He was not angry with him. If it’s no, it's no, but he made a mental note that he had to show up with a more concrete plan. If people had specific goals in their lives and were grafting hard for them, they wouldn’t dive headfirst into a whirlpool for a bare idea. He had to keep that in mind.
“Of course it’s okay and thanks for keeping it quiet. I’ve only just begun and I’ll find allies sooner or later. If not today, then tomorrow.”
Isaac paid for the water, said goodbye to Abdul and set off home. He needed to rest for a while. There was another candidate waiting for him in the evening.
Chapter five
The door of the bar swung open and out spilled a colorful pair, both pretty loaded: a husky guy in a bandana and a big, bearded lanky hunk. They were talking so loud that Isaac could hear from twenty-feet away.
“Now that’s what I call a real bike!” said the hunk.
“You bet…. none of your modern garbage. This is a classic!”
“Is that a Harley Sportster?”
“Yep! And not just a Sportster... This is my bro! Even born the same year as me!”
“Okay, cheers, Bikie. See you in a week or two. Going to Trieste tomorrow and from there to Prague, but the Friday after that I’ll be back here.”
“Ciao, buddy! Smooth riding and no stones on the road.”
Isaac already knew that Bikie’s shift in the bar was due to end shortly. He had read a lot about this guy and didn’t want trouble, so he addressed him in a familiar tone.
“Bikie the Biker… that does sound funny.”
Bikie swung аround and looked Isaac up and down. “What issue do you have with your face?” he said menacingly. And, after a pause, added, “We can fix that right now. Now what were you saying?”
He leaned down bringing his ear close to Isaac’s face. His stubble almost touched Isaac’s nose, the reek of alcohol was abominable. Isaac recoiled, realizing he had clearly overdone it with a sassy approach. Getting a punch in the face wasn’t quite what he was looking for.
“No, chill dude, it was just a bad joke.”
“A joke? There’s a trauma wing for jokers in the hospital.”
“Sorry. Why don’t we just forget about it, and I’ll buy you a beer?”
“Not one of those queers are you?”
“Hey-hey, don’t you forget about that trauma unit for jokers.”
“Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!” Bikie guffawed. “Attaboy, I like you. Just don’t forget that the last guy who joked with me went broke with his dentist’s bill. Okay, let’s have a beer, as long as you are paying.”
Isaac and Bikie walked into the bar. Everyone here knew Bikie and many of the customers came over to hug him and slap him on the shoulder.
The shaggy gaunt barman chuckled behind the counter.
“Back to work? Who’s this with you?”
“My beer. A special import, from the land of fools.”Bikie replied.
“Seriously?” Isaac grinned.
“Since you want something from me, you’ll have to put up with it,” Bikie snapped and plumped down on a chair. Compared with Bikie’s beefy frame, Isaac looked really small.
Not off to a great start, Isaac gritted his teeth, said nothing and sat down beside Bikie. No one had promised this was going to be easy, but Isaac’s enthusiasm for the idea of telling Bikie about his plan kept melting away. The biker seemed too drunk and offensive to deal with. It took all Isaac had not to just slip away.
Seeing Isaac’s sour face, Bikie slapped him on the shoulder and added good-naturedly.
“Okay, won’t do it again. You started it, so I got wound up and enjoyed it. I like taking the piss out of smart-asses and drunken superheroes. When all’s said and done, everyone’s afraid of fucking with me anyway. In real life I’m the kindest and sweetest bouncer in this hemisphere,” said Bikie, pointing to the right side of his head and cracking up again. “I’ve never given anyone a genuine mauling, though. By the way, this is my private table,” he added, casting a proud glance at his companion.
The private table was small, but right in the very center. There was a large brass plaque embossed with “Elvis and Steve Tyler can sit here without Bikie’s permission.”
Elvis again. “Well now,” thought Isaac. “Sometimes you don’t remember a word or a name for years, and suddenly it invades your daily life like a virus.
“I see you’re well-respected here.”
“You bet. I can do more than just make good use of my hands if need be. I once crashed the bar’s site for seating a pair of freakin’ tourist suits at this table.” Bikie checked himself for a moment and gave Isaac a cunning glance. I’ll listen carefully to what you have to say, just as soon as you bring that beer you promised, fella.”
“I brought a bottle of twenty-five-year-old whisky instead of the beer. I hope you don’t mind that? Your friend…” – Isaac nodded in the direction of the other barman – “won’t object because I brought my own liquor?”
“What the fuck’s going on here?” Bikie exclaimed. “I’ll be damned! Now you’re talking! How could I mind. Ain’t you from the Society for Encouragement of Good Old Rock’n’Rollers?”
“Almost,” Isaac replied, pouring the whiskey into glasses. “I used to work as a barman too. I quit the job last week. They gave me this in lieu of severance pay.”
Closing his eyes, Bikie breathed in the aroma of the whisky and smiled contentedly.
“I’m Isaac Leroy, but you can call me Isaac.”
“I’m Bikie. Well, you know that already.”
They drank to getting to know each other. Isaac told Bikie a bit about his bar and Bikie told Isaac about his, as well as about his Harley, boasting about it and gradually getting more and more drunk. Over the third glass of whisky Bikie began a serious monologue.
“Dude, have you seen the latest Ducati? And the Honda? And the Harley? They’re all almost identical now! Sure, they look real heavy, but they’re all the same shit. The Goddamn creeps are repressing our freedom of choice! Where is my choice? I want to make the fuckin’ choice myself! I don’t want to mo
unt a Ducati by mistake when I’m wasted! And the music? All the lousy DJs play the same thing! I’d kill them all. How could they possibly fuck up their life so badly?
Bikie spent about ten minutes cursing UNICOMA and its standardized technologies. What outraged him most of all was the almost complete loss of variety, even for the most primitive things, there was no choice at all.
“Those who have downloaded their OE have it even worse. God forbid I should ever turn into a Veggie” said Isaac.
“Well, even when they were alive the Veggies were all but stupid fucks,” Bikie snorted
“No, you’re wrong there. My friend sold his creativity for love.”
That's like cutting your dick off for love ‘cause it didn't get hard at the right time
Isaac tried to explain to Bikie about Pascal, but Bikie said he didn’t watch TV serials, read political newspapers and didn’t listen to stories about stupid fucks.
“Listen to this then, will you! I almost became one of them, I just happened to be lucky, or unlucky, I don’t know.”
Isaac began to tell Bikie his story.
Bikie tried to listen carefully, but his head was gradually drooping and he was dozing off. When Isaac finished his story, Bikie raised his eyes, looked at him and said slowly.
“I propose a toast to… Elvis! For making an effort! To his resistance!”
Isaac had been expecting a toast to Vicky’s health, to his own story, to anything at all, but no way for the crazy hobo.
Spotting Isaac’s expression, Bikie cleared his throat and added:
“For rebellion and to Elvis! And we’ll drink to you too now, boy.”
“To Elvis,” said Isaac, raising his glass
“To have enough balls for fighting these days you have to be mad as a hatter or really, truly tough. As for me, I’m ready to fight and I will!”
And Bikie wacked the table so hard, his glass hopped up and broke.
Chapter six
COMA reacted fairly calmly to the protest demonstrations, which in time petered out almost completely. Violations of the law were a matter for the police and the Agency tried to keep out of things and not participate in any open conflicts. People who had been cured of fatal illnesses came out voluntarily in support of COMA: they and their relatives were the Agency’s most aggressive supporters, often showing up at meetings of protesters with poster saying: “You are advocating our death”.
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