He’s sitting on the sofa and eating a cooked breakfast laid out on the coffee table in front of him. Zena doesn’t want to sit. She circles and twitches and speaks continuously.
‘It’s a total adventure. They have no idea what will happen, where they are or where they’re going. It is absolutely real to them. It isn’t like any drug. It’s not a movie or a dream. They are there in every sense, with literally every sense working overtime. Maybe they’ll drive; maybe they’ll fly…or fall. Think about it. All these people can now have access to action that they’d never manage themselves, never dare to.
He nods and keeps chewing. Yesterday he was a prisoner making a life or death decision and now he’s stuffing his face and listening to her talking about dreams and movies. She isn’t in danger of slowing down.
‘Crazy stuff, adventures, extravagance from another age, fantastic sex with beautiful strangers, celebrities they’d always wanted, whatever. Nothing else will come close to this for kicks. Can you imagine anyone ever wanting to watch a video or play a computer game again? And you, Rees will be doing it all for them.’ She arrives in front of him with a balletic flourish. She pauses as though realising for the first time that he might have the power of speech. He doesn’t use it.
She cocks her head and pulls a frown.
‘Message from our research so far: People will reorder their lives for this. There’s nothing as big. You’re gonna be not just the main event but the only event.’
There’s a silence while she rethinks her approach. Then she asks him what he knows about how Solomon works. ‘I’m a soldier,’ he says ‘I don’t know anything.’
‘Soldier!’ she says. ‘You’re walking around with the most powerful piece of communications technology ever invented…in your head…and you don’t even know what it’s about!’
‘I take it you were never in the army,’ he says, ‘We’re not paid to understand it. They don’t want us to understand it. Just to use it.’
She pulls the mirrored specs down and rests her flinty eyes on him. ‘Right brain, pattern recognition: Not just mental masturbation for math geeks. Fundamental. The way we worked before we tried to be pocket calculators doing everything in logical sequences. Funny that when machines can’t do things fast enough they go back to parallel processing and pattern recognition as a short cut. Full circle. For example, have we ever met before? Have you ever even seen my face?’
‘No’
‘You’d swear to that? You don’t think you might have just glimpsed me in a crowd or had a casual conversation sometime and forgotten?’
‘No, believe me, I’d remember.’
‘So you basically matched my face against a million you’ve seen in your life in what, half a second? Have you ever scanned a crowd to look for someone you know? You do the same thing hundreds of times over, at the same time. Computers have only been doing that level of recognition for a decade but we could do it when we were still living in trees. What does that tell you?’
Rhetorical question. Less than it told her. She’s going to spell it out.
‘It’s not about whizzing the wheel around faster and faster like some demented electronic hamster. It’s about seeing all the wheels spinning at the same time.’
‘Really…’
Zena laughs. ‘I’m sorry. I get a bit hyper – we get the significance of what’s going on without needing to send all the details; less data but more meaning. Once you know the tricks to the bigger pictures, you can miss out some of the pieces, most of the pieces in fact. That’s the brain’s little secret. We’re not as creative as we think. We use that trick over and over again: picture in picture in picture, pattern and compression.’
‘And I’m the new guinea pig, right?’
‘Nooo. We’re way past that. Jozef’s been doing this for years – humans, monkeys before that and obviously all the classified stuff with military volunteers and quadriplegics. The big deal for us is good old bandwidth to get the stuff out and receivers smart enough to recreate the whole pattern at the other end. The only thing we really need is to get the calibration time down…’
‘Whoaw, slow down! You’ve lost me’
‘Every second your brain takes in about a billion bits of information, mostly visual.’ She’s on the move again, fingers twiddling at her hips. ‘Ten billion neurons, say a top whack around a Terabit. Even compressed that’s like sending a full Himidrive every second. You have to get that way down for transmission and then recreate the whole pattern again at the receiver end. But keeping the quality. That’s like filling your gas tank with a click of your fingers and not spilling any. No degradation….’
Rees puts his hands up again. She is facing him and looks serious.
‘I’ll try to make it easy for you. Degradation means you hear an orchestra but inside my receiver helmet I only hear a crackle, or you have an orgasm and I just get an itch. That’s where Escanol comes in. It boosts and focuses, transmits a powerful coherent signal – like a laser does with light. Now I hear the orchestra and have the orgasm.’
‘And what am I getting? I’m getting what I got last night, right?’
‘You’re carrying the peripheral physical effect. That’s the thing. That’s what I’m going to help you with. We have to calibrate that. We didn’t know for sure how much to use. We can adjust the…’
‘Peripheral physical effect? That was an experiment, a trial run? You were playing me for kicks? I’m some kind of performing seal? I was climbing the fucking walls! I still feel like shit.’
‘No you don’t. Don’t exaggerate. You’re really not in such a bad way. And it got better, didn’t it? I mean it settled down. You were having fun by the time…’
‘By the time you had your itch? Were you…was she doing that for you? Jeez!’
‘Armand had to show some people that it worked, Rees. There’s a lot riding on whether or not we can use you, a lot for all of us. Have you ever heard of Reuben Matzov?’
‘Of course I’ve heard of him. Who hasn’t? Media guy – owns newspapers and TV, stuff like that.’
‘A lot of stuff like that, that’s right. Invests billions. Your job is just to enjoy yourself but we have to make sure it would work for everyone. It wasn’t just you that had to say yes. And now we know, Matzov wants to see you.’
It’s late in the afternoon by the time Armand returns to the apartment. Rees hears heavy footsteps with him but the help stays outside in the corridor. Armand produces what looks like a black shoe bag with drawstrings. ‘Blindfold, I’m afraid,’ he says.
He guides Rees the few steps across the corridor to the lift. Two other bodies squeeze in. One of them breathes heavily and both have bulk that presses against him. The old lift drops through its hierarchy of complaints. In the basement a heavy hand caps his head and ducks him into the unseen car.
Out in the streets, for a few dutiful moments he considers the signals that might pinpoint where he is but the city noises are muffled and rootless and the surges and leanings of their progress soon throw him. He sinks into the seat and feels the subtle pleadings and affirmations of the gearbox dwindle as they pass out of the city and on to a motorway. Nobody speaks and at some point he sleeps. He wakes up when the tyres start to translate something new about the texture of the road and the terse motorway Braille turns into a grumble of byroad bumps and then in a few miles a final turn uphill to the applause of gravel.
When the blindfold comes off they are parked on a drive outside the honey coloured stone façade of a grand house. It faces a downward-sloping vista of parkland, untidy in a stately way with the carcasses of ancient oaks. The air immediately says country and quickly qualifies with livestock. Armand leads the way up stone steps and across a wide terrace to the entrance. An old-fashioned butler with a black jacket and grey hair takes them inside and asks them to wait in the library. They sit in old leather armchairs under a cliff of books. An oil painting of a young Hussar looks down at Rees accusingly from the wall opposite, his uniform bright a
gainst the dark background of some forgotten campaign. Rees picks up the sound of rotors somewhere out to the back of the building and tunes in to the familiar sounds of a helicopter engine approaching, dominating and then cutting and dying away. All of a sudden there are people everywhere. Two lithe figures in roll necks and sports jackets cross the hall at a clip and go outside. A girl with a ponytail and spotless combats hovers in the door, looks Rees over and then disappears. A short man in brushed velvet with grizzled hair and a goatee waves at Armand through the door and holds his arms out as though shooing birds. ‘The ego has landed’ he says, ‘he’ll call for you in a moment.’
The butler points the way down a long corridor. At the far end, a large man stands in front of double doors. He watches Rees approach but doesn’t move. His body puts curves into a suit designed to drape. Armand seems unsure of his welcome but the man acknowledges him with the slightest nod and opens the doors. The room beyond is the size of a warehouse, a huge round space silenced by a deep blue carpet and lit by a panorama of French windows. It is packed with beautiful furniture, ornate lamps and statuary. A lone figure sits on a yellow silk couch behind a glass table the size of a glacier. Rees recognizes Reuben Matzov from a thousand mug shots and countless television newscasts. His crown of black curly hair looks wilder, longer and his face more tanned. Perhaps he is smaller too. There is one steady look before the face opens into a smile. Matzov greets Armand with measured warmth. When he turns to Rees the smile goes widescreen. Rees look into his face while shaking hands; bulging eyes, more black than brown, bright with a hungry intelligence; a once pugnacious chin lost in a black beard. Matzov reaches to place both hands on the younger man’s shoulders. ‘Rees, Rees, Rees. I am delighted to meet you. Please, come, sit down. Make yourself at home.’ His arm takes in the room, the table, waves towards another chair and a chaise longue where they sit, close together and facing one another. ‘Forgive all this clutter. I have a childish craving to collect things. I suppose they are all foolish vanities but then what is a rich man meant to surround himself with if not with beauty? The beautiful, the interesting, the unique; sometimes you find all those qualities together. Then I am truly helpless.’ Rees tries to place his composite accent: a tumble of Russian, Italian throttle, a Yiddish shrug. He leans forward, eyes still foraging. The smile lingers for a long moment, as though its beam is developing a photographic image he can’t yet discern, and then he turns to Armand.
‘Armand, my thanks. You have made a real coup with this very special young man. I know it will be very worthwhile. Thank you for all your efforts. I know you have taken time from the many other matters pressing for your attention.’
Armand slides away. The huge double doors enclose Matzov and Rees in a bubble of opulence.
‘Rees, I count myself very lucky to be alive in these times. There are many terrible things going on in this world but we are creating a truly momentous leap forward for mankind. I am convinced of it. It’s not just entertainment but the lives of people across the whole world we will transform. And you, Rees, are going to be the heart of it.’ For a moment Rees wonders whether he’s serious. Are billionaires always serious? Something in the incongruity of all this triggers a release from the weight of the last days and a surprising sense of whimsy takes its place.
Rees leans back and spreads his arms. Matzov shifts a gear too.
‘Rees, what can I get you? I think we must have something to mark this…transition. Perhaps a glass of cognac?’
‘That’s something I haven’t been trained to resist.’
‘Do you like cigars? These are Cohiba, better than Monte Cristo, I think.’ He unhoods a leather case and proffers two brown thumbs. The cognac arrives a moment later on a tray with a cutter and an old fashioned lighter. He watches Rees clumsily clip the end and light up.
‘Rees, you are an extraordinary man. You are a pioneer and a hero. You are the future. I have been so looking forward to meeting you.’
‘I don’t feel like a hero.’ He draws on the cigar; the room swims and steadies.
‘Your modesty does you credit. It’s a hallmark of character. I admire you for it. Armand told me all about you. I know about your background. I know all about your deployment, your injury, your recovery, how well you could work with us. You must be wondering what to make of us. You’ve been dragged into this new world, bombarded with novelty. You can’t know what to trust, who to believe, whether to play along or make an effort to make a go of it. I think you understand your predicament. And you are not the first to be abandoned by the Solomon project, but you may not have known that. You must feel angry, disorientated. You are smart, you’re sceptical; your warrior pride will baulk at all this handling that has gone on. I just say this to you: You have every right to those feelings. I don’t expect you to forget your loyalties easily – even when you have been exploited by those you served. You would be less of a man if you did. But I want to show you something.’
Matzov produces a plain brown envelope from a table at his side. He reaches inside and withdraws a few printed pages which he hands to Rees.
‘You see, Rees, I want to share this with you. We know what happens to Solomon soldiers who are no longer deemed fit for purpose. The message is clear and it comes from the top.’
Rees checks Matzov’s face – now impassive – and then looks down at the printed pages.
The first is a photocopied memorandum stamped Secret and is labelled ‘For circulation to AJIC Solomon oversight committee.’ A paragraph half way down the page has been highlighted before the photocopying and is now bannered in streaks of grey.
5) Decommissioning: All Solomon-equipped personnel are to be considered as de facto top secret government assets in addition to their military status and any other security classifications. No authorisations for transfer or other exit from the Solomon programme will be sanctioned on any grounds whatsoever without full decommissioning (see below). In the event of death (by whatever cause) the physical remains of the deceased will remain the sole property of the programme 1) indefinitely or 2) until (by order of this committee) any restitution is deemed appropriate.
Rees flips the page. It seems real. The acronyms are familiar. There is an email requesting clarification of the applicability of the terms to the case of a soldier who had a problematic implant procedure which was never completed.
‘In view of the failure of the implant procedure (and its immediate removal), could this resource be considered not to have become Solomon-equipped and hence (with due caveats) be allowed…’
The reply is brief, signed by the head of the programme, General Dooley. ‘He’s on the team.’
The next page is a letter referring to the same individual. It’s a copy of a letter to the parents expressing deepest regrets and the hope it is some consolation to know that their son died whilst courageously performing active duties in the service of his country.
The next page shows a series of photographs of an individual Rees vaguely knew. Martinez must have been recruited to the Solomon programme in an earlier round. He’d met him a couple of times. Then he’d been a reassuring example of normality. Now he’s in two photos that look like police custody shots, a vacant, unresponsive expression, a dishevelled shirt, stubble. The two prints underneath are of a headless corpse. It is naked, laid out on a smooth metal table top. The final picture is of the remains of the head. It has been half turned to show the complete and obviously surgical separation of the rear half of the skull and the removal of the entire brain. Martinez’s eyes are open, staring out to one side.
Matzov breaks the silence. ‘As you see, we know all about how they treat their heroes. You know, Rees, there is no disloyalty in recognizing reality. War, secrecy, intelligence, business – there are big moves being made and ordinary people get used. You know that, don’t you? It has always been that way.’ He points at the photographs. ‘Like any cause, some will die for it, some will rise above it. Very very occasionally you actually can make the choice yourse
lf. I’m so glad that you have.’
Rees rereads the words on the pages in his hands and looks at the strangely steady gaze in Martinez’s dead eyes.
‘Tell me about the future.’
Matzov leans back and takes a deep breath. He thinks for a while and then leans forward again. His forearms rest on his knees, big hands clasped, almost as though in prayer. ‘Rees, have you ever really entertained the idea of being – very important? I don’t mean in some pompous, rank and title way but as someone who everyone knows makes a difference in the world; someone who makes people’s lives better? You have that opportunity, Rees. I have never been surer of anything in my life than I am of the significance of this venture. We have something; we can do things that the whole world will want to share.’ He pauses to see if his charge is on board. Rees hears him but can’t stop his mind drifting to another lecture and another impassioned plea. ‘We bring our own people out. No matter what, even if it’s bodies – we bring them out and honour their memory. We take care of our own, properly.’
‘Rees, I don’t want you to think that what we are proposing is just about people buying a few party highs and adrenaline rushes for a few hours a week. It offers a path to much more than that, something truly profound. In this country we are brought up on the idea of individual endeavour and each of us striving to find ourselves in the inner sanctum of our own souls. We think of ourselves as fundamentally separate – our interests often opposed to each other. And yet all that is noble within us and all we value in our cultural and religious life seems to stem from what is shared. All love and sacrifice and all glimpses of the divine seem to say that the idea of separate individuals is an illusion. Finding the places we really overlap with others is central to our existence, is it not? It is part of the eternal dilemma of the human condition.’
Rees smiles as he releases a puff of smoke to disperse above them under the ornate plasterwork of the ceiling. A fleeting sense of the grandeur and folly of life overtakes him and he’s excited and scared. He’s struggling to see himself, believe himself in the middle of all this. But Matzov is earnest, his own cigar jabbing the air.
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