He got up and closed the window. It was cold here. He pulled the curtains. Turning back he saw on the bedside table some tourist brochures. This room was too cheap for even a TV, much less the small HV platform which in many establishments automatically activated with local attractions when the guest entered the room.
He picked them up and idly thumbed through them. Gourmet barge rides. Tree-shaded canals. The Van Gogh Museum. Well, he'd seen enough art, hadn't he? The real thing, just like Annais had wanted but which they had never had time for. Never. Ah, yes. Anger flared through him. No doubt she'd known exactly how that would feel, to travel to Europe, the three of them, and visit the static displays which Julie committed to virtual. She had probably seen this possibility too—the death of herself and Claire, his own solitary journey. His pain. Or perhaps there were certain blindnesses? Perhaps this had been something she hadn't seen at all in the vast multiplicity of possibilities? He had to believe that. He didn't know if it had struck Annais's friend Julie. She fled the city to go back to her parent's farm in upstate New York a week after the attack.
Stannis turned the page. The Dancers at the Wharf. That's right, he thought, letting the leaflet flutter to the floor. Make the most of freakdom. He shivered, remembering the sunflower. Apparently his temporary ability had not expired yet.
Well, this is your chance, he told himself. Your chance to know, to lay all doubt to rest. Your chance to be with them, in that last, particular way. To find out what really happened. Do it, or go back to your little niche and pine the rest of your life away, knowing you were a coward.
He pocketed his key and walked down to the street.
It was crowded with business people and strolling tourists. Small cafes lined the street and the scent of fresh coffee and bread filled the damp air. Everyone seemed beautifully well-dressed, in what he now recognized as ubiquitous eurostyle. Simple lines and sharp angles; muted tones. Everything was still expensive here, just the way they liked it. Consumers couldn't simply imagine what they wanted to wear, and sketch it out on a screen, and tinker with it, try it on holographically and then have it cheaply and individually constructed via nan. That's how one could buy clothing in Asia, separated from Europe by a fragile nan-free zone a hundred miles wide.
Of course, that wouldn't last long; they were idiots here to think that it could. But nan was completely outlawed here, and he was too for an entire year after the expiration of his therapy nans, but his passport had been doctored. Oddly enough, he reflected as he wandered down one street and then another, it was not the fear of runaway replication which had put up the wall, not at all. The middle ground—the unions, the megacorporations, the entire governmental structure had outlawed further nan development, along with genetic engineering. The establishment was trying to hold back the inevitable social upheaval which accompanies all paradigm shifts, like the industrial revolution. They were trying not to lose money, trying to keep control.
But those changes were all for the better, weren't they? They were all for the different, at least. Stannis had always believed that one had to have hope in humanity, in humanity's blind thrusting, blind as the new caterpillar's attraction to light which drew it to the end of the branches where the new leaves were edible, which Rousseau had labeled sensitive periods. The doctor told him then, when Claire received her gifted fragment, that all children went through sensitive periods for everything they learned—language, mathematics, spatial abilities—where they were drawn to particular types of information and practically absorbed it. Hers would be intensified.
How right that doctor had been.
Stannis looked away from his unhappy reflection in a shop window filled with odd clothing and continued walking. Was humanity in some new sensitive period? he wondered. Was there some new light drawing him on, changing consciousness, changing the ways that humans saw things? A new way of thinking, a new way of understanding time, which had been relentlessly, fatally enhanced in Claire and Annais? Stannis stumbled on a curb, regained his balance. His steps echoed hollowly as he crossed a tiny bridge above a limpid green canal.
Annais was so certain of that light, he recalled, forcing himself to think about that which he found so painful as he passed a wineshop, then a map store. She devoted her life to it, then followed the damned light to the very threshold of death. Except that he thought she may have believed that consciousness would continue at the exact point of the threshold, would expand; that it was possible for humans to become all-knowing and bright, as if she and Claire could exist forever, hovering on an event horizon of the mind.
Did they?
It was getting on a little past noon. He forced himself to lean against a brick storefront and got out his wallet, half-hoping that the name he had encoded in the middle of one of his files had been lost, and the precise numbers which defined, according to government files he had no trouble accessing, the exact virus which enhanced Annais and Claire.
The nans had migrated, as intended, to the part of their brain which organized one's sense of time. He read, late one rainy night at his screen, not caring in the least if he was caught beyond the encryption barrier, that this particular strain was developed as part of the Information Wars program. It was one of the many creations of the division whose task was to see how best to drive people crazy in very specific ways, or artificially enhance very minute aspects of the brain's functioning. Create again the synaptic conditions which made learning languages easy for children. Things like that.
He had the parameters. He punched the final button and there they were, gleaming on the tiny screen.
In Amsterdam, there were people who made and sold such things. They were legal, here, just like many other substances which were illegal elsewhere, but usually one had to make contact through one of their scouts, and the buyer was extensively checked, for the sellers were the inevitable target of international terrorists. Stannis also had a name. Hans Utrecht.
He turned off his wallet abruptly and put it in his pocket. Though it was cool, he realized that he was sweating. He felt ill. When did you last eat? he scolded himself, and dropped onto a bench. Should he try to find Hans?
He had battled this impulse for what seemed like a very long time, then gave in and came to Europe, drew a bit closer to this. Survivor's guilt, the therapist had told him—was it really that simple? His hands were clammy. The Louvre was the worst of it, filled with treasures she always longed to see really. When Claire was a bit older and could appreciate it. And he finally thought himself well out of it up there—where had he been? Norway? Finland? He hadn't cared. His eyes burned with tears. He missed them so! It was not fair, not fair at all. What had really happened to them? How could they leave him behind like this? How could Annais have possibly made such a decision? Had she? Had there been a point, as she had apparently half-believed, in her bliss, where she could have decided to stay or go? And what about Claire? Had Annais not cared about Claire? Unbelievable. If she had a choice, she must have believed that she and Claire were heading into some realm much better than the one in which they left him behind. She must have.
And what could that have been?
Even though he had made it to Amsterdam, he was not quite ready to find out. He decided to wipe out those tempting, horrible numbers, deadly numbers. He had to. This was a fool's quest. He would not try to find Hans.
He rose. Disappointment burned in him.
And relief.
But he was not hungry, nor was he tempted by the wine-shops, the cannabis bars, the doorways which promised rich and excellent beer. He remembered the map on the back of one of the brochures, and despite himself kept walking and turning, once in a while asking directions, all the while thinking, why are you going here?
The Van Gogh museum shone pale silver beneath a pale silver sky; clouds cloaked the sun once more. He approached the ticket booth and stopped. Why torture himself with more art viewed alone? He turned aside.
Someone touched his shoulder and he jumped, whirled.
It was the woman with the red hair.
Her sleek rain helmet was gone now, and her short red hair was ruffled by the wind. Her wide gray eyes were fringed by thick dark lashes, and looked at him searchingly, roving his face as if extracting inexplicably vital information. Her hands were stuffed into the pockets of a black leather flight jacket. "I saw you," she said.
He stared back at her. What did she want? "Yes," he said. "On the boat."
"No," she said. "On the wharf."
He didn't say anything. He couldn't. She had seen his passport, and she had seen that it lied.
She continued to look at him, hesitant about something. Was she going to report him? He was relieved when all she said was, "You should really visit the museum. I do, just about every time I'm in town. It's worth the admission. Van Gogh was quite a philosopher." As if she were a tour guide, she pulled a well-worn book about Van Gogh from her jacket pocket. It fell open to a page she had apparently read and re-read. "Look what he says about death. 'Given the prodigious number of births, each individual death is not too carefully recorded—but what does this matter? It is the multitude that counts.' "
Her voice was clear and cultured. He relaxed; apparently she was just a bit of a crackpot, but interested in art, like Annais.
"What do you think that means?" he asked her, suddenly alert, having thought about nothing but death for months.
She slapped the book shut and smiled. "Who knows?" she said. She stuffed it back in her pocket, then linked her arm through his as he stood still as a statue. "Come on," she said. "They drink a very good liquor here. Let me buy you one. Please."
He allowed her to pull him into motion. They walked three blocks and she paused, looking around. "I thought it was here—a place with a bit of privacy—ah, there!"
He followed her down a short flight of stairs into a dark room with many booths. Several people greeted her, and the waiter greeted her by name. Stannis must have looked surprised, because she said, "Amsterdam is my home," as they slid into a booth.
Low conversation filled the air, and she credited some music which sounded wildly Celtic on the table jukebox and hummed along briefly in a lovely contralto counterpoint.
She was Lise. She remembered his name from the passport. Lise ordered for them, small fluted glasses of jenever and a basket of small crisp fried fish, lightly salted. The jenever was strong, but he had grown uncharacteristically used to strong drink and apparently she already was, for she ordered several rounds. They burned as they went down, and tasted of lemon. Her face grew flushed and he thought her pretty and was surprised at himself. She had a good appetite, though he saw that she was thin as a stick after she hung her bulky jacket next to the booth. She looked up midbite and swallowed.
"I did see your projection, you know," she said. "Were you surprised? You move away very quickly."
"Yes. No. I suppose," he said. To cover his embarrassment, he grabbed a handful of fish and transferred them to the white plate in front of him, and sprinkled them with vinegar. His hand shook as he set the bottle back down. She reached over and touched it, but removed her hand quickly. He took several deep breaths.
"It's not a crime you know," she said. "At least, not here."
He shrugged, and failed to speak twice before bringing forth the words. It had been a very long time since he had talked to anyone.
"It's not that—"
"The thinking is," she continued, "that it is not the fault of the people who have these modifications—particularly since it is against EG sanctions, now, to have them changed again. It is simply usual to try and conceal yourself—avoid situations which might make the contents of your subconscious visible. It's mostly done at private parties. That's why there's such a daring exhilaration about doing it in public. One of the reasons it's so frightening is because someone who has not had any training will be absolutely spilling over with bizarre and disturbing sexual thoughts, murderous images, all that we have grown so expert at concealing. It's a theater of the mind. And I guess that was the point, wasn't it? It had some sort of therapeutical purpose in the beginning, didn't it? And then the off switch didn't work in everyone." She paused. "That was a beautiful face you made, within the sunflower." Her voice caught a bit, and she coughed and took a sip of water.
"It was my daughter," he said.
"Oh. Yes." Her eyes went inward in the dim light and he saw that she was thinking of his passport and the pictures she had accidentally called. "An old picture?"
"Five years old," he said, wondering at the time. It did not seem that long. Five years should be a long time. It was not. The music had stopped, and the voices around them were low, muted within booths. Rain slashed at the windows; storms came up suddenly here.
"So she's about six now? Seven?" Lise asked but the pause made him think that she knew, but was still not exactly sure. Suddenly angry, he sat back in the booth. "They're both dead."
"How did it happen?" she asked. Almost too eagerly, he thought, but looking at her he saw only concern and sadness.
"They decided together. Without me. Of course. The therapist—the one who insisted that I do projections, and I was foolish and desperate enough to try that too—said that it must have been some sort of inevitable intellectual frisson, almost pheromonal in its imperativity—" he stopped, looked at her.
"They decided?" she asked.
"I think so." Darkness returned, blanketing everything. The tiny lamp with its dim yellow light which made everything so cozy, the small black etching of a harbor filled with large-sailed boats, the just-refilled glasses of jeniver, all receded, leaving only pain.
And the touch of Lise's hand on his. This time she did not let go when he tried to pull his away.
"Tell me," she said. "Please. I don't think the therapy worked."
Loosened by the jeniver or something deeper, led by her fathomless eyes, he tried to think of where to start. It surprised him when the words tumbled out. He stammered a bit at first, then talked faster, as if he could not get it out fast enough.
"I blame myself for not figuring out what was happening. We got in the way of a terrorist several years ago, and she released some nans, apparently, that the government had been experimenting with in New Hong Kong. They denied any knowledge of it when it happened, but after Claire and Annais—died—" he withdrew his hand from hers and began to tear a napkin into smaller and smaller triangles— "first I raised hell. That didn't do any good. So then I tried to find out as much as I could on my own. Annais had a pretty high clearance, and I used it for quite a while before they thought to close it. One official finally admitted that an experimental time nan did exist, and that they would track down everyone else who was in the restaurant and put them in a special environment until they passed the crisis point. But apparently you had to have gifted fragments in order for the nan to take effect in this way, and they claimed no one else did, though they treated everyone they could find."
"Do you have gifted fragments?"
"Yes," he said, "Though I can't say that it's made a big difference in my life, ability-wise. It often doesn't."
"No, it doesn't," she agreed. "So why didn't it happen to you?"
"Just lucky, I guess." He laughed darkly. "The scent was just a marker, not the nan itself. There was a breeze."
Treatment! A joke; he told her about it. Prophylactic transdermal patches soaked in the chemicals of hope. Hormones. Therapists stressing the goodness of the world: no afterlife. No otherlives; no other possibilities no matter what you think and no matter how stretched and different time becomes for you. But Stannis was sure that unless it happened to you, you could not possibly understand it; hence, one unaffected could not ground the victims in this reality. He had not been able to. He still didn't understand it. Annais and Claire had shut their own bodies down. It had been both murder and suicide. Hadn't it?
He told Lise how once, in the therapist's projection room, Annais was a small figure far away from him standing on a bare windy plain. Sh
e stood alone, ecstatic, the wind blowing her hair back, her clothing tight against her body. Claire ran to join her. A third figure stood far off, and ran desperately to catch up with them, but could not; Annais and Claire glowed with light, then turned to light, and the light drifted upward, while still the third figure ran hopelessly. "You must forgive her," the therapist had said. "Can't you see? You have to let them go."
Or follow, he thought fiercely at the time.
"It was like a wildfire, this power of thought," he said. "Apparently, from what I can piece together now, they thought out all the possibilities in a white heat."
"The possibilities?" Lise asked, her eyes still as a deep, quiet pool or the sky on an overcast day. She was curled into a corner of the booth, her red hair lit gently by lamplight. She had ordered a bowl of strong hot tea, filled it with milk and sugar, and held it in both hands, sipping every now and then. Had her face paled, or was it the light?
"Every branching of possible lives that they could live, every permutation of being," he said. "Somehow they could see them."
Lise did not object. She just sipped, and listened, occasionally frowning to herself.
Stannis explained that, on looking back on those last few weeks he fancied he could almost see their heads shine with the power of their thought and then they were gone, having lived and lived and sorted through the probabilities and found most of them wanting but at any rate the possibilities were there, known, available somehow in a way he could not understand.
"Claire always asked the craziest questions," he said, and there was a brief, answering glow in Lise's eyes. "But one day when she was six I went to pick her up from school. Claire was ready to go. She was standing in the doorway staring at the rain. She did that a lot. It was starting to bother me, the staring.
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