Yet it also held the reputation of being one of the most beautiful cities in the world, along with Ur and Xanadu. The Blue Walls were famous, as well as Temudjin’s yellow marble palace. There were old documentaries, travelogues and propaganda films. But since the war, ten years ago, and Samarqand’s support to South-East China, all contacts except mandatory diplomatic ones had been severed.
Things had gradually improved over the years, as the king granted more democratic rights, such as press and religious freedom.
Immigrants had started to reappear in all major cities—but they were different. In the past there had also been immigrants—political refugees who openly criticized the tyrannical regimes in their homelands and organized governments in exile ready to seize power once hypothetical revolutions had taken place. The new immigrants (who started arriving four years ago) were economic ones—sometimes with university degrees (useless in Viborg City, of course), but often with nothing but hope and courage. They caused a new problem, not because of their number—the borders and airports were tightly controlled—but because of their political stance—or rather their non-political stance—they didn’t criticize Samarqand any more, merely talked about its poverty and the difficulties of daily life.
For the governments of the Western Coalition, Babylon, Petersburg, Viborg City and all the other major European megalopoli, Samarqand was still an enemy city to which it was all but forbidden to travel—but the immigrants integrated well and spoke not of horrors and oppressions, but of economic problems caused by the Western Coalition’s blockade.
Recently these immigrants had been the target of many political attacks, both from the Conservatives and the Progressists, being accused of everything that was going wrong in the Western Coalition, from unemployment and social instability to being the fifth column preparing to overthrow democracy . . .
“Actually,” Markus said, “I’d love to visit it, some day.”
Which was true. He had often dreamt of Samarqand while in prison—to him it was like the unattainable symbol of freedom. The exotic other. A place in which to become really invisible.
“It’s beautiful,” Badia agreed. “The Blue Walls, especially. And the old city. My family lives in the suburbs. They can see Temudjin’s mausoleum from the window of their apartment.”
“Why did you come to Viborg City? I mean, it’s cold, gray and not that exciting . . .”
Badia sat up in bed, reaching for an ashtray.
“Well, I had finished university, with a degree in economics in a ruined country . . . What else could I do? Get married to a cousin and do the bookkeeping at his grocery?”
She laughed dryly. Markus let a finger run down from her shoulder to the small of her back. He loved her smell. Samarqand.
“And now? I mean . . .”
She scratched her thick hair with her beautiful hand and stared back at him, her brown eyes catching his in a friendly embrace.
“It’s still better to be a NoCred here than unemployed in my city. Especially if you’re a woman.”
Markus took a long drag on his cigarette, and watched her slowly disappear behind the smokescreen.
*
This time it had been real, no question about it. Dawn was rising over the gray roofs of the Strindberg Residence. He noticed a beautiful white feather gently shivering on the first step of his stairs. He picked it up and looked at it with all his tired attention. Real.
*
The office. Him within. Synth within him within. Where was Synth? It felt like it had disappeared for the last hour or so. But what about the withdrawal symptoms? What about the black sweat and the feeling of guilt? He sat on his chair in front of the computer and thought of Samarqand.
The Blue Walls surrounded him in all their ancient glory, slightly hazy because of the sun. He stared at them, breathless, and turned Synth off. It was still there, somewhere.
Within his office.
*
Black sweat was back. The CashCard was in the safe and the PersoReader on the desk next to the computer. Sørensen wouldn’t accept failure but could Markus tell him about KnowWhere? Could he give up something he would have loved to have imagined himself, during the days of the Potemkin Crew?
Markus suddenly felt extremely tired.
Of course, he had only slept a couple of hours next to Badia last night—a quick shower in her NoCred bathroom and into the subway—no change of clothes—yesterday’s stale sweat clinging to him like a second shadow—but he knew the tiredness, the profound tiredness came from somewhere else. Conscience. Choices. Morality.
Synth sketched out Chartres Cathedral.
He stood up and took the credit card from the safe, waving at the tiny eye of the surveillance camera. He inserted it in the peripheral slot and stared at the data again. Anonymous. No identification, but billions accredited. A skeleton key for—what, whom? What was the link with KnowWhere? Why was Christensen dead? Who was Jean Gray?
Something suddenly clicked.
KnowWhere. Jean Gray. X-Men. Avatars.
Christensen had told them Jean Gray had given him the card. If he found Jean Gray in KnowWhere’s database, then he would find out her identity. Of course. As simple as that.
As if.
He laughed out loud.
Yeah, as if.
*
As soon as he stepped into his apartment, he noticed the “you have mail” notice flashing on his computer screen. Sørensen, no doubt. He had left work early today, telling the secretary he wasn’t feeling well—which was perfectly true. He was feeling exhausted, depressed and paranoid. And the notice on the flat screen didn’t help.
He walked directly to his computer, without even taking his wet jacket off. Still standing, he clicked on his email box and frowned in surprise. The message was from Cyber Magic® Inc. Could it be because of his KnowWhere escapade? Had he been traced?
He read the message, heart beating heavily.
It was an invitation to meet with Cyber Magic®’s founder and C.E.O., Kristin Hansen, tomorrow morning at 10:00. He wasn’t supposed to reply to this message if he accepted the appointment. He lifted a hand then let it drop again.
A job offer, maybe?
Eight. Animals
Dr. Sojo was waiting for him outside the AK Bar, his legendary green Parka tightly wrapped around his formidable body. The bar’s sharp lights thinned his silhouette somewhat, casting a blurred and elongated shadow on the sidewalk. The good doctor offered him a thin joint by way of greeting. The tip glowed dimly in the drizzle. A tiny red light among artificial suns.
*
No friends. In the last ten years, Markus had lived in a silvery bubble all by himself. And then, suddenly—Dr. Sojo’s phone call tonight inviting him to a free concert. Something like the good old days. Ole and Nick, drinking buddies, music lovers, fellow students—and partners in crime. Ghosts over ghosts, feelings layered on other feelings. Karen screaming in the bathroom. A scream that erased everything.
*
At the bar, Dr. Sojo ordered two imported beers.
“Who is playing?” Markus asked, toasting in a crystalline clash of beer bottle necks.
“Friends of mine. They call themselves ‘A.’ You can download their album for free on KnowWhere.”
“Of course.”
“Of course.”
The music started almost immediately, a two-man band with electronics and guitars. The sound was both familiar and bizarre—Synth-induced no doubt. The audience cheered.
“Are they customers too?” Markus shouted in Dr. Sojo’s ear.
“Yes, of course.”
“Of course.”
Pressed against Dr. Sojo’s shoulder, Markus thought of friendship again. What it meant to share, to be with. Sentimental things, bullshit no doubt. Still—he hadn’t shared a gig like this for so long.
With the Potemkin Crew, he had been obliged to sever all close ties—parents and family included. The only friends, Ole and Nick. So close. Cellmates almost, l
ike a prediction. And Karen—he stopped Synth just in time. But normal contacts were gone, erased from his daily life USB key. After the trial and jail time—even worse. His job and anklet had created a super force-field around him. Now that he had slept with Badia, he realized the force-field had more likely been a mental illusion than anything else—still, reality was reality. No friends.
Apart from Synth.
Something warm and golden rolled inside his head.
The first number was finished. Silver raindrops fading in sunlight. Definitely Synth-music. Maybe Dr. Sojo was right after all—a revolution.
*
The gig was over and they were sitting at a table now, Dr. Sojo clutching his beer between large hairy fingers. Markus’ hands were sore from clapping. A great band. He was glad Dr. Sojo had called him. He would download their album first chance he got. A good reason to visit KnowWhere again.
“Still riding, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Markus nodded.
“Yeah, amazing.”
“No bad vibes?”
Markus shrugged.
“Once in a while, but nothing like before. More like angst attacks, you know the deal. Black sweat.”
Dr. Sojo sneered.
“Black sweat. That’s a good one. Cool name for a band. Will suggest that to my ‘A’ friends. Fucking stupid name for such great music. You been to KnowWhere by the way?”
“Yes. Quite something.”
“Isn’t it? Great place to run a business. And you can find so many things. And interesting people. I even met people from Samarqand there.”
“Wow!”
Markus took a long gulp of his lukewarm pilsner. His mind was racing. Who was he now? Markus Olsen? Thomas Olsen? Synth flashed excerpts from Dr Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Jekyll prevailed. If Olsen was indeed Jekyll . . .
“By the way, speaking of KnowWhere, do you know anybody there using a Jean Gray avatar?”
“Why? You fallen in love?”
“Maybe . . .”
Dr. Sojo frowned and scratched his head. Markus wondered for a second what would happen if Dr. Sojo noticed his anklet. The end of a friendship, you fuck. Well, he could lie like he had lied to Badia. He had become an expert in lies. The trickster. Had even tricked himself.
“No. There are so many people out there. Doesn’t ring a bell. What’s yours, by the way?—Maybe we’ll meet some day.”
“Dirty Harry.”
“Always thought there was a fascist hiding in you . . . Why Dirty Harry?”
“Because of the corduroy suit and the free jazz film score . . . What’s yours?”
“Alice in Wonderland.”
“Of course.”
“Of course.”
They toasted.
“Old friends.”
You fuck.
*
The Cyber Magic® headquarters lay on Dronning Margrethesvej, the super wealthy area of Viborg City, three subway stops away from the Viborg Security building and fifteen from his flat in the Strindberg Residence. It was an old nineteenth century luxury hotel turned into a business office centre. Markus had called in sick again—Sørensen would have to wait for now.
Crossing the street from the subway station, he noticed a newsstand. The headlines were all about the elections taking place tomorrow. He had completely forgotten about them. The Prime Minister who had agreed to send the nation head first into the South Eastern Chinese War disaster was a Social-Liberal. Olsen, the National-Liberal, had been elected while Markus sat in prison. Markus began to whistle A las Barricadas. It was the first time the tune had crossed his lips in ten years. It felt naive and it felt good. Real good. Real naive, too.
At reception he gave his name to a uniformed, balding receptionist and was directed to the elevators. Cyber Magic® occupied the top two floors. Miss or Mrs. Hansen’s office was on the top floor.
He entered a room where the blue leather furniture smelled new and oily and was welcomed by a secretary—a blonde woman uselessly wearing thick designer glasses to make her look less plain.
He gave his name to the young woman, who checked her computer screen.
“Yes, Mr. Olsen. You can sit down. Miss Hansen will see you soon.”
Markus sat and skimmed through the fashion magazines arranged on the glass table. A job? Questions about KnowWhere? Had they traced him? Were they a front for the secret service?
Synth built up his old prison cell.
No, impossible.
Sørensen would have told him, wouldn’t he? Pipe fart. You fucking fuck. Elections tomorrow. To vote is your duty. Nothing is free, everything has a price. To download is to steal. Make sure your copy is officially certified. To download is anarchy. Out of control. To vote is your duty. Remember to push the right button on the machine. I promise. A new era. Freedom and justice. Democracy is choice. Regular or black? Sugar? Can Sørensen see anything without his glasses?
“Mr. Olsen?”
The secretary’s voice snapped him out of his paranoid reverie. A Synth crash-landing. Finally. He felt relieved. Wasn’t completely infected yet. Still some good old blood running in his veins. A few synapses left.
“Miss Hansen is ready to see you.”
She opened a door and showed him in. The office was gigantic, with an impressive 1930s ebony desk and assorted chairs.
A framed original 1917 Russian revolution poster hung on the wall above a functional leather armchair—Miss Hansen wasn’t in yet.
He stared at the poster, nonplussed. It showed a Budyenni Cossack riding his horse, saber drawn, on a stylized background of city and countryside. It was a strange image to have in the office of one of the largest international internet companies. Maybe it was ironic. Or maybe Miss Hansen was an ignorant who just happened to like the image. A las Barricadas crossed his lips again and Synth produced the Spanish Civil war, with running anarchist militiamen and a rain of fascist bullets.
“So it’s really you . . .”
He recognized the voice before his consciousness could actually register it. He turned around and his neurons short-circuited behind his eyes.
Karen.
Karen screaming in the bathroom.
“Of course, you’ve changed, but I would recognize you anywhere,” she said, bemused. “The way you hunch a little to the left and your sagging ass . . .”
Karen. Ten years older, short-haired and dressed as a National-Liberal deputy in her deep gray ensemble . . . But the same dark eyes and half-smile . . . Markus felt so dizzy he had to sit.
“Don’t sit, we’re going out for coffee.”
He stood back up like a zombie.
If she had told him to jump through the window, he would have done so without a split second of hesitation.
Synth gave him beautiful butterfly wings.
This time, he accepted them.
*
To Markus’ surprise, Karen didn’t take him to a fancy café, but to a normal one, where people talked loudly and waiters stank of sweat and French fries.
She ordered an espresso and he did the same. Bitter black energy was exactly what he needed right now. Was Synth playing with him? Was this real? He felt like pinching her to make sure, but he remembered that Synth-induced hallucinations played with all the senses, touch included.
“Are you real?”
The words departed from his lips like an accidental shot. More control or he was going to hurt somebody. Himself, to be sure.
Karen laughed her old Karen laugh, bringing invisible tears to his eyes.
“Of course I’m real! But I know what you mean . . . It’s the same for me, seeing you here . . . When did you get out of jail?”
Never.
Or had he?
“Some time ago. You didn’t know?”
As if. Who knew? His release hadn’t been advertised. It was a secret d’état, well protected by all sorts of disinformation methods, such as pseudo-mail interviews with journalists and other bright tricks. He had actually given a telephone interv
iew from his prison parlor to some foreign paper three weeks ago.
Karen shook her head.
“And you?” he asked. “What happened?”
She looked around, as if she was afraid of being overheard.
“I have so many things to tell you. So many . . . But you’ve got to tell me how you got out of prison . . . Did you escape? Where were you hiding?”
It was Markus’ turn to look around for eavesdroppers.
“I don’t know if I can tell you . . . I mean . . . Why did you send me an email?”
“Because of your message on the door.”
“How did you trace me?”
Karen smiled.
“Everybody leaves a trace. You know that.”
Markus nodded. Only the truth hurt. Everybody did leave a trace. An IP number, a lipstick smudge or a fingerprint. No one was safe. No one. He knew that.
“I wanted to know who had written on that door,” she resumed. “If it was really you . . . I had to check . . .”
She seemed uneasy, embarrassed almost. Her slightly blushing cheeks made her even more beautiful. Too beautiful, maybe. Yes, maybe. You fucking fuck.
Markus took a deep breath. He was standing at the edge of a cliff, with a powerful wind slapping his face. Below the sea was crashing ashore and the rocks looked like small, shiny black stones. Where were the wings Synth had given him?
“Are you Jean Gray?”
Her eyes met his and locked.
“Who are you working for?”
Markus moved uneasily on his chair.
“It’s a long story.”
“I think I know it. Or I can imagine it.”
They stared at each other, or rather through each other. Faces overlapping, locations unraveling, memories, bits and pieces, flesh, raw meat, a few hairs, life, the past, dust, rain, the possibility of seasons . . .
“Are you wearing a wire?” she asked, calmly.
The Song of Synth Page 8