“I don’t know, but I can guess.”
“I’m Jun Shan, by the way.”
“Jiang Wei.”
Everyone was leaving the room, but no one had called for the two of them. Had they been forgotten? When the last of the other men had left, Wei wondered briefly whether it was all a mistake. He got to his feet and made uncertainly for the door. But no, someone was coming.
It was Yang Po.
“Please sit down,” he said.
Wei sat, remembering the need to obey without question. Yang Po drew up a chair and subsided heavily beside them. His face was beaded with sweat despite the air conditioners. “You’re wondering what ‘Controlled Waking State’ means, correct?”
The two of them nodded in unison, like puppets.
“Well, it doesn’t exist yet. Therefore it is a trial.”
“Am I permitted to speak?” Jun Shan asked.
“You are free to speak your minds now. Don’t let my lecture frighten you. It is merely a formality.”
“Thank you,” Jun Shan said. “Can I ask what distinguishes the two of us from the others? I mean, I had no idea...”
“No, you wouldn’t have,” Yang Po said. “It seems that you both have displayed a particular aptitude for the kinds of tasks associated with perception and awareness. I am assured that these qualities single you out for the trialling of a new kind of perceptive environment.”
“Controlled Waking State?” Wei said.
“Yes. Of course you are familiar with Controlled Dreaming State, but this is a new technology entirely. I wanted to speak to you personally in order to convey my congratulations and also my deepest respect. Truly, I am honoured.”
Wei was perplexed. “No, the honour is ours,” he said. “I presume we will be fully briefed on the nature of the task before us?”
“You will. In fact your supervisor is waiting for you as we speak. I wanted merely to express to you my...my admiration, Jiang Wei and Jun Shan. You will be the cartographers of your time. In the future, men will follow in the footsteps you tread and the paths you create.”
Now neither of them knew what to say. Jun Shan’s mouth hung open. He did not seem to be aware of this.
“So we are done,” Yang Po said, rising. “But I want you to know that any time you have a problem, even the slightest issue, you are to come directly to me. Is that understood?”
It was. Yang Po proffered his sweaty hand for them to shake, which they did, and after that they were ushered out of the hall, toward an uncertain fate.
9. The Chimera Lounge
For once, Peters didn’t waste Sylvia’s time with pleasantries. “It’s about your husband,” he said in a neutral, even disarming tone. “It seems he’s in some kind of trouble.”
“I’ve only just heard myself,” Sylvia said, sitting down. “Do you know what it’s about?”
Peters shrugged. He seemed to drink coffee all day; she counted no fewer than six empty cups on his desk. Was he going to offer her a drink? It seemed not. “Just that it’s related to his environmental associations. I’ve been asked – no – I’ve been instructed to discuss the matter with you personally. To quiz you, if you will.”
“I don’t know a thing about it,” Sylvia said truthfully. “Could it be about that speech he gave about the new aquaculture project the other week?”
“I doubt our employers would concern themselves with that,” Peters said. “No, from the tone used – and here I am speculating – I believe it to be of far greater importance than fish farms. Do you think David might be involved in any kind of activism at all?”
“Activism? He’s active in a number of organisations. But he’s an engineer. Environmental issues are tied in with that. He’s always talking about how his work and the environment are one.” That was, he used to talk about that, before she made it clear that she never wanted to hear another word about it.
“I understand.” Peters’ chair squeaked as he leaned back. He pursed his lips. “But I still can’t fathom Sinocorp’s sudden interest. I shall inform the higher ups that you have no new information for them. All right?”
“All right.”
“Very well,” Peters said, tapping at his touch-pad. The view screen popped up and he made no attempt to hide its contents from her. David’s employee file was on the screen. Peters wrote a few words and then pushed the touch-pad away. “Now, I trust the tour went smoothly?”
“They were too tired to pay attention. They’d only just arrived. You’d think they’d be allowed to get some sleep first.”
“And that,” Peters said, “is the nature of our employer. To a tee.”
The meeting wound up and the rest of the workday passed without incident. Sylvia made the most of the opportunity to slack off while pretending to work on ‘Welcome to Yellowcake Springs!’ She could fiddle with the dialogue indefinitely, and no one could say that she wasn’t working. This necessitated more dream work, more hours in CDS. These were the best times: one project virtually finished, the next not yet started. And there was no way of anyone telling exactly what she was doing anyway. She could cavort around in the virtual plane to her heart’s content. By the time she was ready to declare her work completed, it was ten to five.
“Don’t you get tired of that?” Tiffany asked as they made their way down the stairs, past Peters’ office. His door, for once, was closed. Sylvia couldn’t remember seeing the name plate on his door before.
“Tired of what?”
“Dreaming all day. I hear it wears out the synapses.”
“That would explain a few things,” Sylvia said, rubbing her head. She had a headache, but a drink would fix that.
“Doing anything this evening?” Tiffany asked as they stepped out onto the bustling walkway. The crowd was all moving in the same direction, toward the bus station.
“Doubt it. You?”
Tiffany smiled. “I’ve got some reading to catch up on.” They shuffled toward the depot and through the scanners. “Hey, I wanted to ask you about David.”
“Oh?”
“I hear he’s being investigated.”
“Word gets around quickly, doesn’t it?”
“I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.”
“I hope so,” Sylvia said. But Tiffany had stepped onto her bus already, leaving Sylvia alone in the throng.
By the time she arrived home, Sylvia had forgotten all about David and his problems. This was her gift: to forget.
She sat at the kitchen counter, wondering what to do with herself. She didn’t feel like a shower just yet, and the packet food she’d made was bland to the point where she wondered if it was real beef at all. She forced herself to swallow it. Then, for a while, she half-heartedly watched the news in the lounge on the 3V, but it was all riots, food shortages and bombings, and always far enough away to be of no direct relevance to her. Sylvia had no time for world events, no interest in celebrity gossip, no appreciation for music. Hell, she didn’t even have any close friends. And that’s a direct result of the time you spend in CDS, she told herself primly. Why, then, did she feel the need to turn the 3V off and open the dream room door? Everything was tidy in there now.
There was a message for her on the CDS console:
6:00 PM in the Chimera Lounge. The sender column was blank.
Could it be Rion again? It was just after five-thirty now, which gave her enough time for a shower and maybe another glass of wine.
In her enthusiasm, she was ready to go under by 5.45. Perhaps she should do something else for a few minutes? There were plenty of unread books on her reader, but the thought of staring at lines of text didn’t appeal.
What the hell, she thought. By 5.50 she was stepping through the threshold of the Chimera Lounge into a world of glamour. She’d forgotten to alter her profile from last night, and as such she was still decked out in the lacy red dress, with black stilettos and pearl earrings. Her hair was done the way she’d wanted for her wedding. Sylvia always got a thrill from strutting u
p to the bar, her appearance certain to turn a few heads, even if they were all bots. A couple looked interesting enough.
“I’ll have a cosmopolitan,” she said to the barman, who went to work mixing her drink. When he was done – it only took a moment; there could be no slip or mishap here – she took the frosted glass in both hands and found a table in view of the door. Sylvia turned on her avatar at five to six. Rion had been tall, with a roughly hewn look about him, but then appearances were ever changing here. Tonight she might not recognise him.
But the man who sat down across from her, right on the stroke of six, couldn’t be Rion. He was a touch shorter, more slender, and more refined. He was wearing an expensive suit, giving him the appearance of a merchant banker or something similar. Not really her type.
“Sylvia Baron?” he asked.
“That’s what it says.” She turned the avatar off and took another sip. “And you are?”
“Christopher Roland,” the man said. “Call me Chris.”
“Okay Chris, what can I do for you? I’m assuming it was you who left me the message.”
“I’ll just get myself a drink.”
“You do that. You weren’t calling yourself Rion the other night, were you?”
A look of genuine surprise crossed the man’s face. It was the first real emotion she’d seen so far tonight. He was definitely human. “No. Who’s Rion?”
“Never mind.”
Chris crossed the floor to order his drink, returning promptly with a glass of beer.
“You can have anything and you drink beer,” she observed. “I guess you’re not the adventurous type?”
“Look,” he said. “I’m not here to flirt. This is important.”
“What’s so important that it needs to interrupt my evening?” Sylvia asked, finishing her drink.
“I need to talk to you.”
“We’re talking. I’ve no idea why.”
His brow creased in a way that made him look like a beetle. And he was a fidgeter. “Have you ever heard of Misanthropos?” he asked.
“Is it one of the Greek islands?”
“No, it’s not an island. Misanthropos is an organisation. A covert organisation. Right now you need to listen carefully, Sylvia. I know where you live. And trust me, Misanthropos is going to have an impact on your town in the near future.”
“My town?” Sylvia said. “And what town would that be?”
He looked directly at her. “Do I really need to say? Yellowcake Springs. You work for CIQ Sinocorp…”
“ So does everyone here.”
“…and you’ve been working on a ‘vert for the town. You finished it today.”
“What? How do you know that?”
“We know everything there is to know about you.”
“Misanthropos,” she said. “As in ‘misanthropic’?”
“Clever girl.”
“And what does your organisation do?”
“It’s not a question of what Misanthropos does, or has done, but what it will do. I’m here to warn you.”
“Warn me then.”
“You need to get out of Yellowcake Springs. You’re in danger.”
“This wouldn’t have anything to do with my husband, would it?”
“It wouldn’t,” Chris said. “I think we’re done here. Consider what I’ve said.” He finished his beer and got to his feet.
“Wait,” she said. “Misanthropos, what does it stand for?”
Chris sat down again and stared directly at her in a way she found unnerving. “Our species is a boil on this planet and it must be lanced.”
“It’ll happen soon enough anyway, won’t it? When the ecosystems collapse?”
“Perhaps, but we’re not leaving anything to chance.”
“So what have you got in mind? Killer virus?”
Chris laughed. “No. It wouldn’t be right to produce such a virus, as the rich would likely be insulated. We won’t consider any course of action that would harm the poor more than it’d harm the rich. Our actions will be...democratic.”
“So why the warning? Why me personally? There’s nothing democratic about that.”
“Look, just leave,” he said. And then he followed his own advice.
Try as she might, Sylvia couldn’t forget this, at least not right away. Misanthropos. Had she heard the name before, after all? She wasn’t sure. But there was no way in hell some asshole was going to frighten her into leaving her job, not when she’d finally settled in Yellowcake Springs.
She was just heading back to her table, second cocktail of the evening in hand, when she heard her name being called. This time it was Rion. He was drinking whisky, not beer.
“Did you see that guy go out?” she asked him. “In a suit?”
“Half of the guys here are in suits,” Rion pointed out, placing himself precisely where Chris had been sitting moments before. He was underdressed in comparison with almost everyone here, in a black shirt and jeans. “Did he upset you?” he asked.
“Have you ever heard of Misanthropos?”
“Miss who?”
“Guess not.” She stirred her drink with the straw.
“I’d like to come and see you.”
“This again? Rion, we’ve only just met. How do I know I can trust you?”
“Tell me how I can win your trust. I’ll do anything.”
“Anything?”
“Pretty much.”
“Well,” she said, leaning in toward him. “I don’t disclose personal information to anyone I meet in the Chimera Lounge. But maybe if we spent a little more time together?”
“Is that a euphemism?”
“Let’s find a room,” Sylvia said, leaving her cocktail and getting to her feet. She led him toward the lift.
“Okay, but I haven’t got much time,” Rion said.
10. Ambush!
Rion stood with his fellow militiamen in the dim dawn light. Gillam had chosen a site a few kilometres out of town for the ambush, beneath an old highway overpass, its concrete bulwarks standing stubbornly against the long years. Here the track cut through the hillside, steep escarpments rising on either side. The curve of the track was such that the train driver would not see the obstacles until it was much too late to react. The obstacles were a broken-down truck and, two hundred metres further around the bend, for the coup de grâce, an elderly backhoe that had been rusting peacefully in a nearby paddock. Getting it down into the railway cutting had been a feat in itself, but now that it was done, even Rion felt some enthusiasm for what was about to happen.
It was just after seven when Gillam gave the signal. Rion moved into position, crouching behind a concrete pillar under the bridge. He had no weapon and no intention of participating in the violence himself, but nor was he under any illusion as to what might be expected of him in these next few minutes. He couldn’t allow himself to be placed in the position of having to bludgeon anyone. Not again. He would hang back.
Then Rion heard the distant train whistle and felt a slight trembling in the earth. He closed his eyes. There would be shooting, in all probability on both sides. This would be a bad place to catch a bullet; no one would be carrying him back to town from here. Seconds passed. A boy with a grubby face and haunted eyes stood nearby, gripping a length of twisted metal in his white-knuckled hands.
The din built to a crescendo as the train approached the bend. It began braking ahead of the bridge, but it still thundered into the truck, flinging it aside as though with casual nonchalance. The train did not derail, nor looked to be in danger of doing so, but now it was moving so slowly that they might be able to clamber onto the carriages and make their assault like that. But the train kept braking, so that by the time it reached the backhoe it was travelling little faster than walking pace. There it came to a groaning, screeching halt.
The militiamen swarmed the train like ants to a stricken centipede. By the time the first shots rang out, it was already too late for those inside. Rion ducked down next to the train
while those with guns made their way forward. It became difficult for Rion to distinguish between the cries of the attackers and those of the terrorised within, and so he thought instead of his albums and the various happy moments they depicted. In them, Rion thought he saw a way out of the unfolding predicament.
Here someone – a young boy – lay shot in the shadow cast by the train. It was the boy Rion had seen a moment before. The boy was not dead; his chest rose and fell, but not for much longer. These would be his final moments. A twitching hand made the slightest of impressions on the gravel. The front of the boy’s shirt was plastered with blood, but at this moment his greatest discomfort was that his leg was twisted beneath him. Rion said something, some soothing words, and helped the boy up into a sitting position against the train. The boy’s head flopped back; his eyes glazed. Rion felt the obscure urge to chastise him, to scold him for his foolish bravado, but no words came. Whatever was happening in that small skull was happening for the last time.
The boy was quiet now. You could say he was at rest, in the sense that a rock is at rest as it lies on the ground. Rion laid the body out on the sand, surprised by its weight.
There were more corpses further along, but Rion felt so disturbed that he simply couldn’t look for fear that his own wretched body might suddenly burst. He needed a distraction to quell the something rising inside. Perhaps it was an urge to commit a violent act. All these years he had shielded himself from the corrupting forces around him: the will to squabble, the will to struggle, the will to slay. And now he was trembling.
There was a pistol lying in the sand, the internal and external worlds having briefly coalesced. Would he pick it up and clasp the machinery of death in the palm of his hand? He would. It was still warm from whoever had recently held it. And it felt good.
The shooting was over, the battle won. Rion had not been required to do anything, but at least he’d had the wherewithal to tuck the pistol away before someone took it from him. Now he would have to hope that the others had not witnessed his craven skulking.
There was much more than they could hope to carry, so much more that Gillam and his advisors considered the possibility of piloting the train themselves, but the controls proved too difficult for them to master. If they had imagined the carriages to be stocked with food, medical supplies or weapons, they were to be disappointed. The train was full of equipment they had no hope of using without a reliable source of electricity. By the time they had ascertained that the boxes really did contain microwaves and fridges and computers, the sun was high. The folly of the situation was not lost on Rion, but Gillam’s agitation was such that he saw fit to busy himself in examining the boxes in the hope of finding something useful.
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