“You could come too. We don’t have to stay with my parents. We could stay at a hotel. We’ve got the money.”
“No, I can’t leave,” David said, his voice distant. “It’d look suspicious. And besides, I’ve got to set the record straight.”
“Then I’m not leaving,” Sylvia said. “David?”
But David Baron had fallen asleep.
16. Life after People
By late on Sunday morning, Rion was having second thoughts. His feet were blistered, his mouth parched, and stomach growling. He’d had no altercations, no incidents of any note – but he’d underestimated how far it was to the coast. Right now, an impenetrable wall of bushland flanked the road on either side. It was an uninviting, alien landscape. If he’d undertaken this journey in summer, it’d have been a suicidal trek.
Yet the highway endured. It was in surprisingly good condition, and there was nothing in East Hills that could compare. Over the course of empty hours, Rion had had plenty of time to chew over these and other matters. He walked as though in a state of dreaming, his mind wandering aimlessly from one thing to another. He no longer saw the road before his eyes. Over time, a number of questions coalesced.
Firstly, why were there no people? A handful of small towns punctuated the landscape, spaced apart in such a way that he’d never fear of finding a roof to sleep under, even if four walls was sometimes too much to ask. But the word ‘desolate’ did not begin to describe their state. There was something restless about the dead towns. Someone else might have described them as haunted. He did not linger in them any longer than sleep dictated. His forays into the abandoned petrol stations and shops were invariably fruitless, having been long since picked over.
His second question, why has the road been maintained? And, as an adjunct, who has maintained it? Rion hadn’t seen a single moving vehicle, although hundreds of abandoned ones, rusted and often burned, could be found strewn along the side of the highway. Those in the towns were often in better condition.
Rion’s reverie was interrupted by a sound at first so faint that he thought of it as the background noise of his own mind, but as it grew louder he knew it to be real. It was a rumbling, a rolling noise. Something was coming up the road so, without further delay, he traipsed into the dense scrub and found himself a shaded spot from which to observe the road.
It was not one vehicle but a convoy of vehicles, and they weren’t cars. They were bigger, moved slower, and hadn’t much in the way of windows. They were a dirty grey-brown in colour and he counted eight of them. Rion consulted his sketchy book of knowledge to summon the correct word for these entities. Not tanks, for they had no gun turrets, but something similar. That was it – armoured personnel carriers. APCs. Which begged the question of why there were several APCs crawling along the highway in an easterly direction?
There could only be one reason:
Retribution.
He didn’t move until the sound of the convoy had diminished into the distance. It left, in its wake, a cavernous nothing. Rion stood for a while in the middle of the road, occupying the space through which the convoy had passed. Then he continued on, one foot in front of the other, increasing the distance between himself and his presumed enemies.
There was only the road, his thoughts, and his blistered feet.
At twilight he reached the outskirts of another settlement. Initially, it seemed to differ in no significant regard from the others, but as he approached the centre of town, where an ancient set of traffic lights without globes still stood, he saw signs of habitation. Rion spied a working porch light, of all things, and a washing line – with clothes on it! – on the far side of the fence. There were a number of cars parked in the driveway and on the verge, some of which looked like they might still be operable. Such a scene of domesticity should have warmed his heart, perhaps giving him a sense of humankind’s triumph over adversity. But inside he was blank. He wondered whether it’d be best to find an empty house at the far end of town.
But someone was watching – a face in the window. Rion trudged along, getting nearer and nearer to the front of the house. Should he cross to the other side of the road? It was a child with blonde hair, no more than five or six years old. The child had not yet moved or raised the alarm, if there was one to raise. Should he turn around? Too late – there was someone in the doorway. A man with a handgun, although it wasn’t yet pointed in Rion’s direction.
“Don’t come any closer,” the man instructed. Rion stopped where he was, ten or so metres from the front door. The man was wearing a singlet and shorts despite the cool weather. The child, who Rion could now tell was a girl, remained at the window. For a moment the three of them remained in their places, as though unsure of their forthcoming lines.
Then the man spoke again: “You alone?”
“Yes.”
“What do you want?”
“Nothing. I’m passing through.”
“Where’re you headed?”
“The coast. Place called Yellowcake Springs.”
Another pause. “I’m not afraid to shoot you. Just give me a reason. You armed?”
“No.”
“Only a crazy man or a liar walks down the street here without a gun,” the man said. “Which is it?”
“Crazy, I guess. I haven’t seen anyone between here and East Hills.”
The man nodded slowly, then spoke to the girl: “Eleanor, come away from the window. Go get your uncle.” The girl disappeared. “Now come a bit closer so I can see you. Arms out in front. I don’t want to see any sudden movements. I’m afraid I’m a mite trigger happy and I wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt, not unless they deserved to be.”
Rion walked forward slowly along the fence and then between two cars in the driveway.
“You can stop right there,” the man said, pointing to a clear spot. Insects were circling the naked light globe in decaying orbits. The man was hard looking and unshaven, but he seemed a little unsteady on his feet. “Didn’t see anyone between here and East Hills, huh? That’s odd, because I’m sure I saw the army go through here today. I guess you missed them.” Now the gun was levelled at him.
“I did see that,” Rion said. “I just mean I didn’t see any...residents.”
The man burst into laughter, clutching his stomach with his free hand. He stopped abruptly. “No residents,” he said. It didn’t seem to be a question. “Now why’d you think that’d be?”
“I don’t know,” Rion said. “It doesn’t look like there are many people around here either.”
“Oh? And what gives you that idea?”
Rion indicated helplessly around him, but it was a somewhat meaningless gesture in the failing light.
“Now where’s my manners?” the man said. “I didn’t introduce myself. Name’s Tim Kennedy. You’ve already met my daughter Eleanor.”
“I’m Rion. I’m from East Hills.”
“Okay,” Tim said. “Let’s suppose for a moment that I believe you. What happens now? Would you like to come in, stay the night maybe? Looks like you could do with some rest.”
“I can stay in one of the empty houses,” Rion said. “That’s what I normally do.”
“You like breaking into people’s houses and sleeping in them? Maybe the owners are on holiday. They might come home to find you sleeping in their bed. And that’s just not nice, is it Rion?”
Rion struggled to formulate a response to this, but then Tim started laughing again. The gun was waving around in his hand. “I got you there, didn’t I? Got you good. But you seem okay. It’s hard to know who’s a liar and who’s just plain crazy these days. But come in for a spell and we’ll have a drink. You got anything to eat?”
Rion allowed himself to be ushered through the door and into the lounge room. Tim’s breath smelled like liquor. The girl Eleanor was standing in the far corner, near the entrance to the kitchen. The house was in a poor state, little better than the dumps Rion had stayed in all his life. The couch was filthy and the carpe
t worse, but not wanting to offend his host, Rion sat down on the corner of the couch. The cans instantly jabbed into his spine – he’d forgotten he was still wearing the backpack. He must be tired. So he stood up again, slung his pack down on the floor next to him, and sat down.
“You definitely need a drink,” Tim said. “When was the last time you had a cold one?”
“Sorry?”
“You’ll drink whisky, won’t you? I’ve got some soda. And ice.” Tim disappeared into the kitchen.
“Thank you.” The candlelit room was flickering. Rion felt sleepy and he longed to take off his boots and rub his feet. There was danger, surely, but at this moment he couldn’t begin to imagine what to do about it.
Tim returned with two full glasses of whisky and soda with chunks of ice floating in them. He handed Rion a glass and sat on a hard stool across from him. The gun was nowhere to be seen. Rion took a sip – the drink was much nicer than the vodka. He said something to this effect.
“Yeah, we’ve got a fridge full of liquor and mixers, but not much to eat. And it’s not so good to drink like this on an empty stomach.”
“How come you’ve got a fridge?” Rion asked. “And the outside light?”
Tim smiled. “Generator. You can come in, Eleanor. He won’t bite. He’s too tired for that.” The girl came in and sat down on a cushion in the farthest corner of the room from Rion. She had some dolls over there with missing legs, and now she began to brush their hair with a toy hairbrush.
“Where’s her uncle?” Rion asked.
Tim looked momentarily confused. “That’s just a code. It means, ‘get out of the way, Ella, Daddy’s about to start shooting.’ No, it’s just her and me.”
“Where’s her mother?”
“Well, she can give you the answer to that herself. Where’s Mummy gone, Ella?”
Eleanor looked up from her dolls, her brow furrowed. “In the ground.” She went back to brushing.
“I’m sorry,” Rion said.
“Don’t be,” Tim said. “That was a perfectly reasonable question for a man to ask. But now I’ve got a question for you, my friend. I tried the subtle approach, but it seems you’re not so quick off the mark or maybe you’re just bone tired. So I’ll try again: have you got anything to eat?”
“Yes, a few cans. Sorry, I’m exhausted.” Rion started rummaging through the bag and brought out his four remaining cans. He put these on the card table in front of him.
Tim eyed them carefully. “Well, that’s great. Looks like we’re eating tonight, Ella. Our friend just paid his board for the night. Let’s see what we’ve got.” Tim gathered up the cans and took them into the kitchen. Rion heard the sounds of cans being opened. He drank his drink and waited.
17. Yellow Springs
Monday made it a week since Jiang Wei had left China, or rather it would be a week in a few more hours, at daybreak. Jiang Wei could scarcely believe that time could still pass when his heart was torn, when his mind was lost and wandering, but it could and it did. Had it been yesterday that he’d gone to Yang Po, or the day before? His only consolation was that Friday was always drawing closer, never moving away.
If not for that – for her – he’d have lost himself already. Wei could see it happening to Jun Shan, could hear it through the fevered nights they spent in their dorm. No longer fit to bunk with the other men, the two of them had been relegated to their own ten-man dorm at the far end of the hall. But soon, Yang Po had said, others would be joining them. Until then, there was always another test, another trial, another series of bewildering phenomena to grapple with, awake or sleep, by day or by night. Jun Shan moaned in his sleep and Wei could do nothing but listen, his body tense, his pulse racing.
What had Yang Po said? That he was monitoring the situation. He had thanked Wei for his diligence in reporting his concerns. The legion of observers could not but have noticed what Wei could see: that Jun Shan was falling into an abyss. They were watching him fall, making notes, taking his blood pressure and measuring the twitching of his eyes. In a few more days, Shan would not be able to tell up from down, black from white, and that would be the end of him.
When Wei did sleep, it was usually without dreaming. Controlled Waking State seemed to suck the dreaming juice out of his head – and he had a lot, the technicians said. But tonight was different; it was difficult to decide whether he was in fact sleeping. In these terrible moments, he called up every power of concentration in his overcooked head in constructing a mental image of Lui Ping. He endeavoured to hold it there in his mind so that she might guide him toward morning.
Morning was still four hours distant, so he’d have to try to sleep again. It was no good thinking like this; it would only make the new day even more difficult than it’d otherwise be. The sheets were a mess, his body overly warm from excessive fidgeting, but at least Jun Shan was quiet now. Wei lay back on his pillow, one foot outside the covers to cool his body down.
There was something down here in the pit of his mind. Oblivion lingered somewhere below, on an endless plain, and there was a part of him that longed to leap down into it. The great void was below him, but here was a relatively safe ledge upon which to rest for a moment. What Wei was searching for was a quiet room – some kind of bolt-hole – where the forces of restlessness could not accost him. Thoughts begat thoughts, but none of them made any sense and none were connected in a meaningful manner. They continued to lash him.
From here Wei could see that he was in a great cavern, its boundaries indistinct. He saw a smoky yellow light which seemed to approach him, or he it. Yes, a sense of convection. He was moving or being moved. Now he was wreathed in yellow swirls, but it was not a benevolent light like that from the sun, but from some subterranean source, like an underground geyser or hot spring. And all around him, although he did not want to acknowledge this, hovered the faces of the dead. Pale and grey, dim and flickering, they danced at the periphery of his vision. But there wasn’t a sound: no moans, no howling. Wei was spared their lamentations. It seemed they were somewhat below him, that they were swirling around some hidden object. It would be hazardous to look directly at it, but he could sense its suction. It required an effort to maintain this distance. Wei did not look, but in not looking he seemed to be seeing the shape of the thing in his imagination.
Allowing himself one fatal glance, Wei saw that he was floating above a rotating yellow maelstrom, somewhat similar in shape to a spiral galaxy. There were no stars down there, however, only sharp, grasping flails. The faces were being sucked down noiselessly into that whirling broth. He recognised this place as the Yellow Springs. A realm, like Hades, that existed beneath the Earth’s crust, presumably in the mantle layer. There could be no hope of escape.
Then he was in an empty room, no different from the one that was used as the base point for his forays in Controlled Waking State. Four walls, no windows. A desk and chair.
“Am I in CWS?” he said.
No answer, but they were listening; he could sense them. “Fucking assholes!” he cried. “Talk to me!”
Nothing. Not a sound.
“Disconnect 341 dash 1,” Wei said.
Nothing. No change.
His surroundings. What could be made of them? Did the surfaces of the table and walls shimmer in such a way as to cast doubt upon their very existence? No. They seemed real and were solid to touch. Recalling earlier tests, Wei searched for an invisible button or hidden lever. There was none, and he only succeeded in heightening his agitation.
“Let me out! Disconnect 341 dash 1! Disconnect!”
Silence.
“And that is the fourth lesson,” a voice finally said. How grateful he was for it, even though he knew it as the voice of his jailer! “There is no disconnect code. If we want you in CWS, you remain in CWS. The disconnect code is an illusion, a training wheel.”
“You fuckheads!” Wei railed. He would have flung the contents of the desk onto the floor, but there was nothing on it. “I thought I was slee
ping,” he said. The fight had gone out of him. He sat in the chair.
“Would you like a drink? You’re upset.”
He would refuse to speak. No, he wouldn’t. “Give me some coffee,” he said, “and something to eat. I’m starving.”
“Certainly.” A breakfast of eggs, toast, tomatoes and soup appeared on the table.
“No! Real food. Let me out!”
“Very well.”
Nothing much seemed to change, but the food disappeared from view. He was still sitting at the table but there were people standing around him. Wei was out.
18. Misanthropos
Before Sylvia left for work on Monday morning, she left a message in the CDS network for Christopher Roland, telling him to meet her at half past six that evening. For too long now she’d been allowing people to push her around. Now it was time to push back.
At work their new project was an awareness campaign about Controlled Waking State technology. “Pushing the Boundaries,” it was to be called, and it would focus on CIQ Sinocorp’s achievements in the areas of nuclear technology, town planning and R&D, namely the CWS trial. As Yellowcake Springs was a showcase town for the company, it made sense to make the ‘vert here. And who better to make it than Sylvia and her colleagues?
There was something sinister about Controlled Waking State though. As a self-confessed dreamhead, Sylvia knew the ins and outs of CDS, its pitfalls and possibilities. As the user needed to be sitting or lying down to be induced into a sleeping state, CDS had mostly been a tool for complex cognitive tasks such as quantum engineering and neurobiology. Most commonly, of course, it was used as a means of escape from mundane life. But CWS was something else; Sylvia knew this instinctively. It would have ramifications that no one, not even Sinocorp’s top people, could have predicted yet. To watch that young Chinese man blundering about before them, his world in chains, had sickened her. CWS would be the new slavery, if it could ever be made economically viable. And here she was writing the script for Sinocorp’s propaganda.
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