“Maybe,” he said. He wasn’t sure of anything now. He could just as easily be in Controlled Waking State. Waking, dreaming – what was the difference?
“I’m going to put in an appeal for you to come home,” Ping said.
“They won’t let me go.” He was drifting away. The bed was a cork in the ocean and he was bobbing. He reached out for her but clutched nothing. “See?” he said, as though this demonstrated something.
“I’m over here,” Ping said. She was sitting at the table, laying out their lunch.
“It’s not real food.” But he made his way from the bed to the table, which had a solid feel to it. The food smelled delicious. She handed him a plate.
“Lui Ping, I love you,” he said when they had finished eating. They faced the fire, hand in hand.
“I love you too,” she replied, kissing him on the mouth. “I don’t want you to end up like Jun Shan.”
“He’s probably back home now,” Wei said. “Maybe they’ll send me home too.”
“Yes,” Ping said, grasping him tightly. “I want you to arrange a meeting with Yang Po. Tell him everything.”
“Ping,” he said, “there’s something that’s been puzzling me all morning. What day is it today? Are you sure it’s Friday? I don’t think I’ve had Thursday yet.”
There was a hard look on her face. “That’s exactly what you need to say to Yang Po.”
But as they spent their last moments together, Wei struggled to recall precisely what he was supposed to be telling Yang Po. It was something to do with the day – yes – but what specifically?
29. The Safehouse
The moment she saw Peters, Sylvia knew she was in trouble, but it wasn’t until they were on the shuttle bus that she felt brave enough to ask why. She had the window seat, which meant that Peters was between her and the door. Her suitcase was tucked away beneath her feet. There weren’t more than a dozen people on the bus, most of them inbound tourists.
“Am I under arrest?” she asked, the bus trundling along the road through the scrubland.
“You are not,” Peters replied in a low voice. He glanced sidelong at her. “There is, however, a warrant for your arrest in circulation. I’m afraid to say that it’s in relation to David. Personally, I am not convinced of your culpability, but your attempt to leave town would be seen by some as a sign of guilt.”
“I was just going to visit my parents,” Sylvia said. “I’m on leave, aren’t I?”
“You are. But had I not intervened, you would have been arrested at the gate and remanded in custody.”
“Thank you,” she said. Half-formed questions were beginning to percolate inside her, but she didn’t trust herself to say more.
Peters cleared his throat. “You have not asked why you are to be arrested. Perhaps you know?”
“I’m an accessory,” she replied. “An unwitting accessory to a dangerous crime.”
Peters nodded. “Then let us say no more of it here.”
The shuttle bus deposited them in the residential part of the Green Zone, but it seemed that Peters was intent on taking her somewhere in particular. They boarded the city-bound Reactor Line bus. Peters reminded her to swipe the blank identity card, not her own.
“Are we going to the office?” Sylvia enquired.
“No, it’s much too dangerous. I will take you to our safehouse.”
Those two words, ‘our safehouse’, plagued her for the remainder of the journey. They seemed to open up a dizzying spectrum of possibilities. When the bus turned onto the Grand Parade in the Amber Zone, Peters indicated that they were to alight.
The safehouse, on Porter Street, proved to be a low, anonymous building dwarfed by outlandish creations on either side. Peters swiped his own card and they stepped through into a drab reception area. There was no one behind the desk, no one around at all, and Sylvia couldn’t help but notice the dearth of lights.
“Where are we, Jeremy?” she asked.
“I told you. This is the safehouse.”
“Whose safehouse? Why am I here?”
“I don’t have time to explain now; I have to get back to work and put in my report. Our superiors will be disappointed to learn that I have not succeeded in apprehending the saboteur’s wife, Sylvia Baron.” Here he took her suitcase from her and disappeared into the gloom. Sylvia looked back at the locked door and reasoned that she had no choice but to follow. The safehouse seemed to be in a half-finished state, like many things here in Yellowcake Springs. Concrete floors were exposed, walls unpainted.
“Hold on,” she said. “You were supposed to take me in?”
“I volunteered, given that I know you personally,” Peters said over his shoulder.
“But the cameras! And my implant. Surely security will know where we are?”
“I called in a favour. Nothing easier. Anyway, here is your room. You’ll find all the necessary amenities. There’s food in the fridge.” He deposited her suitcase on the unmade bed and let her pass. “What do you think?”
The room had no window, the only internal door leading to a tiny bathroom. Sylvia sat on the corner of the bed. “I don’t know why I’m here,” she said, looking down at the floor.
“Of course not,” Peters said, placing a hand on her shoulder, “but you must put your faith in me. You must believe that I have your best interests at heart. If I did not, then I would never have risked going to the bus station.”
“I don’t understand what’s happening,” Sylvia said.
“Look at me, Sylvia,” Peters said. She looked at him. “We’re in a dangerous game,” he said. “We don’t know all of the rules, or even all of the players. All we know is that if we lose this game, then a great many people will die.”
“You know about Misanthropos?” she asked.
“Sylvia,” Peters said. “I am one of its founding members, as is David. Now I must go. I will submit my report and return as soon as humanly possible. Please try to rest.”
He shut the door behind him. She did not need to swipe either of the cards in her possession to surmise that she was locked in.
Time lost its meaning thereafter. Sylvia was alone with her useless thoughts; without information, she had no way to determine whether she was safe or unsafe, lucky or unlucky. Her only link with the outside world was her flip-top phone, which she had surprisingly been allowed to keep. But even the phone was potentially a traitor to her cause, as surely Sinocorp would be monitoring her calls? They could trace the signal here. Why hadn’t Peters mentioned it? Was it merely an oversight on his part?
Sylvia turned it off and then, just to be sure, she removed the battery. Now there was no way anyone would know that she was here, except Peters. Then, another perilous thought surfaced: What if he’s detained? There was no use in thinking like that. That way lay torment. So she lay on the bed, dimmed the light on the bedside table, and tried to sleep.
No chance.
By 5:00pm, she’d worked herself up into a frantic state. She had been through every nook and cranny of her new environment, investigating every bland surface. She had searched for trapdoors, hidden caches, secret exits, but there were none. By that time, the CEO of CIQ Sinocorp could have walked into the room himself and Sylvia would have felt relieved. Anyone at all. Even a torturer would be preferable to this purgatory. Sylvia was no good at waiting at the best of times, but today she found it to be an exquisite agony. She even imagined that if Peters intended to kill her, then this would be as reliable a means as any. The door was impenetrable. But the phone. The phone. She could always call the authorities if she got desperate. Or she could try to get through to David.
No. If she could achieve one thing today, then it would be to resist that temptation.
At 5.45, her heart skittered as she heard footsteps. The door opened. It was Peters.
Blessed relief! She felt like kissing him.
“You turned off your phone,” he said. “I completely overlooked this most crucial of details. I am a fool.”
<
br /> Much to her surprise, he allowed himself to fall onto the bed next to her. He was breathing heavily and somewhat unevenly.
“What happened?” she said.
Peters sat up rubbing his balding head. “I was able to cover my tracks, but just barely. I do believe that I am now a subject of investigation myself.”
“You owe me an explanation,” Sylvia said. “I want to know everything.”
“Fair enough,” he replied. “But first a drink. Have you opened the wine?” At that moment, Sylvia had the absurd notion that he intended to seduce her, but his expression was one of innocence.
“No,” she said. “I can open it if you like.”
“Would you? This day has taken years off my life.”
The wine was cheap, but Peters didn’t seem to mind. He gulped it down, refilling his plastic cup almost immediately. Sylvia placed her own cup down, barely touched, on the bedside table.
“I’m waiting,” she said. “I’ve been waiting all day.”
“Yes,” Peters said. “My apologies. Where to begin?”
“You can start by telling me how you know David.”
“I have known the great David Baron for a number of years…”
Thus began the first trickle in what would prove to be a torrent of words. When he was done, an hour had passed. David Baron and Jeremy Peters were what the media disparagingly called ‘mentals, or environmentalists. Of course she already knew about this in her husband’s case, but in regard to Peters, this came as a surprise. Misanthropos was an environmental organisation committed to population reduction and control. This in itself seemed benign but, as Peters explained, there was considerable disagreement within the organisation as to what form this reduction and control ought to take, and what level of environmental impact ought to be tolerated in achieving this goal. Some members, Peters included, were committed pacifists and thus wholly opposed to any form of violence, even in the name of population control. Others, like her husband, were more radical.
Therein lay the crux of the problem.
“Your husband and his cronies intend to sabotage one of the reactors,” Peters said. “This must not be allowed to happen.”
“Why not go straight to Sinocorp with this?” Sylvia asked.
Peters shrugged. “Because they’d shoot the lot of us. We’re all implicated.”
“That’s why you’ve brought me here? As a bargaining tool?”
“In custody you’re no good to anyone, least of all yourself. You must appreciate that our employers are not overly concerned with establishing guilt in any precise manner. They are much more inclined to purge all possible offenders and attribute guilt posthumously.”
“You’re sure of this?”
“A number of communiqués pass before my eyes daily, the nature of which the common person would likely find surprising. The event of your own death, for example, would not be seen as an unsatisfactory outcome.”
For a while, neither of them spoke.
“This must be a shock to you,” Peters eventually said. “I am sorry to have to burden you. But, as I’m sure you can appreciate, there is a greater goal here.”
“To call off the attack?”
“Yes. And now I must ask you to perform a certain duty.”
“What?”
He stood up a little unsteadily. “You must try to persuade David.”
“What makes you think he’ll listen to me?”
“He probably won’t,” Peters replied, pulling a flip-top phone from his pocket. “But we will test the limit of his capacity for human empathy. He may say that he will proceed regardless of whether you are still in Yellowcake Springs, but this might be a bluff. I’m placing the call.”
David’s ethereal form strobed into view. Sylvia could see him, but David couldn’t see her, as Peters was holding the phone up in front of his own face.
“David,” Peters said. “I have some important news.”
“Is she gone?”
“No.”
“She’s been arrested?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“There’s been a change of plan,” Peters said.
“You’re not backing out?”
“I’m afraid so. There’s someone I’d like you to speak to…”
30. Citizen Rion
The gaze of a pair of steel grey eyes pinned Rion to his seat.
“You will earn your citizenship,” the voice attached to the eyes said.
“Yes,” Rion replied.
The lips creased into a smile, but the eyes did not change. “You accept the terms?”
“I accept.”
“Repeat them in your own words.”
“I am to locate Sylvia and, if possible, her husband David. I am to tell them I have been temporarily released, but that I am to leave Yellowcake Springs in two days. Under no circumstances am I to reveal the fact that I have been implanted by this security bureau, or that I have been offered citizenship in exchange for information leading to David Baron’s capture. I am to infiltrate Misanthropos by telling those involved that it is my intention to join the organisation. When I feel that I have achieved maximum possible exposure to Misanthropos, I am to signal the alarm. Once the alarm has been triggered, I am to remain close to the saboteurs until the security forces arrive. Thereafter I will be remanded in custody until final approval of my citizenship status.”
“Good. Then we are ready to proceed with the implanting. It is too late for your mission to proceed this afternoon, as the implantation blister may alert the Barons. The blister will subside in a few hours. Your mission will proceed at first light tomorrow.”
Rion’s heart was hammering in his chest. “I understand,” he said. “What happens now?”
“You will be escorted to the implantation suite,” the nameless person across the desk from him said. “This meeting is concluded.” Without another word, and with a gesture so subtle that Rion did not recognise it as such until after the fact, his interviewer indicated for the guards to collect him.
The implant technician was a deathly pale man of indeterminate age and an imperfectly shaven face. Rion stepped, as instructed, into a drab room dominated by a series of sleek, silver booths. One of the booths opened to admit him. He sat down and the booth closed over his torso and lower body. The technician told him to relax and activated the machine. It was over before Rion knew it. The process was quick and almost painless. All he felt was a cool puncture.
The booth released Rion from its clutches; he got to his feet rubbing his arm. “Everyone’s got one of these?” he asked the technician, peering intently at the rapidly-forming blister on the inside of his left arm.
“Every citizen of Yellowcake Springs, yes,” the technician said.
“Then why can’t…” Rion’s question remained unfinished as he was shunted out of the room by the guards. ‘Why can’t they track Sylvia and David directly?’ he had intended on asking. Maybe there was a way of deactivating or removing the implant? Rion would need to keep this in mind for later.
So here he was, back in his room, with nothing to show except a red mark on his arm. He’d been incarcerated, interrogated, threatened, cajoled, instructed and finally implanted, and yet he did not feel dismayed. He would be brought into the fold. He would be a Citizen.
Rion was woken by a strident buzzing sound – an alarm – at his bedside. He groped for it and was thrown into sudden and unwelcome light. It was Saturday morning, but it must still be early for this felt like the rudest of awakenings. Rion dressed in the clean clothes that had been provided, used the toilet and readied himself for his mission. The blister had subsided. Breakfast arrived thereafter, and though Rion thought that the food was probably the lowest quality for this place, it was more than good enough for him. He ate heartily, reminding himself with every mouthful that this was as good a reason as any for complying with the requests that had been made of him. When he’d finished eating, the door swung open and a lone guard ushered him o
ut of his chamber. He barely looked to see where he was going – it was a meaningless maze of corridors and doors.
And then, at the final threshold, he was given a pass card by the accompanying guard. It was similar to the one he had seen Sylvia use on her apartment door and on the bus, but this one had no markings whatsoever. It was a blank slate.
“What’s this for?” Rion asked, more to hear the sound of his own voice than any other reason. He knew the answer and the guard confirmed it: it was a skeleton key. It would get him into Sylvia’s apartment and a great many other places besides. There were no words of encouragement for him, no parting words, but he was in need of none. Rion brimmed with an inner light, almost a divine purpose, or so it seemed to him at this moment. Everything would fall into place.
31. Saturday?
Jiang Wei needed to find Yang Po’s office, but he kept getting disorientated and there were a number of things he couldn’t explain. His thoughts kept going around in circles and his feet fared little better. Like a drunk man trying to regain his equilibrium through furious concentration, Wei tried to get his bearings. He was in a musty corridor with intermittently flickering lights. Dust motes drifted down and soft murmurings seemed to emanate from the walls. He had no choice but to shuffle forward in the vain hope that motion might bring enlightenment.
Further on, the situation grew bleak. This seemed to him to be a prison planet of hostile faces and padlocked minds. Faces turned to observe his passage, but betrayed no emotion but for the mild curiosity of cool regard. Where was Chen Da now, at the time of his greatest need?
As if to tempt or taunt him, an open door shimmied into view. Every other door handle he had tried had been locked, but this one beckoned by way of the pool of soft light spilling into the corridor. And yes, this did look like the way to Yang Po’s office. Maybe he was leaving the zone of apparition and aberration behind. Wei needed little encouragement to step across the threshold. There was Yang Po – ruddy, calm, expectant.
“I’ve been waiting,” the older man said. Was that a note of pride in his voice?
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