The Light of Other Days

by Arthur C. Clarke

  After a time she thought she found a way to reach them.

  It meant a new career. But again, it was nothing unusual. This was an age of paranoia, of watchfulness; personal security had become common, a booming industry, an attractive career for valid reasons for many people. She began to exercise, to strengthen her body, to train her mind. She took jobs elsewhere, guarding people and their property, unconnected with Hiram and his empire.

  She wrote nothing down, said nothing aloud. As she slowly changed the trajectory of her life, she tried to make each incremental step seem natural, driven by a logic of its own. As if she was almost by accident drifting toward Hiram and Bobby.

  And meanwhile she watched Bobby over and over, through his gilded boyhood, to his growth into a man. He was Hiram’s monster, but he was a beautiful creature, and she came to feel she knew him.

  She was going to destroy him. But as she spent her waking hours with Bobby, against her will, he was lodging in her heart, in the hollow places there.

  Chapter 25

  Refugees

  Bobby and Kate, seeking Mary, made their cautious way along Oxford Street.

  Three years ago, soon after delivering the pair of them to a Refugee cell, Mary had disappeared out of their lives. That wasn’t so unusual. The loose network of Refugees, spread worldwide, worked on the cell-organization basis of the old terrorist groups.

  But recently, concerned he’d had no news of his half sister for many months, Bobby had tracked her down to London. And today, he had been assured, he would meet her.

  The London sky overhead was a grey, smoggy lid, threatening rain. It was a summer’s day, but neither hot nor cold, an irritating urban nothingness. Bobby felt annoyingly hot inside his SmartShroud — which, of course, had to be kept sealed up at all times.

  Bobby and Kate slid with smooth, unremarkable steps from group to group. With practised skill they would join a transient crowd, worm their way to the centre; then, as it broke up, they would set off again, always in a different direction from the way they had come. If there was no other choice they would even go backward, retracing their steps. Their progress was slow. But it was all but impossible for any WormCam observer to trace them for more than a few paces — a strategy so effective, in fact, that Bobby wondered how many other Refugees there were here today, moving through the crowds like ghosts.

  It was obvious that, despite climate collapse and general poverty, London still attracted tourists. People still came here, presumably to visit the art galleries and see the ancient sites and palaces, now vacated by England’s Royals, decanted to a sunnier throne in monarchist Australia.

  But it was also sadly clear that this was a city that had seen better days. Most of the shops were unfrosted bargain bazaars, and there were several empty lots, gaps like teeth missing from an old man’s smile. Still, the sidewalks of this thoroughfare, an east-west artery that had long been one of the city’s main shopping areas, were crowded with dense, sluggish rivers of humanity. And that made them a good place to hide.

  But Bobby did not enjoy the press of flesh around him. Four years after Kate had turned off his implant he knew he was still too easily startled — and too easily repulsed by unwelcome brushes with his fellow humans. He was particularly offended by unwitting contact with the bellies and flabby buttocks of the many middle-aged Japanese here, a nation who seemed to have responded to the WormCam with a mass conversion to nudity.

  Now, above the hubbub of conversation around them, he made out a shout: “Oi! Move it!” Ahead of them people parted, scattering as if some angry animal were forcing its way through. Bobby pulled Kate into a shop doorway.

  Through the corridor of annoyed humanity came a rickshaw. It was hauled by a fat Londoner, stripped to the waist, with big slicks of sweat under his pillowy breasts. The woman in the rickshaw, talking into a wrist implant, might have been American.

  When the rickshaw had passed Bobby and Kate joined me flow which was forming anew. Bobby shifted his hand so that his fingers were brushing Kate’s palm, and began to handspell. Charming guy.

  Not his fault, Kate replied. Look around. Probably rickshaw guy once Chancellor of Exchequer…

  They pressed on further, making their way east toward Oxford Street’s junction with Tottenham Court Road. The crowds thinned a little as they left Oxford Circus behind, and Kate and Bobby moved more cautiously and quickly, aware of their exposure; Bobby made sure he was aware of escape routes, several avenues available at any moment.

  Kate wore her ’Shroud hood a little open, but beneath it her heat mask was smooth and anonymous. When she stood still, the ’Shroud’s hologram projectors, throwing images of the background around her, would stabilize and make her reasonably invisible from any angle around her — a good illusion, at least, until she began to move again, and processing lag caused her fake image to fragment and blur. But, despite its limitations, a SmartShroud might throw off a careless or distracted WormCam operator, and so it was worth wearing.

  In the same spirit, Bobby and Kate were today both wearing their heat masks, moulded to seamless anonymity. The masks gave off false infrared signatures, and were profoundly uncomfortable, with their built-in heating elements warm against Bobby’s skin. It was possible to wear all-over body masks working on the same principle — some of which were capable of masking a man’s characteristic IR signature as a woman’s, and vice versa. But Bobby, having tried the requisite jockstrap laced with heating wires, had drawn back before reaching that particular plateau of discomfort.

  They passed one smart-looking town house, presumably converted from a shop, which had had its walls replaced by clear glass panes. Looking into the brightly lit rooms, Bobby could see that even the floors and ceilings were transparent, as was much of the furniture — even the bathroom suite. People moved through the rooms, naked, apparently oblivious of the stares of people outside. This minimal home was yet another response to WormCam scrutiny, an in-your-face statement that the occupants really didn’t care who was looking at them — as well as a constant reminder to the occupants themselves that any apparent privacy was now and forever illusory.

  At the junction with Tottenham Court Road, they approached the Center Point ruin; a tower block, never fully occupied, then wrecked during the worst of the Scottish-separatist terrorism problem.

  And it was here that Bobby and Kate were met, as they had been promised.

  A shimmering outline blocked Bobby’s path. He glimpsed a heat mask within an open ’Shroud hood, and a hand stretched out toward his. It took him a few seconds to tune into the other’s fast, confident handspelling.

  …25. 4712425. I am 4712425. I am -

  Bobby flipped his hand over and replied. Got you. 4712425. 5650982 one, 8736540 other.

  Good we’re good at last, the reply came, brisk and sure. Come now.

  The stranger led them off the main street and into a maze of alleys. Bobby and Kate, still holding hands, kept to the sides of the street, sticking to the shadows wherever they could. But they avoided the doorways, most of which — before doors heavily bolted — were occupied by pan handlers.

  Bobby slipped his hand into the stranger’s. Think I know you.

  The other’s hand, with an iconic form, registered alarm. So much for ’Shrouds and numbers bloody useless. She meant the anonymous ID number each member of the worldwide informal network of Refugee tribes was encouraged to adopt each day. The numbers were provided on demand from a central source, accessible by WormCam, rumoured to be a random number generator buried in a disused mine in Montana, based on uncrackable quantum-mechanical principles.

  Not that, he signed back.

  What then. Shape of big fat arse can’t conceal even with ’Shroud.

  Bobby suppressed a laugh. That was confirmation enough that “4712425” was who he thought: a woman, southern English, somewhere in her sixties, barrel-shaped, good-humoured, confident.

  Recognize style. Handspell style.

  She made an acknowledegmen
t sign. Yes yes yes. Heard that before. Must change.

  Can’t change everything.

  No but can try.

  The handspelling alphabets, with the fingertips brushing the palms and fingers of the recipient’s hands, had originally been developed for people afflicted with both deafness and blindness. They had been adopted and adapted eagerly by WormCam Refugees; handspelling communication, taking place inside cupped hands, was almost impossible to decipher by an observer.

  …Almost, but not quite. Nothing was foolproof. And Bobby was always aware that WormCam observers had the luxury of looking back into the past and rerunning anything they missed, as often as they liked, from whatever angle and in as tight a close-up as they chose.

  But there was no need for the Refugees to make the lives of the snoops any easier than they had to.

  Bobby knew, from scraps of gossip and acquaintance, that “4712425” was a grandmother. She had retired from her profession a few years earlier, and had no criminal record, or experience of unwelcome surveillance activity, or any other obvious reason to go underground — like, in fact, many of the Refugees he had met during his years on the run. She just didn’t want people looking at her.

  At last “4712425” brought them to a door. With a silent gesture their guide had Bobby and Kate stop here and adjust their ’Shrouds and heat masks to ensure nothing of themselves was showing.

  The door opened, revealing only darkness.

  …And then, in a final misdirection, “4712425” touched them both lightly and led them farther down the street. Bobby looked back, and saw the door closing silently.

  A hundred metres further on, they came to a second door, which opened to admit them into a well of darkness.

  •

  Take it easy. Step step step, two more… In pitch darkness, “4712425” was guiding Bobby and Kate down a short staircase.

  He could sense the room before him, from echoes and scent: it was large, the walls hard-plaster, painted over perhaps with a sound-deadening carpet on the floor. There was a scent of food and hot drinks. And there were people here: he could smell their mixed scent, hear the soft rustle of their bodies as they moved around.

  I’m getting better at this, he thought. Another couple of years I won’t need to use my eyes at all.

  They reached the base of the stairs. Single room maybe fifteen metres square, “4712425” handspelled now. Two doors off at the back. Toilets. People here, eleven twelve thirteen fourteen, all adults. Windows opaqueable. That was a common ruse; rooms which were kept dark continually were liable to become renowned as nests of Refugees.

  Think okay, Kate spelled out now. Food here and beds. Come on. She began to tug at her ’Shroud, and then at the jumpsuit she was wearing beneath.

  With a sigh, Bobby began to follow suit. He handed his clothes one by one to “4712425,” who added them to a rack he couldn’t see. Then, naked save for their heat masks, they joined hands once more and entered the group, all of them anonymous in their nudity. Bobby expected that he would even exchange his heat mask before the meeting was over, the further to confuse those who might choose to watch them.

  They were greeted. Hands — male and female, noticeably different in texture — fluttered at Bobby’s face. At last somebody picked him out — he had the holistic impression of a woman, fiftyish, shorter than he was — and her hands, small and clumsy, stroked his face, hands and wrists.

  Thus, touching in the darkness, the Refugees tentatively explored each other. Recognition — sought with difficulty, confirmed with caution, even reluctance — was based not on names, or faces, or visual or audible labels, but on more intangible, subtler signs: the shape of a person in the dark before him, her scent — ineradicable and characteristic despite layers of dirt or the most vigorous washing — her firmness or weakness of touch, her modes of communication, her warmth or coolness, her style.

  At his first such encounter Bobby had cowered, shrinking in the dark from every touch. But it was a far from unpleasant way to greet people. Presumably — Kate had diagnosed for him — all this non-verbal stuff, the touching and stroking, appealed to some deep animal level of the human personality.

  He began to relax, to feel safe.

  Of course the anonymity of the Refugee communities was sought out by cranks and criminals — and the communities were relatively easy to infiltrate by those seeking others who hid, for good or ill. But in Bobby’s experience the Refugees were remarkably effective at self-policing. Though there was no central coordination, it was in everyone’s interest to maintain the integrity of the local group and of the movement as a whole. So bad guys were quickly identified and thrown out, as were federal agents and other outsiders.

  Bobby wondered if this might be a model for how human communities might organize themselves in the wired-up, WormCammed, interconnected future: as loose, self-governing networks, chaotic and even inefficient perhaps, but resilient and flexible. As such, he supposed, the Refugees were no more than an extension of groupings like the MAS networks and Bombwatch and the truth squads, and even earlier groupings like the amateur sky watchers who had turned up the Wormwood.

  And, with their taboos and privacy being stripped away by the WormCam, perhaps humans were reverting to an earlier form of behaviour. The Refugees spoke by grooming, like chimpanzees. Suffused by the warmth and scent and touch and even the taste of other people, these gatherings were extremely sensual, and even at times erotic — Bobby had known more than one such gathering descend to a frank orgy, though he and Kate had made their (non-verbal) apologies before getting too involved.

  Being a Refugee, then, wasn’t such a bad thing. And it was certainly better than the alternatives on offer for Kate.

  But it was a shadow life.

  It was impossible to stay in one place for very long, impossible to own significant possessions, impossible even to grow too close to anyone else, for fear of betrayal. Bobby knew the names of only a handful of the Refugees he’d met in his three years underground. Many had become comrades, offering invaluable help and advice, especially at the beginning, to the two helpless neophytes Mary had rescued. Comrades, yes, but without a minimum of human contact, it seemed, they could never be true friends.

  The WormCam couldn’t necessarily deprive him of his liberty or his privacy, but, it seemed, it could wall off his humanity.

  Suddenly Kate was tugging at his arm, ramming her fingers into his palm. Found her. Mary, Mary is here. Over here. Come come come.

  Startled, Bobby let himself be led forward.

  •

  She was sitting alone in a corner of the room.

  Bobby explored the setup, lightly, with his fingers.

  She was clothed, wearing a jumpsuit. There was a plate of food, cooling and untouched, at her side. She wasn’t wearing a heat mask.

  Her eyes were closed. She didn’t respond to the touches, but he sensed she wasn’t asleep.

  Kate poked grumpily at Bobby’s palm… Might as well wear neon sign here I am come get me…

  Is she okay?

  Don’t know can’t tell.

  Bobby picked up his sister’s limp hand, massaged it, and handspelled her name, over and over. Mary Mary Mary, Mary Mays, Bobby here, Bobby Patterson, Mary Mary -

  Abruptly, she seemed to come awake. “Bobby?”

  He could sense the shocked, deepened silence around the room. It was the first word anybody had spoken aloud since they had arrived here. Kate, beside him, reached forward and clamped her hand over Mary’s mouth.

  Bobby found Mary’s hand and let her spell to him.

  Sorry sorry. Distracted. She lifted his hand to her mouth, and he felt her lips pull up into a smile. Distracted and happy, then. But that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. Happy meant careless.

  What happened to you?

  Her smile broadened. Not supposed to be happy, big brother?

  Know what I mean.

  Implant, she replied simply.

  Implant what implant?


  Cortical.

  Oh, he thought, dismayed. Rapidly he relayed the information to Kate.

  Shit bad shit, Kate signed. Illegal.

  Know that.

  …Jamaica, Mary signed to him now.

  What?

  Cell friend in Jamaica. See through his eyes, hear through his ears. Better than London. Mary’s touch in his hand was delicate, an analogue of a whisper.

  The new cortical implants, adapted from neural implant VR apparatus, were the final expression of WormCam technology: a small squeezed-vacuum wormhole generator, together with neural sensor apparatus, buried deep in the cortex of the recipient. The generator was laced with neurotropic chemicals so that, over several months, the recipient’s neurons would grow pathways into the generator. And the neural sensor was a highly sensitive neuron activity pattern analyser, capable of pinpointing individual neuronal synapses.

  Such an implant could read and write to a brain, and link it to others. By a conscious effort of will, an implant recipient could establish a WormCam connection from the centre of her own mind to any other recipient’s.

  Armed with the implants, a new linked community was emerging from the Arenas and the truth squads and other swirling maelstroms of thought and discussion that had come to characterize the new, young, worldwide polity. Brains joined to brains, minds linked.

  They called themselves the Joined.

  It was, Bobby supposed, a bright new future. What it amounted to here and now, however, was an eighteen-year-old girl, his sister, with a wormhole in her head.

  You scared, signed Mary now. Horror stories. Group mind. Lose soul. Blah blah.

  Hell yes.

  Fear unknown. Maybe -

  But suddenly Mary pulled back from him and got to her feet. Bobby reached out blindly, found her head, but she pulled away, was gone.

  All over the room, at exactly the same moment, others had moved. It was like a flock of birds rising as one from a tree.