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Owen Jericho, snug in a cocoon of music.

‘Match,’ announced the computer.

Irksome.

So irksome that he decided there and then to dial up the personality protocol by thirty per cent. At least then the computer would sound like someone you could share a coffee or a glass of wine with.

‘There’s a blog entry that looks like Yoyo,’ said the warm female voice, almost
human. ‘She posted an entry on Brilliant Shit, a Mando-prog forum. Should I read it out?’

‘Are you sure that it’s Yoyo?’

‘Almost certain. She knows how to cover her tracks. I imagine Yoyo is working with distorters. What do you think?’

Without the personality protocol the remark would have come out as: ‘Eighty-four point seven per cent match. Probability that distorter is being used, ninety point two per cent.’

‘I think it’s very probable that she’s working with distorters,’ Jericho agreed.

Distorters were programs that go over a text and alter the writer’s personal style. They were becoming more and more popular. Some of them rewrote texts using the style of great poets and writers, so that you could dash off a message and have it reach the recipient looking as though it had been written by Thomas Mann, Ernest Hemingway or Jonathan Franzen. Other programs imitated politicians. It became dangerous when malevolent hackers cracked the profiles of other, unsuspecting users and borrowed their style. Many dissidents on the net preferred to use distorters that would rewrite with randomly generated standards, using a variety of styles. The most important thing was that the meaning remain the same.

And that was precisely the weak spot in most programs.

‘Elements in the blog post are not stylistically uniform,’ said the computer. ‘That confirms your theory, Owen.’

A nice touch, using his first name. Polite too to pretend that it had been
his
theory, as though the computer itself hadn’t suggested that a distorter was at work. God knows, fifty per cent personality protocol was enough. At eighty per cent the computer would be crawling up his backside. Jericho hesitated. In fact he was fed up with calling the thing ‘computer’. What would a girl like this be called? Maybe—

He programs her with a name.

‘Diane?’

‘Yes, Owen?’

Great. He likes Diane. Diane is his new right-hand woman.

‘Please read the entry.’

‘Glad to.
Hi all. Back in our galaxy now, have been for a few days. Was really stressed out these last days, is anybody harshing on me? Couldn’t help it, really truly. All happened so fast. Shit. Even so quickly you can be forgotten. Only waiting now for the old demons to visit me once more. Yeah, and, I’m busy writing new songs. If any of the band asks: We’ll make an appearance once I’ve got a few euphonious lyrics on the go. Let’s prog!
’

Once again Jericho wonders how the program can identify a writer from such a
mishmash, but experience has taught him that even less would be enough. Still, he doesn’t have to understand it. He’s an end-user, not a programmer.

‘Give me an analysis,’ he says. It’s really quite cosy by now, with Satie and this velvet-smooth voice.

‘Of course, Owen.’

That’s to say, this ‘of course’ has to go. It reminds him of HAL 9000 from
A Space Odyssey
. Ever since the satnav system was invented, every speaking computer has been doing its best to copy crazy HAL.

‘The text is supposed to sound cocky,’ the computer said. ‘The style is broken though by the terms
even so quickly
and
euphonious. The old demons to visit me once more
seems rather forced – I don’t believe that the distorter was at work here. Everything else is just minor detail.
Lyrics on the go
for instance doesn’t fit the style of the second and third sentences.’

‘What do you make of the content?’

‘Hard to say. I might have a couple of suggestions for you. First off,
galaxy
. That might just be loosely meant, or it might be a synonym for something.’

‘For instance?’

‘Probably for a locality.’

‘Go on.’

‘
Demons
. You’ve already been looking for demons. I suspect that Yoyo is referring here to the City Demons, or City Daemons.’

‘I’m with you there. By the way, Daemons was a blind alley. Anything else strike you?’

The computer hesitated. The personality protocol once more.

‘I don’t know enough about Yoyo. I could give you about three hundred and eighty thousand variant interpretations of the other wording and phrases.’

‘Put a sock in it,’ Jericho murmured.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.’

‘Doesn’t matter. Please search Shanghai for the word galaxy in connection with some place or other.’

This time the computer didn’t hesitate. ‘No entries.’

‘Good. Locate where the text was sent from.’

‘Of course.’ The computer gave him the coordinates. Jericho is astonished. He hadn’t expected it would be so easy to track back the route the message took. He would have thought that Yoyo would lay a few more false trails when communicating.

‘Are you sure that you haven’t just found an intermediary browser?’

‘One hundred per cent sure, Owen. The message was sent from there at 6.24 local time on the morning of 24th May.’

Jericho nods. That’s good. That’s very good!

And his hope becomes a certainty.

As Jericho steered his COD along the Huaihai Donglu towards the elway, he went over his conclusions from last night once more.

Hi all. Back in our galaxy now, have been for a few days.

Which could mean, I’ve been back in Quyu for a few days. Obvious. Not so clear though why Yoyo would call Quyu a galaxy. More likely that she meant one particular place in Quyu.

Was really stressed out these last days, is anybody harshing on me?

Stress. Well, obviously.

And why would anybody be angry at her? That was also fairly easily told. Yoyo wasn’t actually asking a question here, she was giving an explanation. That somebody had tracked her down, that this someone was dangerous, and that she didn’t know whom she was dealing with.

Couldn’t help it, really truly. All happened so fast. Shit.

More difficult. She had taken flight at panic speed. But what did the first part mean? What couldn’t she help?

Even so quickly you can be forgotten.

Trivially easy. Quyu, the forgotten world. Almost a platitude. Yoyo must have been in a hurry to get the message out.

Only waiting now for the old demons to visit me once more.

Even easier: City Demons, you know where I am.

Yeah, and, I’m busy writing new songs. If any of the band asks: We’ll make an appearance once I’ve got a few euphonious lyrics on the go. Let’s prog!

Which was as much as to say, I’m trying to get the problems under control as fast as I can. Until then, we’ll disappear.

And who is
we
?

The Guardians.

The city freeway ran at an angle to Jericho’s route. An eight-lane road with enough traffic on it for sixteen, and with several storeys of elevated highway soaring above. Cars, buses and vans crawled through the morning as though through aspic. Hundreds of thousands of commuters flooded into the city from the satellite towns,
taxi drivers glowered out at the world around. Not even bikers found a spot where they could squeeze through here. They all wore breathing-masks, but nevertheless you expected to see them turn blue and slump from their saddles. Even though there were more fuel-cell cars in use in the metropolises of China than anywhere else in the world, more hydrogen motors and more electric engines, a blanket of smoggy exhaust fumes lay over the city.

A special traffic track ran high above everything else. It was supported by slender telescopic legs, had only been opened for use a few years ago and was reserved exclusively for CODs. Now COD tracks connected all the most important points in the city and led out to the commuter towns and the coast, some of them at dizzying heights. Jericho threaded his way onto the steep sliproad, waited for his vehicle to click into place on the rails and entered his destination coordinates. From now on he didn’t need to steer the COD, which would have been impossible anyway. As soon as CODs were in the system, the driver played no further part.

Jericho’s COD climbed up the slope in a row of identical machines. Up on the track, he could see countless numbers of the cabin-like vehicles racing away at more than 300 kilometres per hour, gleaming silver in the sun. One storey down, any sort of movement had ceased.

He leaned back.

The vehicles approaching in the outside lane braked just enough to leave a precisely measured gap for his vehicle to slip into. Jericho loved the moment of rapid acceleration when the COD took off. He was pressed briefly against the back of his seat, then he had reached cruising speed. His phone told him that he had received a message from the computer. The display scanned his iris. An additional voice-print check wasn’t really necessary, but Jericho liked to make assurance doubly sure.

‘Owen Jericho,’ he said.

‘Good morning, Owen.’

‘Hello, Diane.’

‘I’ve analysed the writing on Yoyo’s shirt. Would you like to see the result?’

He had given the computer this job before he set off. He linked his phone to the interface on the car dashboard.

‘What does it say?’

‘It’s evidently a symbol.’

A large A appeared on the COD monitor. At least, Jericho supposed that it was supposed to be an A. The crossbar was missing, although in its place a ragged ring slanted around the letter instead. Underneath he could read four letters, NDRO.

‘Have you looked for similar symbols on the net?’

‘Yes. What you see is the result of image enhancement. It’s a reconstruction based
on high-probability matches. The symbol doesn’t turn up anywhere in the data store. The letters might be an abbreviation, or a word fragment. I’ve found NDRO as an abbreviation several times, just not in China.’

‘What word do you reckon it might be?’

‘My favourites are androgynous, android, Andromeda.’

‘Thank you, Diane.’ Jericho thought for a moment. ‘Can you see whether I left the bedroom window open?’

‘It’s open.’

‘Shut it, please.’

‘Shall do, Owen.’

The COD alerted him that it would leave the track in a few seconds. It had taken only four minutes to travel almost twenty kilometres. Jericho took his phone from the interface. The COD slowed, drew out and threaded into the queue of cars that were leaving the network just before Quyu. He made fairly good speed down the turn-off and onto the main road. Even here, far outside the city centre, the traffic flowed sluggishly, but at least it was moving. Quyu was separated from the city by several storeys of freeway. Streets leading out were bundled together by roadblocks and fed through pinch points, with a police station near every one. There were also army barracks to the east and west. For all that, only a very few people in Quyu could even afford a car or the COD hire fee, so that metro lines and trolley-buses connected the district to the city.

The Demon workshop was just outside Xaxu in a historic quarter, not two kilometres west of here. It was one of the last of the really old quarters. Earlier it had been a village, or a small country town, and sooner or later it would have to give way to the phalanxes of anonymous modern houses. Now that the downtown had been completely remodelled, the planners were having a go at the periphery.

Only Quyu would stay untouched, as ever.

Fast though he had got here on the COD track, it was painfully slow getting to the part of town he wanted to go. It was a typical old-style neighbourhood. Stone buildings, one to three storeys high, with black and dark red gables, lined busy streets where many little alleys branched off, and courtyards opened up. There were open shopfronts and food sellers lurked under colourful awnings, and washing lines stretched between the houses. The Demon Point workshop took up the whole ground floor of a rust-streaked house with a gap-toothed wooden balcony around its first floor. Some windowpanes were missing, others were crazed and blind.

Jericho parked the COD in a side street and strolled across to the workshop. Several handsome hybrids and e-bikes were lined up in front of other, less attractive specimens. There was nobody to be seen until a thin boy in shorts and a baggy
T-shirt smeared with oil came out from a tiny office and got to work on one of the e-bikes with a rag and a tin of polish.

‘Hello,’ said Jericho.

The boy looked up briefly and turned back to his work. Jericho squatted down next to him.

‘Very nice bike.’

‘Mm-hm.’

‘I can see how you’re polishing it. Are you one of the ones who cleaned the NKs’ clocks as well, in the DKD Club?’

The kid grinned and kept on polishing.

‘That was Daxiong.’

‘Good work he did.’

‘He told the wankers to shut their traps. Even though there were more of them. Said that he didn’t feel like listening to their fascist crap.’

‘I hope he didn’t get any trouble from them.’

‘Little bit.’ The boy seemed only now to realise that he’d fallen into conversation with somebody he didn’t know at all. He put down his rag and looked at Jericho distrustfully. ‘Who are you anyway?’

‘Ahh, I was just headed for Quyu. Sheer chance that I spotted your workshop here. And given that I’d read that blog post – Well, I thought, since I’m here anyway—’

‘Interested in a bike?’

Jericho stood up. He looked where the boy was pointing. Over at the back of the workshop, a burly chopper, an electro, was up on its chocks. The rear wheel was missing.

‘Why not?’ He walked over to the machine and admired it ostentatiously. ‘Been thinking for years of getting a chopper. Lithium-aluminium battery?’

‘That’s right. It’ll give you 280.’

‘Range?’

‘Four hundred kilometres. Minimum. Are you from downtown?’

‘Mm-hm.’

‘That’s hell for cars. You should think about it.’

‘Shall do.’ Jericho took out his phone. ‘I don’t know my way around here, sadly. I’m supposed to meet someone, but you know how Quyu is for addresses. Maybe you can help me.’