Solomon's Keepers (11 page)

Matzov produces a plain brown envelope from a table at his side. He reaches inside and withdraws a few printed pages which he hands to Rees.

‘You see, Rees, I want to share this with you. We know what happens to Solomon soldiers who are no longer deemed fit for purpose. The message is clear and it comes from the top.’

Rees checks Matzov’s face – now impassive – and then looks down at the printed pages.

The first is a photocopied memorandum stamped Secret and is labelled ‘For circulation to AJIC Solomon oversight committee.’ A paragraph half way down the page has been highlighted before the photocopying and is now bannered in streaks of grey.

5) Decommissioning: All Solomon-equipped personnel are to be considered as de facto top secret government assets in addition to their military status and any other security classifications. No authorisations for transfer or other exit from the Solomon programme will be sanctioned on any grounds whatsoever without full decommissioning (see below). In the event of death (by whatever cause) the physical remains of the deceased will remain the sole property of the programme 1) indefinitely or 2) until (by order of this committee) any restitution is deemed appropriate.

Rees flips the page. It seems real. The acronyms are familiar. There is an email requesting clarification of the applicability of the terms to the case of a soldier who had a problematic implant procedure which was never completed.

‘In view of the failure of the implant procedure (and its immediate removal), could this resource be considered not to have become Solomon-equipped and hence (with due caveats) be allowed…’

The reply is brief, signed by the head of the programme, General Dooley. ‘He’s on the team.’

The next page is a letter referring to the same individual. It’s a copy of a letter to the parents expressing deepest regrets and the hope it is some consolation to know that their son died whilst courageously performing active duties in the service of his country.

The next page shows a series of photographs of an individual Rees vaguely knew. Martinez must have been recruited to the Solomon programme in an earlier round. He’d met him a couple of times. Then he’d been a reassuring example of normality. Now he’s in two photos that look like police custody shots, a vacant, unresponsive expression, a dishevelled shirt, stubble. The two prints underneath are of a headless corpse. It is naked, laid out on a smooth metal table top. The final picture is of the remains of the head. It has been half turned to show the complete and obviously surgical separation of the rear half of the skull and the removal of the entire brain. Martinez’s eyes are open, staring out to one side.

Matzov breaks the silence. ‘As you see, we know all about how they treat their heroes. You know, Rees, there is no disloyalty in recognizing reality. War, secrecy, intelligence, business – there are big moves being made and ordinary people get used. You know that, don’t you? It has always been that way.’ He points at the photographs. ‘Like any cause, some will die for it, some will rise above it. Very very occasionally you actually can make the choice yourself. I’m so glad that you have.’

Rees rereads the words on the pages in his hands and looks at the strangely steady gaze in Martinez’s dead eyes.

‘Tell me about the future.’

Matzov leans back and takes a deep breath. He thinks for a while and then leans forward again. His forearms rest on his knees, big hands clasped, almost as though in prayer. ‘Rees, have you ever really entertained the idea of being – very important? I don’t mean in some pompous, rank and title way but as someone who everyone knows makes a difference in the world; someone who makes people’s lives better? You have that opportunity, Rees. I have never been surer of anything in my life than I am of the significance of this venture. We have something; we can do things that the whole world will want to share.’ He pauses to see if his charge is on board. Rees hears him but can’t stop his mind drifting to another lecture and another impassioned plea. ‘We bring our own people out. No matter what, even if it’s bodies – we bring them out and honour their memory. We take care of our own, properly.’

‘Rees, I don’t want you to think that what we are proposing is just about people buying a few party highs and adrenaline rushes for a few hours a week. It offers a path to much more than that, something truly profound. In this country we are brought up on the idea of individual endeavour and each of us striving to find ourselves in the inner sanctum of our own souls. We think of ourselves as fundamentally separate – our interests often opposed to each other. And yet all that is noble within us and all we value in our cultural and religious life seems to stem from what is shared. All love and sacrifice and all glimpses of the divine seem to say that the idea of separate individuals is an illusion. Finding the places we really overlap with others is central to our existence, is it not? It is part of the eternal dilemma of the human condition.’

Rees smiles as he releases a puff of smoke to disperse above them under the ornate plasterwork of the ceiling. A fleeting sense of the grandeur and folly of life overtakes him and he’s excited and scared. He’s struggling to see himself, believe himself in the middle of all this. But Matzov is earnest, his own cigar jabbing the air.

‘Rees, do you know where civilisation comes from? Grain surplus. All civilisations arise from the simple fact that agriculture allows for a food surplus. All art, culture, every factory, every museum, gallery, chip shop, bus shelter, stock market, computer – the whole glorious kit and caboodle – it’s all a side effect of that one thing. We have been able to build a culture because we got time off from gathering food. Have we avoided the apocalypse? Have we removed the scourges of war, famine, pestilence and premature death? We have not. There’s work to do. Where will we get the next great leap forward? How do we find another, higher gear? What will the attendant side effects of that be? I’ll tell you what I think. This service will produce a joy surplus – and one that can’t be dissipated. It will allow us to warehouse the greatest experiences and to share the benefits that right now only the elite can enjoy. There is so much potential for sharing our most important gifts. We will capture, store and spread joy, learning and common experience, we will build the capacity we need to shape a world where understanding and cooperation replace exploitation. Think of one person, you, the pioneer living that experience, scene by scene, and each of those scenes multiplied an infinite number of times in future. Think of the resources saved. Think of how powerful it would be to shake off the zero sum mentality that drives our world, to make what’s mine yours, what’s yours…the world’s. That is where we will find the means to turn back the four horsemen of the apocalypse. Tell me one other thing that has a fraction of the promise to change our world for the better. Go on, tell me one thing…’

Rees looks around the room as though for ideas. The whimsy has gone. There are other levels, other orders of existence that you sometimes glimpse but rarely enter. He can feel it in the quiet weight of this man’s wealth and power. He’s been in one too: the training, the secret knowledge, the decisions about life and death. It draws you in and you feel you can never go back to an ordinary life. But you can go on. Beneath the words is the stirring of something raw and powerful and uncompromising. He recognises it. He has a strange new sense of belonging. Matzov sees he doesn’t know where to take it.

‘You had a choice to diminish or expand what your life has been. I promise you that you have made the right decision. Now, what do you need? What matters to you? What can I help you with?’

‘I want my life back. I bought a promise of a worthwhile career and the army turned it into a nightmare. I had to leave someone, leave everything behind for it and it nearly killed me, maybe will kill me. I want to know I have a life after this – which even you can’t touch.’

Matzov sits forward and stretches out a big palm as though to wrestle. ‘You know why I’m rich? I give people what they want. And I’m going to do the same with you. You give me twenty-four months, completely, that’s all I need, and I’ll set you up for life: a new life – wherever you want and with a million dollars for every month that we’re live.’

Did he hear that right? Rees doesn’t know what to say so he just says what he’s thinking.

‘How do I know I can trust you?’

‘Ah – well you must decide that, Rees. Not because of words, not because I have already saved your life, but perhaps because right now you have nothing to lose and a lot to gain – and in a while, month by month a little more, you will realize that we are investing together, have created something that we both value – and trust has grown.

The palm is there for a handshake. Rees takes it.

‘We have to be careful, Rees. They will swallow your disappearance but we must never let your identity slip out. Not to anyone. I don’t doubt for one moment that they would kill you if they had the opportunity, nor must you, never for a moment.’ Matzov’s ample eyebrows conjoin in avuncular sincerity. ‘We need to play our cards very carefully. The bigger this becomes, the more we reach out and engage, the higher the risk. No one must see your face and no one must know who you are. Do you understand? No one. Your special someone, that will have to wait. You must forget everything about your old self. I need your assurance that you will do exactly as I say.’ He waits for an acknowledgment. Rees feels himself nod. Life commuted to two years and a fortune thrown in. Matzov still has his hand.

Matzov becomes very animated and keen to press his point further. ‘As far as the press is concerned – sooner or later they will get to you, it’s my business and I can absolutely promise you that, but we’ll deal with it. We will make sure they can never make the connection back. The important thing is to let me know immediately if there are any mistakes. Immediately. Then I’ll deal with it. You’re safe here while we prepare but once you are a public figure there will be no let up. You can’t know what that is like until it happens. You are the eyes, the ears, the senses for millions of people. You are their entertainment. You are what they want to be. But they can’t know who you really are. It will drive them crazy. You’ll be like Superman. And you’d better believe that the whole world is going to be after the scoop of finding out just who you are.’

The image of superman holds in Rees’s mind. Until now all this had seemed so secret and so hidden that the idea of becoming a celebrity had not dawned. How would they know him? Not through seeing him as himself but by seeing what he sees, by being him.

Matzov fidgets forward. He seems to want to get close. Rees half expects him to reach out and stroke him and so upends the cognac.

‘Rees, you’re a strong man. You’ll pull through. I want to make the most of that. Now that I’ve met you I see how perfect you are for this. You have the strength to do it. But there’s something else about you. You conserve your strength for the big moment. I can feel it, like a big cat. The tension is there, the economy. People will tap into that. And when you let go you’ll carry them all with you, a cheetah sprint. Look at you! Anyone would want to experience life as you can – as you will when you’re back on top. The Escalon just takes getting used to for a few months – the lab tests are incredibly consistent on that. Then you’re going to feel like your old self again soon, more than your old self, bigger, more vital, more animated. We need to let you express that. There is so much we can do. But listen, I want tell you where we are with this thing. It’s moving very fast now. Our new receivers are already in mass production. We’re ready for volume shipment, ready to take it to our main media channels. There won’t be a single person who hasn’t heard of this by Christmas. I am going to break all records for first year sales. Guess how many devices I am going to ship.’

Rees reads it correctly as a rhetorical question. Matzov mouths the words in mock conspiracy. ‘Five million. Now that’s what I call a real challenge. We are developing a brand, a concept that will convey the potential of this service. It has to be something, immediate, arresting. It will have mystery and power. It will capture the idea of sensuality and vicarious participation and make it direct, intimate, all-consuming – a community of sensation. It must be an invitation to a new life. It’s a question of breaking through the barrier and getting people to try it. We call it… KomViva.’ He savours the name, accentuating the second syllable lovingly. He makes it sound like a mistress, a blurred come hither. ‘KomViva: Don’t you love it? – The Teutonic authority and Latin vitality; an opening up to life. Technology becoming inspiration, conviviality and life! It has a rhythm; it entices, it celebrates, it salutes. It is international, cross-cultural. I can hear Russia, Africa, Asia, the ancient world – did you know that Komos was the Greek god of revelry? Isn’t that wonderful? We can bring him back to life!’

Watching Matzov’s acrobatic hands, Rees surprises himself by laughing. ‘KomViva,’ he says, to try it out.

‘You know, Rees, I think it is going to surprise a lot of people just how compelling you are going to be and across how much of their lives. You wait till they start to grasp what this means. There’s never been anything like it. One day people will look back and say that was where the world changed. That was when humans started to share what went on inside their heads. Civilisation was built when we started to share on the outside. What shall we call it when we’re linked on the inside? Intimisation? A new era, a new future – and it all starts here. Give me two years, Rees. Two years and we’ll change the world!’

Seven

You shuffle the helmet a couple of times until it drops into place and contains you completely. The weight seems to disappear. The darkness is complete and all senses reduced to the rumbling of blood at your ears and the vaguer hydraulics down the pothole of your body. It settles to stillness.

The blackness is a new world and the silence holds all sound. It lets the faintest hiss break through and the hiss becomes a whisper that travels around the dome of your skull, inside, and settles in the centre. A singer on a dark stage, so close you can hear the breaths and the voice takes shape and forms words. A woman’s voice: breathy and clean and honest. Let’s get started. There are fingers on a guitar too. Softly, note by note and the squeaks of the fingertips on the strings like invisible scratches. Still no light but you could reach out and touch her. A spot of light comes on top left. Red, turning to orange and then electric blue. A burning through metal. It cuts a vertical line that hangs there jagged and flaring, then two gashes of fire to form the letter K. There’s a fizz of electrics and neon bulbs start to flick on, to form letters. They vibrate against the sheet metal. The cutter is making a V in the centre. You know it as it takes shape. You can feel the wall of heat and the flames leaping through the letters. A shower of sparks frames the name, KomViva.

‘Don’t move,’ the woman whispers, close now in your left ear. ‘I’m here on your left.’

‘And I’m on your right’ A man’s voice close on the other side. There’s a real hand on each of your shoulders. A friendly squeeze.

The voices join together. ‘You chose two options: Outdoors and New Life. Great choice! Enjoy yourself!’

And the word and the flames and the heat drop away and you are in open air, kneeling and facing an old bearded man amongst sky and mountains.

‘Welcome, welcome. Let’s learn to feel good together.’ An Indian accent, a laugh in the voice and old eyes twinkling young. Thin yogic limbs in a tee shirt that reads ‘There’s only now’ and a pair of loose khaki pants.

‘I’m old now so you should be able to keep up,’ he squeaks, ‘especially with that new body. Now stretch your arms out wide, like this.’

It’s not your body. It’s a new one that’s leaner, stronger, different but strangely familiar. You are wearing a loose white tee shirt and shorts. You have no shoes.

‘Hands up to the top.’

The drop behind him is precipitous. You feel the wind on your cheek as you raise your hands. You look to your side. There is no side. You are hundreds of feet above a barren desert floor on a tower of rock no wider than a car. The dizziness pushes like a hand.

‘Go on; take a look if you like. It’s clear today. Sometimes when it rains the cloud cuts off this pillar and you’re all alone. It’s like a fairy tale.’

But you don’t lean away; you put one hand down and lean over. You look all the way down and you feel the weight straining on your wrist as though you’ll roll right over. The edge of one foot scrapes in gritty dirt. You can imagine plunging down and down towards the yellow dust and rocks way below.

‘Look at you, showing off already,’ the old man laughs. Fingers of adrenaline climb your ribs. You lean away.

‘Breathe in…in…more…more…and hold. Now close your eyes. That’s right.’

The world goes away.

‘And out. Now stand up. Keep your eyes closed. One step forward. One step right. Look at me.’

You are surprised you moved. You are six inches from the edge. He is standing facing you with his closed hand outstretched towards you. There is the sensation of the whole pillar of rock swaying slightly.

‘Want a mint?’ The hand opens. You take the mint and pop it. It burns like no mint you ever tasted before. ‘Good, aren’t they?’ You lean over and spit it into the dry air. Watch it curve out into the blank, drop to a speck and disappear.

‘Too strong? Never mind. Can you touch your toes?’ He sidesteps and then stretches forward and places his palms in front of his feet. His body is flat against his knees. You do better than you expect, your head full of singing blood. ‘And up again. Do you want to see me stand on my head? Perhaps not. Now sideways, like this.’ You lean sideways together over the edge. Your foot slips a fraction in the dust and your toes curl till they find rock. ‘Take your hand over your head…like this. Try to touch your ankle with the other hand.’ Again you surprise yourself. ‘Shall we try the other side?’ he squeaks. ‘I prefer the view this side. There’s an eagle’s nest in the cliff over there. You see all the white?’ You do it all over again the other side. You notice the little guru has a pack and a stick behind him. How did you get up here? How will you get down?

‘Now, the thing you need to do is explore your new body. You’d better find out what you’ve got before we put it to use.’ You copy his movements, bending and drawing hands up from your ankles, the hard muscles in your calves, feeling the ridge of your shins, the hairs thickening to the knee. The little man lets out a peal of laughter and plunges a hand down his shorts. He pulls a surprised face then smiles. ‘New toys in there for you too,’ he says. You follow suit. Your wrist pulls elastic and your fingers turn and twine in loose skin. The heat and weight, the configuration is at once familiar and strange. Then he is feeling his arms, effortlessly linking hands behind his shoulders and flipping his linked arms over his head. ‘Can’t do that though, can you?’ You can feel new muscles knotting in your back and neck.

‘All in order?’ he asks. He strokes the top of his head with a last flourish. ‘Happy?’

You feel the hair on your own head, short and bristling. You are smiling.

‘Good. Then it’s time to go. Here, you’ll need this. You know how this works don’t you?’

The ‘yes’ you produce is a surprise in your new voice and your hands go to work with familiarity. The pack has wide shoulder fittings like a cut off jacket, two clips that snap across the chest and another pair of straps that loop under your crotch and clip to the harness at the front. You attach them all and jostle it into place with movements you didn’t know you knew. You touch a metal loop handle at the small of your back.

The man looks delighted. His eyes are shining as he says goodbye.

You step to the edge, look way down and jump.

Your arms wrench out and your legs bend up behind. The air makes shrink wrap of your shorts and your shirt crackles at your sides. Your body falling makes the air itself sound like tearing cloth.

You fight to close your mouth. Head to the side, the rushing air is textured, like candy floss; downwards, the force balloons your cheeks till your face feels inside out.

A mad zoom into detail that shouts, distance that jumps behind you and laughs, a whipping away of the middle.

The chute billows guts through your back. Your body jerks and the world wobbles and rights itself, remembers the horizontal. The wind drops and is replaced by the sail noise above. Your legs reach down just in time as the dirt slides under your feet.

Blackness and silence.

A memory of where you were. A memory or a hasty reassertion of who you are. Then same voices from the stage. ‘Well done. Now you have experienced your first adventure with KomViva. Are you feeling good? It’s quite a surprise, isn’t it? Stay with us to experience a little more of what the future holds.’

Fine cuts of light in the blackness. Cuts that widen to stripes. A blind opening on a city night. A tap on your elbow. You turn to see the figure in blue. A nurse, eyes bright and expectant. ‘We’re ready now,’ she says. Double doors give on to a corridor, panels of light, shades of glare. You are running, shoes squeaking on the smooth floor, white sleeves pistoning, something bobbing at your chest. She bursts the double doors ahead of you and darkness, warmth and a woman’s screams reach out. Rembrandt light on folds of cloth and burnished limbs. ‘It’s coming’ calls a steadying voice in the gloom. ‘Breathe…don’t push until I say.’

At the heart of the nativity, the mother is on all fours, magnificent ursine womanhood, haunches swaying, and the whole world revolves around her, centres on the vault of her belly. She bellows, egged on by voices of ancient wisdom. A guiding female hand reaches to the crowning pod and splayed fingers in the slickness reveal the first glimpse of the matted head. The impossible exit progresses. The woman calls out, deeper voiced and churning. Other voices, soothing and encouraging. You watch the thing emerge, at first a black fist straining in its cuff, then a purple prune of a face that is also perfect, radiating stillness. You wonder if it can be alive but see no panic on the faces that ring close to watch it come. Your hand is under the baby’s head. The women press around, project themselves into its grimace, the gathering rim of flesh and the sudden slide. The body comes like bleached sausage, greasy limbs unpacking in your fingers, the egg weight, full and vital. The first wriggle of a life in your hands. The cry that enlivens the face is the voice of all mankind.

Blackness. You know it now. You know they are there.

‘Well done. Isn’t she beautiful? Her name is Chloe and she’s doing fine. Well, time for another change of mood. We’re well on the way to capturing how you react and soon your device will be able to fine tune your experience. Now it’s time to get a little more active. What? You thought you already were, right? Well, we need to work you a little harder – to explore a few more edges. Are you ready?’

You’re in the routine now. When they pat you on the back and laugh, you laugh with them in your head. You also know they won’t be there in another second. This context switching isn’t so hard.