Solomon's Keepers (9 page)

Brodzky has become unusually animated. Something that’s normally skirted around in his carefully worded delivery or camouflaged with humour is nosing out into the open. There’s a strange confessional mania about him, something forcing its way up, something seismic.

‘What alternative?’

‘One gets tired of finding the really important things screwed up, the big opportunities wasted. Forget the military, Rees. Every sensation you experience is capable of reproduction in another mind. Do you understand? You haven’t got a problem; yours is a very special – an especially successful implementation. A whole new world is about to open up – a world that can share what goes on in your head.’

‘What are you talking about?’

I don’t want you to get on their plane and go back, Rees. I know what their instructions are, what they say to my, new, opposite number about how to put you on reserve. But I can get you out.’

Rees is rerunning Danvers’ approach, her pretty smile. ‘What do you mean? What instructions?’

‘Instructions on how to proceed with the decommissioning. Or to make it superfluous. A routine that…’

‘You’ve seen these – instructions?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re telling me you’ve seen instructions they’ve written about me? And…’

‘Not quite.’

‘Not quite! Well, have you or haven’t you?’

‘Not instructions they’ve written; I wrote them. I am not meant to tell you or anyone else. It’s not what they’ve written. It’s what I wrote. A routine called Ajax. It’s a long story, circumstances of all sorts that needed to be covered. It’s the way that Solomon…shuts down. I never intended to build such a routine. I never would have. But I had to.’

It’s sinking in; the world and time have disappeared. Rees is back to an earlier existence, a primal Serengeti where there is only watching and being watched – until a final moment of panic and recognition with your heart chugging, the tang of blood in your mouth and the white noise of eternity fizzing in your ears.

‘When?’ he hears himself say.

‘Twenty-four hours, Rees. You need to decide before then. I can’t say more. I’ll come by tonight. If you want to, we will speak again.’

Six

He comes to when the car stops and he’s heaved into a tilting film set; jumbling wet cobbles and a riverbank kerb, imposing stone entrance in evening light, traffic swishing behind and a last bleat of Middle Eastern music from the radio before the doors trap it behind him.

He’s carried like a chess piece across black and white foyer tiles. Heavy-set guys play finger and thumb. His feet touch but seem to carry no weight.

He can remember the feeling of lucidity. This isn’t it, but it’s a start.

The lift door is a grille that slides shut. They are squeezed so tight it takes two goes to close and when they move up the cables lurch and spit overhead and behind.

The smell of his clothing, sour with sweat, suddenly catches him. How long has he been in transit?

They manoeuvre into an upstairs room of a grand apartment. Beyond the tall windows he can see a stone balustrade and a city skyline. They fold him on to a couch. A few feet in front of him a thin man in a pinstripe suit and rimless round glasses sits in an armchair, smoking a cigarette, resting the long fingers of his free hand on silk upholstery. He has long black hair raked back over the top of his head and a clean shaven dark jaw. When he sees Rees notice him he stands up and steps across.

‘Hello, Rees. My name is Armand.’ French accent.

Rees finds that he can sit up unaided but the effort feels dreamlike and detached.

Armand thinks about a handshake but sees Rees’s hands are serving as supports and abandons the idea. He sits down again and blows out a loud stream of smoke.

‘Don’t worry; you’re not in such bad shape as you think. It’s the drugs that make you feel like shit. You’ll feel better soon. When you are ready you can eat. You can also smoke and drink if you like; that would be my suggestion. Strictly against doctor's orders of course.’

He stubs out the cigarette and immediately returns another to the trap of his teeth and continues talking without lighting it.

‘I’m sorry about the uncomfortable transit arrangements. We had to rush a bit…’ He flourishes the well-trained flame of his silver lighter. He holds out the pack and Rees declines.
‘…not much opportunity for a courtship.’

Rees looks him over. ‘I don’t feel very romantic,’ he mumbles.

Armand laughs briefly. ‘No, well…that’s understandable. But I think when you’ve had a chance to adjust – then you won’t feel so bad. The Americans want their precious Solomon back. Too bad you happen to be wrapped around it.’

Then he recollects his last vision of Brodzky; his big body so close to the bed, bigger in the half light, fumbling and nervous. ‘Little injection.’ His hand on Rees’s arm. The young man’s heart snatching the inside of his ribs. Mouth dry. ‘You’ll be fine, Rees. Just hold still. Hold steady now.’ Brodzky mumbling, one hand holding his arm steady, the other flailing, hurriedly finding something and coming back. The prick of the needle holding them both still: slowing time, then a long sigh, the going in and the coming out, the room deflating around him. Brodzky relaxing as they both slip away.

‘Who are you? Am I a prisoner?’

‘Well, I’d like to say you’re a guest but we should understand one another so yes, of necessity, a prisoner for now. The fact is we’ve saved your life, Rees, and so I hope you’ll see that this is in your interest. Once you understand what you’ve signed up to, that is. Let’s talk candidly to one another. Who am I? What is this all about? Well, I’m a businessman and this is an opportunity. We create entertainment for millions of people and we want you at the heart of it. We’re not soldiers or spies; we don’t want to go to war, we have no hostile intent. We have been using Solomon just to create the most wonderful experiences for one person – which we allow the world to share.’

‘What do you mean you’ve been using Solomon? It isn’t out there to be used. What is this, some sort of game?’

‘It’s not a game. And some people haven’t been very good at keeping secrets. It’s complicated. But you are a valuable commodity, Rees. And so we have a proposition for you.’

‘You’re going to a lot of trouble – for some damaged goods.’

‘We don’t think so. Brodzky says you are fine. You have some superficial problems, a weak reverse gear, shall we say, nothing more. We think you’re ideal for us. So out of misfortune comes a very big opportunity. It’s a new world, Rees, a new life. A very well-rewarded life too.’

‘And if I don’t go for it?’

Another stream of smoke. ‘Well, if you want to go back to your military colleagues and go through their demobilisation process – I think Dr Brodzky explained about that – then of course we will return you. It would be an embarrassing miscalculation, of course, but we are realists. If there’s a mutual interest here we want to explore it. But we can’t work with a captive. Anything is possible with cooperation and nothing is possible without.’

Rees watches him for a while. Armand’s hand resting on the arm of the chair is steady; his eyes take in reactions without losing their air of confident curiosity, the air of a winner at a friendly card game.

‘As simple as that? You’d let me go.’

‘Provided you do it now, yes. After today, no. We have nothing to worry about. What have I told you? Who am I? Where are you? Do you think anything you say would be believed? If you tell them you’ve been out of hospital they will laugh at you, say you are being even more…erratic? We both know where that leads.’

‘Don’t you think I’ll already have been missed? They can track…’

‘We have forty-eight hours before you’re missed. Your American colleague was called away and will return for you then. Right now, those very sophisticated tracking systems show you are in intensive care under Dr Brodzky’s personal supervision. Every half hour a little more fiction is written into the audit records that no one ever looks at – and never will – because their lawyers very specifically don’t actually want anyone to know what goes on there.’

‘How long have you been on the inside of Solomon?’

‘Well, Rees, we have our secrets too. But some time. You know the first simulation work went into mainstream procurement years ago. It just got too expensive to keep development in government labs. Private companies code five times faster, they’re five times cheaper and more reliable too.’ He takes another considered drag. ‘We were just much better at everything, had access to everything.’

‘So you were able to rip off the Solomon code – and nobody noticed?’

‘To them it was all about artificial reality and expensive simulation machines, pumping in know-how about satellites and aeroplanes, stuff only the Americans could take on – and even then only with covert budget requisitions, special presidential orders, countless man-years of development. They weren’t looking at what we were doing.’

‘Which is…what?’

‘What Solomon does best is transmit sensations out. That’s actually what it’s designed for – did Brodzky tell you? Think about all the fun you can have with that! Forget about filling Solomon up with helicopter flying and weapon stripping or whatever, just capture the best experience and pump it out. Now we have receivers that can recreate your sense of smell, the touch of your fingers…the sensations of your dick. How many lines of code is that? You know you’d be surprised.’ He arches his eyebrows in mock surprise and holds up his finger and thumb an inch apart. We actually sold the capture code for remote monitoring into Solomon to get the Americans to sponsor it. That’s why you can do what you do. But now we have a plant in China that manufactures a recreation set our subscribers can wear that will give them the time of their life for a few thousand Euros.’

Armand can see Rees is fading. ‘Forgive me, Rees, you must be tired. You must want to relax.’ And then there’s someone at his elbow. Armand is receding and there’s a needle prick in the arm. Someone tells him to drink and he takes a gulp from the proffered glass. Whoever it is doesn’t let go. He expects water but it tastes sweet. He drinks it anyway. He can still hear Armand talking. ‘We’ll do everything we can to make you comfortable. There are people here to help you with anything you need.’ Across the room there are double doors and bedroom light beyond. Rees is on his feet and finds he can now walk. He shakes his arm loose from the support. Armand says he’ll leave now. They’ll talk in the morning. Time to consider when he’s feeling strong tomorrow. Something about enjoyable company. Please do take advantage. Rees realises he is walking to the double doors unaided.

You hear the door close behind you with a double click and a quiet instruction to someone beyond. You walk more steadily than you expect to the adjoining bedroom. You can feel a fizz in your fingertips and on your tongue, a damask of sensation on your chest and a telltale stipple on your balls. You feel stronger, curious, and alert. The warm breath of the bedroom catches you off guard. Bathroom steam and some kind of perfume reach out. A bedside lamp is on. Have they sprayed something around as well? You step into the bathroom to take a leak. A line of wide-eyed reflections take theirs alongside you in the angled mirrors. You dump your clothes and step into the shower. The pipes hiss and rumble and the water spits and then steadies to a whisper. Too hot or too cold? It seems to be both. You hold on to the chrome rail and feel your stomach go into spasm. You dry yourself with a towel which rasps and kneel down on the floor to take the spike of pain in your guts. It’s a big hit and you have to grimace and whistle through your teeth. Vaguely, you hear a woman’s voice behind you ask if you’re all right. Not the moment for an introduction.

She squats beside you and puts an arm around you. ‘Come on,’ she whispers. A black voice. ‘I’ll help you.’

She steers you into the bedroom. You are still doubled over but the pain is passing quickly. In its place there is a powerful feeling that your whole skin is on fire and a sense of sudden exhilaration.

You sit on the bed drawing sharp breaths. ‘Who are you?’

‘I’m Gabrielle.’

She has big moist eyes that shine in the dim light and breath that smells of alcohol and mint. Her hair is in braids swept back under a black band. She knows something and looks anxious. Maybe she thinks you’re going to die on her. She turns her legs on the bed and puts her arm back around your shoulders while you sit still and let your breathing settle. The tight wrapped towel makes a dark tunnel at the top of her thighs. Her skin is warm and inviting. Behind her the corner of the bed is turned back where she has climbed out.

You’re mumbling. ‘Gabrielle, listen…this is…are you…Jesus!’

‘Just try to relax… I’ll make you feel good.’ She gives you a tentative rub on the chest and smiles. She’s not sure it goes over. ‘I’ll make you feel good. Just relax.’

You lie back on the bed. Any attempt at a response seems irrelevant, suddenly the least interesting detail in a wall of sensation.

You close your eyes. The room rolls. The rhythmic whispers of her movements are loud against the background drone of the aircon and distant rants of traffic pulsing through wet streets outside. She is supple and gentle and very insistent. There is no decision – just sensations rebelling and running wild. She curls on top and connects you, then settles ridge by burning ridge till your bodies meet. She gathers you under her breasts. All but the rhythm has gone, all but the cusps and clefts, the smell of her skin, the swell and the swim of her. Your nerves are neon wicker, your balls a writhing creel she plies and goads until you gasp, can take no more, and spill and slide, reborn, to sleep.

Rees wakes up alone in the middle of the night. He has memory but it lacks conviction. It’s half way to a dream. The traces of lovemaking are there. He can still smell her in the room and on him but he feels as though he’s been bleached from the inside. He gets up and walks to the window. His body and mind don’t match. The body says sleep and the mind says move. He could be anywhere; anywhere rich and anonymous. The window bay protrudes and he looks out along the street. A steady pulse of black taxis passes a distant junction. He waits, frozen, and listens to the sounds of the city pressing on the glass, the great anonymity and the sudden intimacies that the night brings: a valediction and a car door shutting, incredulous youthful laughter at unseen antics, the banter of bin men sweeping through the street with the hiss of brushes and the hollow percussion of pillaged plastic. He feels the skin on his neck rise in goose bumps and surprises himself, wishing, and somehow believing, that this moment, or at least this precise mood with its cocktail of excitement, guilt, anticipation, exhaustion and vast undetailed potential, will never end. He’s tired but feels he will never sleep again. What the fuck has he done?

The bedside phone is ringing. Rees is in bed and surrounded by morning light.

‘Rees, did I wake you? It’s ten, ten in the morning. How are you? Did you sleep well?’ Armand sounds cheerful, singsong, sounds like he’s with someone.

‘Listen, there’s someone coming to meet you. She’s going to be your…I suppose you’d say coach. Her name is Zena and she’ll be coming over shortly. You’ll like her, she’s brilliant. Meantime, anything you want – just dial zero and ask.’

He’s gone. Rees dials zero and tells the nicely-spoken female voice that he wants a cooked English breakfast.