Authors: Vasily Klyukin
Isaac’s
legs carried him home without any thought. He wanted to run, not walk and get
back to his computer as soon as possible. He didn’t really know what had
happened, but his head was absolutely clear and working at maximum capacity.
It
was time to search among the ones who had nothing to lose, those who attacked
COMA openly. He had to look at all their social networks with a maximal focus
on the marginal types. To hell with any society celebrities. To hell with the
rich ones. First he had to create the backbone.
Isaac
carried on working and analyzing until morning. It appeared that the most
suitable candidate was the marginal Bikie after all with his obvious contempt
for COMA. Some posts reeked of disillusionment and rage, everything that Isaac
himself felt yesterday. A conversation with him would go differently for sure.
One of Bikie’s strong points was his profession as a systems administrator and
programmer. And the candidate worked as a barman, had no money, all the makings
of an anarchist, and on top of that was as strong as an ox. If things worked
out with him, physical security would come as part the deal. It wouldn’t take
much to find Bikie, he definitely didn’t have a concierge for correspondence
and so tracking him down would be easy.
Thinking
about physical protection, Isaac spotted another candidate, a husky young
athletically built, black guy... With such high creativity rating, what could
have attracted him to sport, Isaac wondered. If you had enough natural talent
both for sport and for using your brain, then why not? Abdul Djebali, age
twenty-three, a member of the national track and field team. A French father
and Algerian mother. A Muslim. Training, training, more training. “Aha, I know
that gym,” Isaac exclaimed, examining his Instagram. “That’s where I’ll find
him.”
Isaac
went to bed, but tossed and turned restlessly even though it was already past
sunrise. He fell asleep around eight, maybe later, and then woke up at least
twice, the clock showing 8.40 and 9.30. He had to force himself to sleep a bit
longer: He had two candidates for today, and the second one worked until three
in the morning. Isaac closed the curtains tightly, plunging the room in total
darkness and fell sound sleep.
The
administrator at the gym said that the afternoon training would finish at four
o’clock. Isaac went to grab a pizza and came back a little earlier than that.
When he spotted Abdul, he introduced himself and asked what he was doing after
the gym. They agreed to sit and talk in a café in the port at six. The
sportsman turned out to be a very amiable guy. That was the pattern – the less
money people had, the more accessible they were.
With
nothing else to do, Isaac went straight to the café. He took a table on
the terrace and examined the yachts. Some were empty; some had jolly groups
sitting on them, with music playing. Sailing into Monaco was always an event
and the people were in an excellent mood.
Around
five, a huge white ocean liner with an aqua-park on its upper deck sailed into
the port. “Fortune Transatlantic «was printed on its side in large letters
Probably from America. The liner took about twenty minutes to dock, and then
tourists started pouring out. God, there were so many, like a huge anthill!
Cameras held at the ready, lots of them in identical baseball caps, the people
just kept coming out, on and on. Isaac heard their shouts of enthusiasm. “I
live here,” thought Isaac, “but I don’t see the beauty of this place. My eyes
stopped registering it ages ago; I can’t even remember the last time I looked
at the sea. It’s probably been a year, maybe more, since I even went swimming.
That’s how we live, not noticing anything, submerged in our day-to-day cares,
our work. But people are willing to cross the ocean to be here for just one
day.”
Abdul
found Isaac engrossed in these thoughts.
“Like
a coffee?” Isaac asked him.
“No,
I don’t drink coffee, just water.”
Isaac
called over a waiter and ordered a large bottle of water. There was an awkward
pause.
“Abdul,
I’d like to ask you a couple of questions and make you a proposal. A week ago I
almost became a Happy, but I was lucky, God spared me or maybe I was just
fortunate I decided it wasn’t just a coincidence. I didn’t like the present
system and the downloading craze. My gut feeling told me it was wrong. And if
you dig under the surface, some points that are very unpleasant for COMA will
come creeping out.”
Isaac
made sure that Abdul was listening to him and continued
“I
know you have a very high creativity level. You had it measured two years ago
in the local branch. Why didn’t you download?”
“Well,
apart from my creativity, I have couple of other things I can use to pull
through. I can always download if I wish. Meanwhile I am in training and
getting excellent results. In just a little while, I’ll make the national
team.”
“I
see. I am glad you chose a different path. With your level you could already be
sipping a cocktail in a pretty decent villa.”
“I
could. But maybe I’d be able to do that in any case. If I make the team, that’s
good money too. Ad sponsorships, all sorts of bonuses. I could get rich
anyway.”
“Same
here, but we’ll talk about that later. I want to ask you to join a team, a team
of people who will sort all of this out independently. And maybe put an end to all
of it.”
“All
of what?”
“COMA,
downloading creativity. It all looks just too smooth.”
“And
what do you want from me?”
“To
take part. I want you to help.”
“But
how?”
“Abdul,
can I trust you?”
“Sure.
No matter what, this conversation is just between you and me.”
“Great.
I’m looking for partners, those with high intellect and tons of creativity to
work together to stop this idiotic trend of turning people into stupid amoebae.
I want to find the weak spots in the system, I want to creep up as close as
possible and hack it, literally or metaphorically.”
“What
do you mean, hack it? It’s not one computer, it’s a network. Destroy one and
the others will still be there. You can’t destroy the system.”
“If
someone created it, it can be destroyed. I have a reason to think that
Professor Link is alive.”
“What?
– Abdul sounded astonished. - Where did you get that information?”
“I
just have grounds for thinking that. Happies say that they’re happy. But a
drugged-up junkie is happy too, as long as the drug is still in his blood. A
junkie is just a sick person. What if the Happies are sick too? Like being on a
high. No Happy has ever returned to a normal state.”
“That’s
just paranoia. Of course they’re happy, you can see it, and you can cast doubt
on any achievement that way.”
“Well,
maybe it is paranoia,” Isaac retorted. “But haven’t you noticed that paranoiacs
are always the most vigilant ones? Remember in the movies? There’s always one
paranoiac that no one listens to, but in the end he always turns out to be
right. A paranoiac is the guy who saves the human race at the last moment and
what if the last moment is just about to arrive and we don’t know it?”
“Anything
is possible, but why do you need me?”
“You’re
strong.”
“Are
we planning to beat someone up then?” Abdul chuckled.
“No,
we’re not, and I hope we won’t have to. I read that you’re a hot-shot
mathematician and that’s important for my plan.”
“But
just what is your plan, I don’t get it yet.”
“Find
COMA’s vulnerable spots and destroy it.”
“And
more specifically?”
“There’s
nothing specific as of yet. We’ll create the specifics together. We’re going to
figure out where Link is.”
Abdul
thought hard about what he was telling him. Isaac caught himself thinking that
if Abdul did get into the national team, his advertising contracts were as good
as guaranteed. Tall, six feet two, broad-shouldered, white-toothed and with a
massively wide smile. His ordinary gray t-shirt looked so good on him that
Isaac felt the urge to buy one for himself.
“You
know Isaac, maybe I’ll regret this later, but ’m going to pass. I’ve slaved too
hard to get where I am, spilling sweat by the bucketful in the gym. I’m just a
step away from my goal and the doors of the national team are open to me. I’m
not exactly against helping you somehow, but you haven’t even got a simple
plan, just bare ideas. Sorry bro, but I can’t. I’ve got two younger brothers, a
father, a mom and an uncle and I’m their only hope. You get on with it. You
know where to find me, when you have something more specific and then I’ll think
about it. But I’ve got no time for sitting at home and looking for a needle in
a bundle of hay, I train two or three times a day. I won’t tell anyone about
our conversation, but as for joining up – I pass. No hard feelings?”
Isaac
was upset. He liked Abdul. He was not angry with him. If it’s no, it's no, but
he made a mental note that he had to show up with a more concrete plan. If
people had specific goals in their lives and were grafting hard for them, they
wouldn’t dive headfirst into a whirlpool for a bare idea. He had to keep that
in mind.
“Of
course it’s okay and thanks for keeping it quiet. I’ve only just begun and I’ll
find allies sooner or later. If not today, then tomorrow.”
Isaac
paid for the water, said goodbye to Abdul and set off home. He needed to rest
for a while. There was another candidate waiting for him in the evening.
The
door of the bar swung open and out spilled a colorful pair, both pretty loaded:
a husky guy in a bandana and a big, bearded lanky hunk. They were talking so
loud that Isaac could hear from twenty-feet away.
“Now
that’s what I call a real bike!” said the hunk.
“You
bet…. none of your modern garbage. This is a classic!”
“Is
that a Harley Sportster?”
“Yep!
And not just a Sportster... This is my bro! Even born the same year as me!”
“Okay,
cheers, Bikie. See you in a week or two. Going to Trieste tomorrow and from
there to Prague, but the Friday after that I’ll be back here.”
“Ciao,
buddy! Smooth riding and no stones on the road.”
Isaac
already knew that Bikie’s shift in the bar was due to end shortly. He had read
a lot about this guy and didn’t want trouble, so he addressed him in a familiar
tone.
“Bikie
the Biker… that does sound funny.”
Bikie
swung аround and looked Isaac up and down. “What issue do you have with your
face?” he said menacingly. And, after a pause, added, “We can fix that right
now. Now what were you saying?”
He
leaned down bringing his ear close to Isaac’s face. His stubble almost touched
Isaac’s nose, the reek of alcohol was abominable. Isaac recoiled, realizing he
had clearly overdone it with a sassy approach. Getting a punch in the face
wasn’t quite what he was looking for.
“No,
chill dude, it was just a bad joke.”
“A
joke? There’s a trauma wing for jokers in the hospital.”
“Sorry.
Why don’t we just forget about it, and I’ll buy you a beer?”
“Not
one of those queers are you?”
“Hey-hey,
don’t you forget about that trauma unit for jokers.”
“Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”
Bikie guffawed. “Attaboy, I like you. Just don’t forget that the last guy who
joked with me went broke with his dentist’s bill. Okay, let’s have a beer, as
long as you are paying.”
Isaac
and Bikie walked into the bar. Everyone here knew Bikie and many of the
customers came over to hug him and slap him on the shoulder.
The
shaggy gaunt barman chuckled behind the counter.
“Back
to work? Who’s this with you?”
“My
beer. A special import, from the land of fools.”Bikie replied.
“Seriously?”
Isaac grinned.
“Since
you want something from me, you’ll have to put up with it,” Bikie snapped and
plumped down on a chair. Compared with Bikie’s beefy frame, Isaac looked really
small.
Not
off to a great start, Isaac gritted his teeth, said nothing and sat down beside
Bikie. No one had promised this was going to be easy, but Isaac’s enthusiasm
for the idea of telling Bikie about his plan kept melting away. The biker
seemed too drunk and offensive to deal with. It took all Isaac had not to just
slip away.
Seeing
Isaac’s sour face, Bikie slapped him on the shoulder and added good-naturedly.
“Okay,
won’t do it again. You started it, so I got wound up and enjoyed it. I like
taking the piss out of smart-asses and drunken superheroes. When all’s said and
done, everyone’s afraid of fucking with me anyway. In real life I’m the kindest
and sweetest bouncer in this hemisphere,” said Bikie, pointing to the right
side of his head and cracking up again. “I’ve never given anyone a genuine
mauling, though. By the way, this is my private table,” he added, casting a
proud glance at his companion.
The
private table was small, but right in the very center. There was a large brass
plaque embossed with “Elvis and Steve Tyler can sit here without Bikie’s
permission.”
Elvis
again. “Well now,” thought Isaac. “Sometimes you don’t remember a word or a
name for years, and suddenly it invades your daily life like a virus.
“I
see you’re well-respected here.”
“You
bet. I can do more than just make good use of my hands if need be. I once
crashed the bar’s site for seating a pair of freakin’ tourist suits at this
table.” Bikie checked himself for a moment and gave Isaac a cunning glance.
I’ll listen carefully to what you have to say, just as soon as you bring that
beer you promised, fella.”
“I
brought a bottle of twenty-five-year-old whisky instead of the beer. I hope you
don’t mind that? Your friend…” – Isaac nodded in the direction of the other
barman – “won’t object because I brought my own liquor?”
“What
the fuck’s going on here?” Bikie exclaimed. “I’ll be damned! Now you’re
talking! How could I mind. Ain’t you from the Society for Encouragement of Good
Old Rock’n’Rollers?”
“Almost,”
Isaac replied, pouring the whiskey into glasses. “I used to work as a barman
too. I quit the job last week. They gave me this in lieu of severance pay.”
Closing
his eyes, Bikie breathed in the aroma of the whisky and smiled contentedly.
“I’m
Isaac Leroy, but you can call me Isaac.”
“I’m
Bikie. Well, you know that already.”
They
drank to getting to know each other. Isaac told Bikie a bit about his bar and
Bikie told Isaac about his, as well as about his Harley, boasting about it and
gradually getting more and more drunk. Over the third glass of whisky Bikie
began a serious monologue.
“Dude,
have you seen the latest Ducati? And the Honda? And the Harley? They’re all
almost identical now! Sure, they look real heavy, but they’re all the same
shit. The Goddamn creeps are repressing our freedom of choice! Where is my
choice? I want to make the fuckin’ choice myself! I don’t want to mount a
Ducati by mistake when I’m wasted! And the music? All the lousy DJs play the same
thing! I’d kill them all. How could they possibly fuck up their life so badly?
Bikie
spent about ten minutes cursing UNICOMA and its standardized technologies. What
outraged him most of all was the almost complete loss of variety, even for the
most primitive things, there was no choice at all.
“Those
who have downloaded their OE have it even worse. God forbid I should ever turn
into a Veggie” said Isaac.
“Well,
even when they were alive the Veggies were all but stupid fucks,” Bikie snorted
“No,
you’re wrong there. My friend sold his creativity for love.”
That's like cutting your dick off for love ‘cause it didn't get
hard at the right time
Isaac
tried to explain to Bikie about Pascal, but Bikie said he didn’t watch TV
serials, read political newspapers and didn’t listen to stories about stupid
fucks.
“Listen
to this then, will you! I almost became one of them, I just happened to be
lucky, or unlucky, I don’t know.”
Isaac
began to tell Bikie his story.
Bikie
tried to listen carefully, but his head was gradually drooping and he was
dozing off. When Isaac finished his story, Bikie raised his eyes, looked at him
and said slowly.
“I
propose a toast to… Elvis! For making an effort! To his resistance!”
Isaac
had been expecting a toast to Vicky’s health, to his own story, to anything at
all, but no way for the crazy hobo.
Spotting
Isaac’s expression, Bikie cleared his throat and added:
“For
rebellion and to Elvis! And we’ll drink to you too now, boy.”
“To
Elvis,” said Isaac, raising his glass
“To
have enough balls for fighting these days you have to be mad as a hatter or
really, truly tough. As for me, I’m ready to fight and I will!”
And
Bikie wacked the table so hard, his glass hopped up and broke.