Authors: IGMS
My cable-taxi clattered along rigid struts suspended above Ratak Street's night-market while a river of humanity weaved through the countless stalls twenty feet below.
Clutching the thin metal side of the swaying taxi with one hand, I punched the info menu on the egg-like taxi's nav-display. It bleeped shrilly, showing the artist's studio on nearby Gala Avenue, just off Ratak Street. The taxi clattered slowly onwards along the metal filament, swaying gently back and forth.
I ejected the white card Hei Long had given me from the nav unit and turned it between my fingers.
Violix. It was an odd name -- reminded me of violins. Already I sensed the artist had nothing to offer. If he'd had something original, I would have heard whispers. I would have remembered the name.
Damn Hei Long. My reputation could take the battering -- I could present a six-year old child as an art prodigy and people would still buy the stuff, but it irked me.
I reminded myself that all I had to do was see the artist's works, present a little show, and Justin and I would be out of the gangster's clutches.
It was that simple. I hoped . . .
Cable changers clanked overhead, guiding the taxi round the corner. After a few moments on the new cable, the taxi shuddered to a halt, hissed, then sank slowly to street level.
A small holo of the taxi-owner swirled into life on the taxi's main display; the man bowed. "Fourteen sys-Dollars,
Sah-Si
."
I keyed over the dollars with a swipe of my thumb, then stepped onto road.
Gala Avenue was a hotchpotch of architectural design. Most buildings were built from brightly painted baulks of local sumza wood, intricately carved and shaped by laser mills into three-dimensional jigsaws that could be slotted together in a few days, but would last centuries.
The mills boasted they could cut any design, and the residents on Gala Street had apparently tested this claim. Replica Cambodian temples jostled with medieval Japanese towers.
Wedged between a faux-Indonesian long-house and a scaled-down Venetian palace, lay a simple grey cube of concrete, its lower windows cracked and dark. Out from fractures in the concrete façade snaked gatorweed vines. Its blood-red flowers were the only splash of colour evident on the otherwise drab, dilapidated, and decidedly unoccupied-looking building.
The skies opened like a sluice and the nightly downpour of warm rain decided the issue for me; I sprinted into the warehouse.
It was worse inside.
I shook the water off my jacket and looked around.
The place was fetid and dank. Water dripped in an almost endless stream down the lobby stairwell. I angled the card towards the dim light and checked; it was the right address. Outside, the rain drummed against the decaying door relentlessly.
"M . . . Mr. Whistler? Is that you?" An amplified voice echoed off the bare walls.
I glanced about for a sensor strip.
"Yes?"
"G . . . good, yes. I'm Violix." The voice suddenly faded, became quieter, as though the man had walked away from the microphone. "The lift w . . . works, or you can take the stairs. The fourth floor."
I glanced at the ancient looking lift -- a simple, latticed metal cage of some ancient design: paint peeling off in jagged curls; rust crawling across its surface.
I grunted; nothing could entice me into that death-trap. I headed for the stairs.
As I heaved myself up the last few flights, a wheeze developed in my throat, and I clutched at the handrail like a lifeline.
I paused at the top to get my breath.
The studio's door was overkill. It resembled an old-fashioned bank's safe. The foot-thick circular metal door lay ajar, supported on a massive set of hinges. Beyond the door hung a bead curtain, through which light sparkled.
I smiled to myself. The guy must be painting on gold bars to warrant a door like that -- no living artist needed that much security.
I stepped over the circular door's raised edge and pushed through the bead curtains.
I sniffed. The air was different -- it was dry, cooler and conditioned. Blinking neon signs from the street market below shone up through a row of windows along the left. Pulses of blue, pink and violet danced along the edge of the ceiling like distant fireworks.
"Mr. Violix? Are you here?"
"Yes, yes, I'm here." His voice came from the dark shadows beyond the spotlight. "Step into the light, Mr. Whistler, so I can see you."
A strange request, but I stepped forward, shielding my eyes with my hand. "Where are you?"
A dark shape behind the light backed away as I advanced.
"Yes, yes. I'm here. That's f . . . far enough, Mr. Whistler."
The figure shifted slightly in the shadows, as though examining me. "Do you have any untreated eyesight problems, Mr. Whistler? Astigmatisms, colour bli--"
"No." I snapped. "I could hardly do my job if I did, could I? Now, are we to play games, Mr. Violix, or will you show me your paintings? That's why I'm here, isn't it?"
"Yes, yes. All business, eh? Very well, if you turn around, I will illuminate the first picture for you."
As I turned, a spotlight illuminated a section of the wall behind me. A canvas hung there -- a random mess of colour splurged upon a white background.
I walked closer.
It was just a mass of colour; swirls and splatters that followed no shape, design or pattern. It was bright, vibrant, and full of energy; it wasn't bad -- in the style of Jackson Pollock -- but it was nothing new. It was derivative drivel.
My professional persona took over.
"Well, Mr. Violix," I chose my words carefully. "Your style is good, but it isn't really --"
"Mr. Whistler, you must look at the painting a little longer, before deciding. I believe it will begin to resonate with you in a most unique way."
It was his insistent tone that reminded me of the fact that Hei Long wanted me to give this guy a break -- no matter what. My opinion counted for nothing.
I sighed and turned back to the picture.
After a moment I noticed that there seemed to be structure within the apparently random image, a structure that I hadn't perceived before.
I leaned nearer.
It was almost as though the picture had re-organised itself on some level. The sensation of change grew as colours flickered and shifted before my eyes. Flashes, as though a light had pierced the canvas, made me blink.
The effect pulled . . .
. . . lying on my back in a cot, watching the yellow curtains flapping in the gentle morning breeze. The house was quiet, but outside, birds sung. The dawn light was that tinge of violet glimpsed only on rare summer mornings in northern countries.
All around -- even within me -- I sensed the infinite possibilities of the universe poised to be unleashed. Anything could happen, but most definitely, something would.
I grabbed my foot and began to chew on my toe. It was a moment of perfect happiness.
"Turn back, Mr Whistler . . . b . . . back to me, back to the studio." A faint voice cried from downstairs.
My father? I twisted in my cot and . . .
. . . the world lurched as two realities meshed for a fraction of a second -- the way fighting dogs blur -- and then there was just the studio.
I struggled to breathe and my heart pounded like a trip hammer.
"What the -- what the hell was that? What did you do to me?"
"I . . . it is a singular experience, isn't it. That particular painting has a light immersive quality; hence you could still hear my voice."
"That wasn't what I asked."
"It was the picture, Mr. Whistler. I am able to paint beyond the quantum-level, beyond quantum string end-points. I can spin through specific energies from other dimensions and unfold realities so accurately that echoes from the multi-verse permeate through, infusing my brushstrokes with the images, emotions, and s . . . senses that I wish to convey. An oil and impasto medium for a trans-dimensional experience, so to speak."
I barely followed the explanation, but shook my head towards his shape beyond the spotlight. "It's impossible -- no man can paint . . . trans-dimensionally."
Already, the validity of my own experience was in doubt.
"So true, Mr. Whistler." There was a scraping sound and Violix shuffled out from the shadows into the light. "But then I am barely a man, anymore."
I gasped.
His body-shape was obviously humanoid, though swathed in a dark, floor-length robe. Black tubes ploughed in and out the anaemic skin of his chest and neck like flesh-eating worms.
His head, except for a thin lower section of his right jaw, was encased in a flexible metal. Tiny sections flickered open, and small devices poked out and retreated away like tiny, nervous mammals scanning for predators.
Optics and metal filaments of varying lengths jutted from his eye region like a nest of insect antenna. They swivelled, reacting to every movement I made.
Instead of a left arm, Violix's had a set of metal tentacles that hung together by his side like a single arm. His other arm ended in a set of metal claws.
Violix flexed the grippers spinning them outwards, into a set so fine, I barely saw the tip.
"As you see, I have been modified somewhat skilfully, but ultimately, illegally. Banned nano colonies inhabit my body and brain. Alien technology has been inserted using illegal surgical techniques. The g . . . genius that did it has since died -- it was his finest work, he said. Others disagree. Alas, my very existence," Violix murmured, "is a crime."
Alien artefacts? I stepped back -- the man was delusional.
"Mr. Whistler, there is no need to be alarmed. I am not infectious, nor do I intend to harm you. Please -- I would like you to continue to review my work, just as you'd normally do."
"Why have you done this too yourself?"
I couldn't comprehend the level of self-mutilation this man had voluntarily heaped upon himself.
Violix raised his claws near his face. A medium-sized set of shiny grippers slid out, clicking around a small metal knob near his jaw and then rotating it at high speed.
A jet of pressurised gas hissed out. The gripper-hand reversed the direction of spin to close the valve.
"Why Mr. W . . . Whistler? It is no s . . . simple vanity, I assure you." Violix chuckled, although the effect was more of a shudder as his body clanked and clattered. "But, I will answer your question. In a way, it is why you are here."
He waved his gripper arm and spotlights brightened around the studio, illuminating ten, hanging canvases.
"Within these canvases lie the reasons for my changes. Why I have ruined my b . . . body." He shuffled towards me, one of his legs dragging behind him. "Come see the next picture. You'll like it."
The tentacle-arm reached towards me. The individual tentacles were kept tightly together, but the tip splayed into three finger-like sections.
Instinctively, I twisted away from it.
Violix paused and dropped the tentacle by his side.
"F . . . forgive me. I forget how my appearance affects people."
I felt strangely guilty. "I just wasn't expecting it."
He nodded his metal head. "Of course not. This way." He pointed with his tentacles toward the next picture. It seemed the same as the previous one, although, if pushed, I would have said it had more red.
Each individual brush stroke or splatter appeared finer. The whole picture had a much more powerful level of detail and that seemed to immediately make me want to . . .
. . . touched my lips against hers. From the corner of my eye, I saw the sunlight flickering, as the long dry grass stems waved in the breeze.
Valentina slipped her tongue into my mouth and wriggled under me. My heart felt like it would explode.
It had been her idea to meet in the fields. She was in the year above me at school -- a year older at fifteen and had been the object of my unrequited desire for two years. But then I'd shot up and girls began to take an interest. I remembered Valentina saw me one day in town as she got out of her parents' car, looking every inch the perfect teenage model. She'd smiled as I walked past -- a slow smile, a special smile -- and I knew; she'd noticed me -- really noticed me.
I could have kissed her forever -- the moment was the most beautiful I'd experienced -- but, then she pulled away and leaned forward, her soft cheek brushing against mine.
"I love you, Viol," she whispered, her breath tickling my ear.
I knew then, we would never, ever . . .
. . . the world tore apart as something spun me into a strange room. A metal creature stood before me. Metal tentacles gripped my shoulders.
"Who . . .? What? Damn you . . ." I shouted as I tried to thrust the creature away.
"Mr. Whistler? D . . . do you remember me?" The creature's mouth was a flickering metal hole.
"What . . .?"
I stood there gasping as knowledge crashed into place, like a fledgling planet bombarded by asteroids.
"Yes, I remember now." I glanced at the painting, suddenly fearful of its power.
The girl had called me Viol.
Violix?
"Are these experiences from your life? Did you know Valentina?"
"Yes, though the image you experience is filtered and interpreted by your particular perceptions. That was the first time I kissed my wife, Valentina. We met as teenagers, and --"
"Well, Mr. Violix, I can tell you that your pictures are entirely unique. I can guarantee --"
He raised his tentacle arm. "But you must see them all, Mr. Whistler. You must understand why you are here. I insist."
I shook my head. "I can't." My heart was still fluttering like a small bird's. "I'd be dead from exhaustion. It's far too powerful an experience."
Violix nodded and glanced at the next picture. "When I paint these pictures, first I form the basic image with paint. Then, I delve beyond the quantum strata of the impasto -- I uncurl space and twist open reality itself -- and, as glimpses of other dimensions bleed through, I am drawn into each world. Some I select, some I refuse. I create a blend of the elements without being aware of it. I experience the events as though living them for the first time. All the time, I am unaware that my hand still paints upon the canvas." He tapped a small, flashing, bulge on his head. "If it weren't for these psychic stabilisers, I would be quite mad, for I forget my life here -- completely. I am hopelessly lost in the pictures. So, Mr. Whistler, I quite understand your difficulty." He held out his grippers; a set of small pincers clasped a pair of green-lensed spectacles. "These will reduce the immersion by . . ." His tentacles waved vaguely in the air for a moment. ". . . about fifty-six point four percent."