They pushed through the damp, litter-strewn undergrowth until they reached the circle of limes. Ahead of them lay the solid, red brick building of the Center. To Eva, it suddenly had a sinister appearance.
Katie drew level with her. “You’re right to want to escape. This place sends everyone mad after a while.”
“I quite agree,” said the voice.
Eva ignored it.
constantine 2: 2119
Constantine was seeing stars.
Tiny pinpoints of light winking and fizzing in the space between his roaring headache and the ceiling.
Where was he?
Cool white sheets, the bed much larger than a bed needed to be, bone china tea service laid out on a tray that rested on one of the bedside tables. He groaned and sat up. Prints in pastel shades hanging on the walls; a window that reached from floor to ceiling—recognition slowly dawned. Somewhere there would be a trouser press and a full sensory immersion booth offering a discreet range of adult entertainment.
He was in a hotel room, just as he had been every night for the past two years.
He placed one hand gently on the side of the teapot. Hot. How did they do that? How did they have that power of prediction that enabled a pot of tea to be brewed at just the moment of waking? He picked up the yellow-patterned teapot and began to pour, the smell of jasmine tea filling the room. A sound channel was fading up in the background: the morning news digest.
Where was he? Germany? No. That had been last week. Wales? Welsh enclave in Paraguay? Why did he have such a bad headache? Constantine had a trick for moments like this, moments of hotel angst when he couldn’t remember exactly where he was. He looked at the prints that hung on the walls. Abstract. Dot art. Australia. Stonebreak.
He suddenly remembered Mary. Last night had been strange. The last few weeks had been strange. The way the world seemed to be dropping out of view, gaps opening up where they shouldn’t be. The way people froze in place or smeared themselves across the scenery…Even so, last night had been strange by anyone’s standards. And then they had come for him and led him back here. Back into his safe, comfortable and, above all, anonymous routine. Given him a glass of whisky and left him to sleep.
Constantine always slept naked and they hadn’t neglected that detail. He wondered who had undressed him.
He turned on the visual feed that matched the news sound channel.
India, and the prime minister had apologized for the setbacks in the country’s VNM program, but promised that the general public would see the benefits within the next five years.
The Mediterranean Free State, where pictures of one of the country’s leading business women engaged in an intimate liaison with her husband’s best friend had inadvertently been released into the public domain. Again, there were calls for the banning of the stealth technology that made obtaining such images possible.
Japan, and reports that the renationalized space program had gone deeper into debt, owing mainly to costs incurred by the warp drive research project. The theory seemed good; the first colony crews had already been selected on the strength of the AIs’ claims. So why had none of the ships yet managed to make the jump?
Constantine sipped his tea. His head pounded. He felt greasy and bloated: furred halitosis in a broken-down body. He needed a shower.
The bathroom offered cool antiseptic white tiles and a gentle smell of mint and tea tree oil. He felt like laying his head against the wall to take away the pain. The shower was already running, gentle gusts of scented steam puffing into the room. His wash bag had been unpacked and laid out by the sink, and the reason for the pain in his head now became obvious. A clear plastic strip sat between his toothpaste and his razor, four pills nestling in their slots. Had it been a month already? Obviously yes. They had warned him at the start that he would get headaches when the dose was running low.
“A warning signal,” the doctor had said. She had worn a dark business suit, dark tights, and sensible dark shoes, making the translucent green surgeon’s gloves on her hands seem vaguely obscene. She had perched on the edge of her desk and run her fingers across Constantine’s forehead. He had felt the light touch of latex and smelled its faint aroma, mixed with the peppermint on the doctor’s breath.
“The first day you are overdue you will wake up with a headache. The next day it will be stomach cramps. The third day, headache
and
stomach cramps.”
“Are those symptoms of MTPH withdrawal?” asked Constantine.
“For the third time, this isn’t MTPH. MTPH would not allow four independent personalities to develop in your mind. Do you have any idea what went into developing this compound?”
She gazed into the distance as she spoke, her fingers still softly kneading Constantine’s scalp.
“Anyway, MTPH isn’t physically addictive. Neither is this. We added the headaches ourselves as a warning.”
“Couldn’t you have put in something a little more pleasant?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. A little buzz.”
The doctor gave him an unpleasant smile. “I think it says a lot about us that we never even thought about that. We instinctively went for the pain. Doesn’t that make you wonder about our worldview?”
“Mmm.”
“Mmm indeed. Just be grateful we went for an oral delivery system.”
The memory faded like a Cheshire cat: with a picture of that unpleasant smile on the doctor’s face widening to show her teeth. He always remembered her like that.
Constantine picked up the plastic strip and popped the first pill. Four pills, four personalities.
He placed the first pill, the red one, in his mouth and swallowed it. He had been told that any apparent effect was purely imagined, but he was prepared to swear that as the pill went down the world took on a sharper and more defined focus.
“Speak to me,” he muttered.
—What do you want me to say? Have you noticed that they have put two different sorts of leaves in the teapot? They must have had to open a new package while making it.
“You’re fine, anyway,” Constantine muttered.
The pills were color-coded: red, white, blue and grey. Red for the observational personality, white for the mathematical.
“Square root of eight thousand and thirty-two?” he murmured.
—Eighty-nine point six two, correct to two decimal places.
The blue pills were his favorite. The doctor had claimed they gave taste and integrity, artistic flair. She was right, but only after a fashion. The blue personality had a distinctly different outlook from Constantine himself, something he found invariably interesting, and occasionally useful.
“Speak to me, Blue.”
—Jasmine tea followed by waffles and honey? I don’t think so. It’ll all be cold by the time you get out there, anyway.
Last came the grey pill.
“Hello, Grey,” he said. There was no reply. There never was. Not for the first time, he wondered about the grey personality, lurking unseen and unheard somewhere in his mind.
Constantine filled a plastic cup with water and took a sip. His headache was still there. He cursed the doctor, as he did this same time every month. He had done his bit, hadn’t he? Why did he have to wait for another hour or so before the pain ebbed away?
He stepped into the shower and began to soap himself.
“What day is it?”
—Thursday, said Red.—This is it, Constantine. We’re nearly there. You are visiting a building site today, a few hundred clicks from Stonebreak. The quorum may well be formed there.
“Mmph. About time.” Constantine rubbed shampoo into his hair.
—This could be the first of the last three meetings.
Constantine said nothing. Finally to be set free, to be released back into the real world. It was almost too much to hope for. He spoke carefully. “Will they know who I am?”
—Some will, some won’t. It’s the ones who aren’t aware of your mission who should provide us with the best picture of the world at the moment. I’d advise that you keep quiet about who you are. To begin with, at least.
Constantine said nothing in reply. That was what he had planned to do anyway.
He changed the subject. “How do you feel about what Mary was saying last night? Do you think that Stonebreak will collapse?”
—It’s probable, said White.—VNMs weren’t as efficient at reproduction when this place was built. The likelihood of a design flaw showing itself increases the more that the machines reproduce.
—Frightening, isn’t it? said Red.—All that effort goes to waste because one machine was faulty at the start. It’s like a whole building collapsing because of six sick bricks.
—Let’s just hope we’re not here when this place finally falls apart, interrupted Blue.
“Mmm.” Constantine rinsed soap from his hair. Who else had three, maybe four personalities looking over their shoulder at everything they did? It was no wonder he was cracking up.
The summons to the meeting came just after he had finished breakfast: a discreet message flashing up on his console. Constantine made his way up to the roof where a flier awaited.
The hotel was a low building, set near the edge of the second level of Stonebreak. A fresh breeze wafted over him, dissolving his headache. He walked toward the edge of the roof to look out over the green patchwork of the first level.
“Mr D’Roza, we are in a hurry.” The pilot wore a stern expression. She was busily pinning her long dark hair up in a bun.
Constantine waved dismissively. “Just a moment. I need some air.”
She glared at him. “Two minutes,” she said tightly.
“When I’m ready.”
The pilot scowled at his retreating back and muttered something in the direction of the cockpit. Constantine ignored her and made his way right to the edge.
The morning sun was rising behind him. A building somewhere behind cast a shadow across the roof. Constantine took several deep breaths and stretched his arms. It was a long drop to the first level. He thought again about Mary and their ride up the inside of the wall to the third level last night. Where was she now, he wondered?
—Probably lying dead in a gutter somewhere, said Blue.
“Don’t. I’m sure that won’t be the case.”
Constantine took another deep breath and headed back to the flier and its impatient pilot. He stepped into the shadow cast by the tall building and looked up at it. It was such a delicate construction that it seemed to pierce the very clouds. An incredible piece of engineering: rose-colored glass set in an intricately fashioned silver metal frame; it seemed too fragile to support its own weight. Constantine felt his stomach flutter. The building
was
floating on the very air. Beneath the base of the tower there was nothing. Only empty air upon the empty air that sat upon the second layer of Stonebreak. Constantine bit his lip and turned away from the illusion. If he couldn’t see it, he couldn’t be going mad. He clung to the hope. It was all he had.
The tiny green oasis of life that was Stonebreak quickly vanished from view as they flew out over the Nullarbor plain. Constantine gazed out of the blue-tinted window of the tiny flier at the flat scrubland that scrolled endlessly past. The pilot seemed intent on paying him back for the delay on the roof of the hotel; she dipped and weaved way too close to the ground, claiming that she needed to avoid detection whenever Constantine queried the need for such violent maneuvering.
—She’s lying. Our secrecy lies in our mundanity, not in elaborate attempts to evade detection.
“Thank you for your observation, Blue,” muttered Constantine sarcastically. The flier’s jerking motion was making him feel sick. Worse, he was still shaken by the sight of the floating building and was unsuccessfully trying to convince himself he hadn’t actually seen it. His one comfort during the queasy ride was that White seemed undisturbed by it. That was the personality Constantine trusted most in situations such as this.
The flier looked like a military model covered with a thin veneer of luxury to hide its true character. The outside paintwork was now white and gold, rather than the dull matte grey or silver of a stealth skin. Constantine’s seat was soft white leather, facing an elegant communications console inlaid with white wood and mother of pearl, but the passenger section seemed just a little too large for these items. In addition, there were too many slots and catches set into the airframe, too many places where crates could be secured or guns mounted. Ahead of him, the pilot’s chair was a mechanical egg surrounded by struts and pneumatic rods, bracing it against forces from every direction. Even the very shape of the flier was a giveaway, squat and maneuverable, rather than affecting the sweeping curves currently fashionable for so many business vehicles.
There was a subtle change to the view as gentle hills rose up from beneath the land. Isolated grey shapes began to flash past, then small clusters, then packs. Kangaroos and camels. The flier had left the lifeless plain for a region where a few animals scratched out an existence.
The pilot sent the craft skimming along a shallow path between the low hills and then spun them around and down and they were suddenly in the midst of the construction site. She decelerated rapidly, touching the flier down near the center of a rectangular patch of mud.
The pilot spoke without turning. “Welcome to DIANA Arcology, phase one. Please check that you have all your belongings before leaving the vehicle.”
The door slid open and bright sunlight filled the passenger section, along with a wave of heat as if someone had opened an oven door. Constantine hesitated for a moment before moving out into the bright daylight. He stepped down onto a plastic duckboard laid over wet red mud. As he did so, the door slid shut and the flier rose and skimmed off in a wide circle before disappearing in the direction from which it had come.
Constantine turned in a slow circle himself. There was no sign of anyone. He was alone, abandoned in the middle of a large rectangle of reddish earth, baking under the hot sun. Already he could feel sweat running down his back. The trail of blue plastic duckboards led to the edge of the mud patch, and he began to follow them. He felt as if he was walking across the surface of a huge red swimming pool. Someone had cut down to a depth of about half a meter and then peeled back the planet’s skin to leave the earth underneath raw and exposed.