"Panopticon," he breathed.
"You begin to see," she said. "I knew you would. The vision has its own power. Once it enters your mind, you cannot ignore, cannot forget it."
He shook his head. "It can't be."
"Imagine a world where everyone is free, everyone is peaceful, where there is no more crime. Imagine a world where people compete, not to outdo their neighbours in wealth or status, but for the attention of the cameras! Imagine a world where life becomes beautiful, and every moment of beauty is captured on camera, preserved forever-"
"Or for the highlight reels," he said, gritting his teeth.
"We will reward them, at first, but soon that won't be necessary. They'll come to love the camera, live for the camera, when every day is a live performance for an audience of millions. Or better than millions, billions!" Her eyes blazed with the zeal of the fanatic.
"You would snatch every last shred of freedom from our hands," he said, bile rising in his throat. He stared at her, his jaw muscles bunching, appalled that he had ever come here, had ever accepted help, had agreed to work for this monstrous woman. "I remember now. Panopticon. The prison with a thousand peepholes, where a spy watches your every moment of life."
She wrinkled her nose, and curled her lip. She looked as if he’d handed her a stale, rat-chewed hunk of cabbage, slapped her on the back, and told her to tuck in. “Please! You’ve missed the point. You’ve missed the entire point! My vision is not to spy on people. The very essence of Beautification is to make spies redundant.”
“Beautification,” he said. “Panopticon. I don’t care what you call it; you’re still planning a world without privacy, without liberty.”
“Pshah! And I thought you were intelligent. People want this. People want to be recognised, they want to be on display.”
“For the surveillance cameras.”
“You’re so crude! Yes, of course, there will be cameras, we can’t get away from them, but more importantly, we’ll have you.”
He felt as if he’d stumbled through a hole in the floor. “Me?”
She gave him another smug grin. “What, you thought you were finished? Of course you. And, yes, the others like you. But you’re special, and I want you to be my primary agent.”
“You want me to be your…agent.”
She waved her hands as if hurrying along an errant schoolboy. “Yes, yes. Everyone will perform, every day of their lives. The whole point of Bentham’s Panopticon was that the… The people didn’t know when they were being watched and when they didn’t. My plan will only work if everyone thinks the same way. Not like the… Not like someone in that, of course,” she said, waving her hand at the model that weighed on her desk. She chuckle. “That would be a little obvious. What people want is to be recognised, feted, and celebrated. For that, grainy surveillance footage will not do. We need-”
“Me!” He gasped, choked by revelation. He saw it now. The whole, vile vision.
“Yes…” She beamed, as far as a toad shaped monster could beam. “People will perform. They will work hard and play fair. They will be kind to their friends, and tender to their families. And when in public, whether shuffling paper at the office, heaving crates at the docks, gluing plastic monkeys together on the factory line, they will perform. Because you will be among them, because you will be there to catch them when they shine. And the world will watch.”
He reeled away from her, dizzy, senses flickering in and out, his head filled with searing pain. He understood what he’d been used for. He had an intuition he knew how he’d been used. It made him sick with revelation.
“Sam…”
She pursed her lips, and gave him a contrite look. As contrite as a giant toad. “I’m afraid your brother…he proved less adaptable than you.”
“Adaptable.” He laughed, but it came out as a sob. “You mean he saw through your act, and he told you where to stick your snuckrat vision.”
She frowned. “He’s still breathing,” she said. “In fact he’s been kept with the utmost care, even luxury. He will be returned to you, as soon as the Commencement is over.”
She told him about the big party they would have, to celebrate the return of the ‘candidates’, or, as he knew them, the ‘contestants’. She explained how they would be offered lucrative positions within the bureau of Beautification, and how the world would be transformed, little by little, with special ‘Notice Me’ contests. The public in an area would know the photographers were among them, and that they could win prizes and TV spots if they ‘performed’ well enough to attract the photographers’ attention.
“This is just the beginning,” she said. “And we need you. I have to have you, Song. I need your gift, and I’ll do whatever I must to keep it.”
He understood the threat in her words. Perhaps not against his person, but against those he loved. Against Sam.”
“I have to see him. You have to let him go.”
She gave him a knowing grin. “You could have seen him any time in the past few weeks. He’s been living in the cabin right below yours.”
He’d thought it impossible to suffer any more shocks. He was wrong. The news that Sam had been right under his feet, from the first night onboard the New Dawn, locked up, hoping for rescue, perhaps listening to Soro’s footsteps, or the sounds when he had caressed Arima and called out her name… He’d been there all this time, waiting, hoping, praying that his oblivious brother would wake up to his plight, would descend, and release him.
She chuckled. “I know you two aren’t biologically related, Song. Both adopted, no blood ties to your parents or to each other, but even so, I’m surprised you didn’t realise he was there. I kept expecting…” She shook her head, amusement crinkling the corners of her bulbous eyes.
It didn’t matter. He had passed through shock, to the calm place on the far side of the storm. “Let him go.” But that wasn’t all. Once, maybe, he might have accepted her offer. Once, he might have taken it on, or anyhow let it pass, because he wouldn’t have cared all that much. What did it matter who had his pictures, or how they were used? But that had been before spring and sakura. That had been before Arima.
Arima. He had never known anyone like her. He still didn’t understand the bond between them, but he knew it was unshakeable. Or rather, he knew he would pay a great deal, sacrifice a great deal to keep it unshaken. She had changed his life. She had changed him. Arima had intelligent ideals, and the courage to keep them, no matter the cost.
If he accepted Belle’s offer, he’d be safe. She’d free Sam. Arima, too, would be safe. But she’d never accept him back. She’d understand the Beautification, just as he did. She’d never accept it.
“I can’t,” he whispered.
“What’s that?”
“I can’t.”
Belle looked bewildered. Then pure fury blazed on her face, which she tried to conceal, but it showed in her eyes, and in the folds of skin around them. “You can. You can and you will. You must.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I mustn’t.”
“It’s your brother’s life if you don’t. Your life. Your little slut’s, too! Don’t think I’ve been blind; while you’ve been riding the waves, you’ve been riding her! She won’t escape. She’s not outside my reach. She’s the one who’ll suffer if you disobey.”
He fought down the words that tried to burst from him. He battled to contain his fear, his fury. When he spoke, he spoke through tight lips and gritted teeth. “Keep the prints. You can’t have the files. You can’t have my name. I won’t be your spy.”
He turned his back on her, and walked out.
“You fool!” she cried. “You’ve thrown everything away. And it means nothing. Nothing!”
***
He hurried along the street to the hotel. Arima had wanted to stay at his home, and why not? Because Belle Stakker, and her thugs--not Gell Shield, he was now certain--knew where he lived. He’d got them a room at a shady joint in north Manhattan, close enough to vis
it Belle at the UN building, far enough to move without being tracked.
He thought.
He hoped.
He turned the corner, and saw the modest brick façade of the Hotel Flammarion, gilded revolving doors flanked by tall green Norwegian pines. He started across the road, but a black truck roared in front of him, forcing him to jump back, biting down curses. He ran over the road, and started into the revolving doors, but a hand grabbed the point of his shoulder, and whirled him around.
He found himself looking up into the skeletal features of Typhoon, but the urbane mask was off. Typhoon’s lips were peeled back in a grotesque snarl, his long, abnormal teeth flashing like fangs. His great eyes stared down at Soro, and gleamed with victory, the victory of a hunting leopard as it lays its paws on some frozen, terrified beast of prey. His victory appeared greater because it was not complete; a row of scratches marred the left side of his face, fresh and red with blood.
Soro focused on the scratches, his legs went weak, his vision blurred, and he felt as if he might collapse right there on the street. “What have you done?” he whispered.
Typhoon grimaced, and then he grinned with cruel satisfaction. “You forget about that girl, my fine little fellow, and save your tears for your own sack of bones.”
Soro fought then, he thrust aside the hand that held him, and threw a punch at Typhoon’s face. He felt the man’s nose crunch under his fist, and saw blood splatter from the injury. Typhoon didn’t utter a sound. He glared down at Soro, and struck him a gut blow so hard and so fast it seemed to come from nowhere. Soro fell to his hands and knees, choking on his pain. He tried to stand, but couldn’t. He looked up, to see Typhoon’s black shoe fly at his face.
***
A punch rocked his head, blurred his vision, and brought stinging tears to his eyes. It tore the old wound, and blood ran down his face. But it did bring him back.
“I remember,” he said, and the satisfaction of recall overwhelmed pain, fear, and even the fury that grew on him. “I remember it was you, Typhoon.”
The dark figure laughed. A vague movement of shadows told Soro he was rubbing his knuckles. “Then you must realise you’ve run out of time. Dear fellow, I didn’t mean for it to end this way. Cooperate now and we may allow you to live.”
“May allow me to live. Hell! You can’t kill me, you sonofabitch. You need me to front your Panopti- Con!”
Typhoon shrugged. It was getting easier to make out his shape and movements, even against the painful brilliance of the halogen lamps. “Alive or dead, you will serve. You haven’t seen your brother in a month and more. You don’t know if he’s alive or dead. He still served.”
Soro groaned.
“Your pretty little girl? You don’t have a shadow of a clue where she is, or even if she is.”
The words struck him like a physical blow in the solar plexus. His lungs seized up, and he gasped for air that wouldn’t come. It was too much. He sank to his knees, the chatter of the chains a mocking song.
Typhoon leered down at him, and laughed.
He heard a scratching, scuffling noise from off to his right.
Typhoon turned, and his profile showed black against the light. He frowned into shadow, and then he grimaced in surprise and fright. A small dark blur scurried along the floor, and then flew at his face.
Typhoon shrieked as the rushing shadow made contact.
Soro strained to join the attack, to aid his constant companion, but the chains held him fast. All he could do was watch, eyes narrowed against the painful glare, watch, and hope.
Typhoon whirled around, screaming as the monkey clawed the scratches on his face. Blood splashed from his wounds, and Soro couldn’t tell if he was fighting with Squiz, or holding his injuries. Typhoon snarled, grabbed the animal with both hands, and tore him away from his face. It must have cost him in agony, for he howled, and more blood ran down his abnormal features, but he looked too furious to submit to the pain. He raised Squiz high overhead. He saw a tiny glint of light against the monkey’s silhouette.
“No,” said Soro. “No!”
Typhoon flung the monkey down on the floor. He hit it with a soft thud, accompanied by a tiny snapping sound.
Every muscle in Soro’s body tensed, so hard he couldn’t breathe, so hard felt he would burst. At the same time nausea rose in his stomach, swept up through his chest, through his pounding heart, and into his brain. The brilliant light faded into shadows, shadows with sickening, loathsome shapes, his strength drained out of him, and he collapsed on his face.
The world rushed away from him as he fell into an endless pit of darkness, creeping shadows, his body agony, his heart anguish.
As from a tremendous distance, that hateful voice came to him. “I’ll do the same to the girl, Soro. And when your use is exhausted, I’ll do it to you.”
***
He sank through seas, an ocean of darkness. He fell beneath the bottom of the void. It soaked him in the sound of his name.
Through the darkness shone a star, faint and distant, dimmer than a candle at midday, and yet it shone. Fainter than cotton wool against a cloud, and yet it shone. Weaker than Soro himself, if anything could be, and still it shone.
The star called him.
And he answered.
He fought to rise from the depths of pain, sick horror and despair. He struggled to move though the air itself weighed on him like a lead blanket. The slightest shift of his body sent waves of nausea through his gut. His arms and legs trembled, and a black cloud obscured his vision.
By moving, he started pains in his arms, legs, face and body. By breathing, he started pains in his lungs. The pain roused him from stupor. He welcomed it for waking him up. He hated it for telling him to lie down, to be still, to give up the effort; anything that cost so much pain was not worth the price.
He ground his teeth together, and thrust aside thoughts of failure, of surrender. By tremendous effort, he heaved his body onto his side. By curling his legs behind him, and pushing against the floor, he was able to shuffle forward.
He looked for the dim star he had seen in his semiconscious state, but it had disappeared. He looked all around, as far as he could crane his neck in that awkward position on the floor, and saw that his vision was fine; Typhoon had switched off the lights. Another obstacle, but he couldn’t let it stop him. He breathed hard, and concentrated as best he could in a mind besieged by pain and fear. He knew where the star had fallen. He just had to trust his memory.
Inch by bitter inch, he crawled across the floor. Every slight gain cost a thousand flares of agony, but he refused to submit. Every scrap of ground covered brought him closer to his goal, though he feared, in his blindness, that he was not advancing, but withdrawing from the light he had seen.
It hurt to breathe; the chains constricted his chest, and his heart beat faster than usual, and with a strange rhythm. He had spells of dizzy weakness, and fire burned in his muscles. He couldn’t say how long it took, he could only remember the exhausting effort, that made him burn as if with fever, and soaked him through with sweat. But at last he discovered the tiny body, not of a pet, but of his truest friend.
He found Squizzle by bumping his face against him. He started to feel warm skin, and soft fur on his cheek. “Squiz? Squiz!”
The monkey lay silent and still.
Tears came to Soro’s eyes, and he wept without shame. Through every adventure, every dumb accident, every threat and danger, Squizzle had remained by his side, or perched on his shoulder. He had proven a braver and better companion than many a human.
Tears poured sideways across his face, to moisten his brow and pool under his cheek.
He felt a tiny, warm flick against his skin.
He paused, unsure if he’d imagined it.
It came again, a sensation like being stroked with a tiny paintbrush.
He blinked to clear his tearstained eyes, and squinted to see anything in the gloom. Somehow his eyes had adjusted, and there must have been a c
rack or chink in the ceiling or a wall, for he made out, all dim and foggy, the monkey’s tiny face. Squizzle licked a tear away for the third time, and gave a soft chirrup.
Something caught in Soro’s throat, and he froze, afraid he was hallucinating. But Squizzle didn’t waver or vanish. And then, moving with the slow, cautious movements of someone very old, or in great pain, the monkey pushed his hand towards Soro’s face.
He held a tiny key.
***
He thrust a handful of bills at the vet, her light grey eyes wide in surprise. “Keep it all. I’ll give you more later. Just fix him up!”
He paused to stroke Squiz where lay on the soft white cushion. The monkey tried to squeeze his finger, but his grip was weak. Soro tried to smile at him, but tears blurred his eyes. Then he turned, and made himself march out.
No matter how much he wanted to stay, he couldn’t afford it. If he lingered, it would be too late.
The hall murmured with the fizz of champagne, the clink of silver knives and forks as people ate succulent steaks, cakes of corn bread, fresh salad, and a selection of pies; apple pie, cherry pie, blueberry pie, all served with a side of delicious vanilla ice cream. The food filled the air with mouth-watering scents, which mingled with the perfume worn by the diners. The room resounded with the laughing chatter of several hundred guests. Most were celebrities; stars of cinema and TV. Then there was a leaven of men and women from the worlds of business and politics. The bulk of the rest came from the various news media, and they had brought their cameras, microphones, tablet computers, and many were reporting the even live via wireless internet uplink. They had come, to that grand, tastefully decorated hall, to sit at their tables and dine under crystal chandeliers, at invitation of the United Nations, and particular, one special agent of that world spanning body.
Belle Stakker lumbered onto the stage. She wore a white dress suite, with grey pinstripes. On a taller, slimmer woman, it could have looked elegant. Instead, it looked as though some wag had sloshed white paint over a toad. Her eyes bulged out even more than usual, and sweat glimmered on her forehead and cheeks. Nevertheless, when she stood at the microphone on the stage, just to the left from the large video screen, the audience fell into respectful silence.