It was a visiting Swiss doctor, a Doctor Birchmeier, who first proposed the theory.
Birchmeier’s own wife and sister-in-law became infected shortly after their arrival in London, the temptations of Oxford Street shopping too strong to ignore. In them, the doctor found two willing subjects upon whom he could test for a cure outside the confines of the legal process. He conducted a series of double-blind studies testing various treatments, all to dissatisfying results, until the last and final one. His wife appeared to have a positive reaction to prednisone, with numerous symptoms including fatigue, constipation, and muscle stiffness subsiding after administration of the drug.
His assistant then revealed that it was the sister who’d been given the prednisone, and she, if anything, seemed to be getting worse. His wife had been given a placebo.
Birchmeier was then able to validate a hypothesis which till now had only been vaguely speculated upon in hushed tones.
The Dot virus was psychosomatic.
Birchmeier proposed that those who had supposedly progressed to Phase II of Dot virus syndrome could be diagnosed with any number of previously catalogued disorders. And those with Phase I, well, they could be diagnosed with a case of mass hypochondria, their symptoms the result of stress, age, allergies, bad diet, lack of sleep.
Days later, the Arcane Society confirmed the hypothesis via their website.
The TAKEBACK virus was benign, a program designed to pirate the terminals’ displays, then spread across the network. Widespread paranoia, however, was not only highly contagious—there existed no cure for it.
Thousands were outraged, having keenly felt losses too close to home. Others marveled at the concept, the audacity, laughing in triumph at the revolution that had used the people’s own foolishness against them. There was no unity of mind regarding the situation; everyone seemed to have their own spin on it, vlogs going mad with rants on both sides of the equation, news stations reporting all manner of disturbances, people dressed up like big plush P.O.S. terminals chasing pretty girls down the streets.
Harold Waterman watched the latest report of Birchmeier’s discovery on BBC News, and was appalled.
“My, my,” he said to no one at all. “That spidery geezer certainly had a pair, didn’t he? Too bad he didn’t live to see it all the way through. I accomplished that much, at least.” He felt smug and disgusted at the same time.
It seemed the Arcane Society was no more, at least as far as he was concerned. His pawn had eradicated the blasted movement’s ludicrous leader during some outrageous riot at Wembley. Waterman grinned ever so slightly, picturing the startled look on the madman’s circus face when, during his own celebratory rock show, a feral mob tore him limb from limb.
But, it hadn’t been enough.
That damned digital currency was the real virus—it had gotten in everywhere, it couldn’t be stopped, it seemed the British were more in love with it than lager. People have minds like fruit flies, Waterman thought. Although the Arcane Society had deceived them time and again, GGcoin, their ultimate product, was here to stay. Waterman was positively through with trying to help the common people when they did not want to be helped. There was nothing more he could do, and nothing more he wished to do.
Harold Waterman sat alone in his very comfy chair in front of the fireplace, sipping the last of his imported brandy. He had not been able to procure a number of his favourite libations lately. Many of the fine establishments that he did business with now only accepted GGcoin. His outdated currency was useless. When he at last accepted his fate and acquiesced, converting to GGcoin, he would find that his accounts held merely a percentage of what they had once retained. Years in office had provided him with a heavy dosage of kickbacks, and now, it had all been for naught.
At next year’s general election, to no one’s surprise and to Waterman’s relief, he was voted out of office, the people scattered somewhere along the spectrum between disappointed and furious at his handling of the Dot crisis situation.
The former Prime Minister cut his losses and moved to Cardiff, where he could live by the sea, and no one would bother him about the past.
Two years, four months, and twenty-seven days after Harold Waterman left Downing Street, he received a phone call.
“Harry,” a gruff voice spat out his name in between coughs.
“Lucas. I almost didn’t recognise you. You sound unwell.”
“No shit I’m unwell, Waterman. Try to contain your shock. I’ve always been healthy as an ox.”
“Whatever is it?” Waterman asked tiredly, gazing out of his cottage window at the rainfall. “Wait, don’t tell me...you’ve caught a latent strain of the Dot virus. It lay dormant inside you for years, kept at bay by the fact that you had so much money at the time, it was afraid to fully manifest itself...”
“Shut up, Harry. I’m sick, obviously, but not with that goddamn phony scare crisis. I’ve got lung cancer, you miserable bastard.”
“And you decided to use your last breath to phone up your old university chum and call him terrible names? I’m chuffed, Lucas. How thoughtful.”
“Hah hah, Harry. Always a kidder. If only your humor didn’t fall flat every time. You know there’s only one reason I’d call you up.”
“You need a favour.”
“See? Your mind hasn’t entirely rotted.”
“And what a good start you are off to, Norcoford. I’m already completely charmed and will give you whatever it is you ask of me.”
“Would you cut the snark for just one damned minute? You owe me. I backed you. Used practically everything I had left to finance your 20th century rifle war against those bloody techno-charlatan hippies.”
“Oh, Lucas. You know it was just a number in a spreadsheet somewhere out there in the cloud, all it ever was—we didn’t have a real dime to stand upon. The foreign banks we borrowed from with our smoke and mirrors came after the Treasury with furious vigor once they found we couldn’t pay them back. But that’s someone else’s problem, now.”
“I need money, Waterman. Money for treatment, for whatever’s left in this bloody walking corpse of mine. All my hard-earned cash is now only worth a fraction of what it used to be. What I have left, that is.”
“And just what precisely do you think happened to my bank accounts, Lucas? That terrorist-socialist attack hit me as hard as anyone. I don’t have a secret stash piled up somewhere. Not anymore.”
“So, your son was never infected,” Norcoford pointed out. “What was wrong with him?”
“He too wanted money,” Waterman replied emotionlessly. “Stephen went on and on about this revolutionary—no pun intended—treatment therapy center up near Abingdon. Probably spent it all on weed.” He sighed almost wistfully. “I suppose you and I are both alone now.”
Lucas Norcoford leaned back in the one designer armchair he had left, rubbing at his forehead and swearing up a storm. He now lived in a one-bedroom flat, and had been forced to fire most of his staff. Not even Michelle, his ginger vixen, had stuck around when the going got tough.
He sputtered and spat, blood and phlegm, a rusted machine on its last legs. Norcoford stared at his cuticles. He’d not had a manicure in months, and his skin was flaky and dry. He would be having another microwave meal for dinner tonight. How do people live like this?
“I’ll see you in hell, Harry,” he said. And hung up.
Waterman unwrapped his cleverband from his wrist, setting it down on his modest oak desk.
He did not feel guilty. He had done what he could, after all.
Chapter Forty-Three
SKY IS A LANDFILL
Benson Bridges sat in front of his domain of monitors in the Morden flat that now appeared to be his because no one else had claimed it. He was oblivious to the unsteady stream of Arcana who trailed scents of sandalwood and ribbons of colour throughout the flat, fewer of them now than there used to be.
Benson leaned back in his chair and watched the infoboards flood with new posts. The t
ruth about the Dot virus was out.
He thought it was only fair to let them know. After all, it’d been Jeeves’ backup plan—as soon as GGcoin was in high enough circulation. His original plan had been to ‘cure’ everyone through GET CLEAN, of course, but that plan failed as soon as the military armed themselves with 20th century weapons, sending the Arcana’s troops scurrying underground.
“Oi, Bezza,” Jack-of-all-Trades called from the kitchen, staring forlornly into an empty fridge.
“Curry’s gone,” Benson said.
“Aye, not that,” Jack-of-all-Trades said, entering Benson’s tech domain. “What’s the latest over the 9G waves? Things I’ve heard make it sound like our old man’s some made-up creature straight outta Greek mythology. Like he’s got horns and a tail, like he can make folks sick and well. Like he weren’t even at Wembley Stadium that night.”
“Maybe he wasn’t,” Benson said. “How would I know? I stayed here to clean things up like I always do, while everyone else is out there playin’ and singin’.”
Benson shut down one display after another, leaving only a single tablet on that illuminated his pale face in blue.
“From what I hear, they’re making Sammy out to be the hero-slash-victim, an’ Jeeves is some sort of venomous villain. Some folks gots to keep things tidy and simple like that,” Jack-of-all-Trades said, trying to get Benson to make eye contact with him. “They’re saying things like he came up with the traitorous notion to hijack Sam’s band and replace Saint Fox with someone he could control better. Handed Sam over to the government himself to be tortured and all. Didn’t mean for TAKEBACK to be benign at first, only came up with the smoke and mirrors idea after he were unable to make people sick for real.”
“Craziest one I’ve heard is that Sam is Jeeves’ son, and Jeeves manipulated him all whaddyacallit? Codependent-like. ‘If you love me son, you’ll do thissss for me. Lead my revolution. Help your daddy make the world a better placccce.’” Benson’s impersonation of Jeeves was alarmingly accurate, yet lacked a certain flair that only the ringleader himself could have mustered.
“Saint Fox really being made a Saint, eh?” Jack-of-all-Trades sat on the edge of the table, his long legs dangling. “So, what do we do now?”
“Scripts have already been executed, converting old accounts to GGcoin on a sliding scale. A fair sliding scale, which means some people lose big time, and for everyone else, not much is gonna change from where they started.”
“Damn. Is it really up for us to decide that?”
“We’re just resetting the balance. Someone’s got to do it. After that, it’s up to them. Anyway it ain’t me, it’s the numbers, stuff Jeeves had me started on a long time ago. Can’t please everyone, just have to aim for statistical averages that make sense given how much money’s in circulation, data from economic trends, stuff like that.”
“Yeah, yeah. What he said.” Jack-of-all-Trades grinned, looking over his shoulder for his brother James, who wasn’t there. He kicked Benson lightly against his shin, earning an irritated look from the programmer. “Think they’ll stick with it? GGcoin, I mean. After Wembley, after the virus, after everything that’s happened?”
“How long did they stick with the pound? And why? Just ‘cause it was there, that’s why. Doesn’t matter how it got there or what happened to it along the way. Now, GGcoin’s here. It’s everywhere. There’s people rebelling against it of course, but they’re the minority. Fancy that, they’re the rebels now. And they’re operating on who knows how many conflicting stories about what happened with the virus, what happened to Sam, to Jeeves. We’re living in this over-information, misinformation age, and people’s memories are short. It’s not the cleanest method, way messier than we ever predicted, but it got us where we wanted to be.”
“Getting into other countries, too,” said Jack-of-all-Trades. “Australia, New Zealand, Iceland, all using GGcoin or something like it, something compatible. Trade’s getting back to normal.”
“E.U.’s testing the waters of conversion...still bickering about it of course, but they’ll figure it out eventually.”
Jack-of-all-Trades sighed. “The U.S....”
“Is still laughing at us. But my ear to the floor tells me an underground movement’s gaining a foothold there.” Benson smiled, placing his hands behind his head and leaning back.
“Oh?”
“They’re called the Arcane Society 2.0: Extreme Makeover edition.”
“Jeebus. I hope so.” Jack-of-all-Trades inhaled sharply through his nose, leaping down from the table. “How long before the fat cats destroy GGcoin, too? Make everything just as bad as it was?”
“That’ll happen...” Benson said, standing to leave, “just before Jeeves comes back. Just before he’s mad enough to strike again.”
“Don’t know whether or not I hope to be around for that. You gonna stick around? Gather up what’s left of the Arcana, help us maintain?”
“I can maintain from anywhere in the world,” Benson said, slinging his black backpack over his skinny shoulder. “When you stop by the hospital later, make sure to give James my best. How’s he doing?”
“He’s doin’ alright. Might be a little uglier, but I always was the better-looking twin.” Jack-of-all-Trades half smiled. “He was only on the fringes of the riot; he’ll pull through just fine. When he gets out, we’re going back to film school—we can afford it now.”
Benson nodded, making his exit through an annoying tangle of beaded curtains.
“Hey, Bez?”
“Yep?”
“I know you don’t get a lot of credit ‘cause you’re not the guy covered in glitter and feathers and all. But hell, it was all about you, man.”
Benson schooled his face to expressionless, almost robotic, though he was not.
“Thanks,” he said.
The citizens of the United Kingdom were a little bit freer, now. A bit smarter, a bit savvier, a bit more aware of how easily things come and go. England was home to pleasures hard won, to spoils that tasted sweeter when they remembered what they’d gone through in order to acquire them. They were a people of ideas, of words, of poets and philosophers and the electric guitar. They were proud and ashamed, joyous and sorrowful, cold and kind and fiercely loyal.
And, as with all revolutions, though lives were lost and lies had been told—
The people forgot. Made up myths and legends. Moved on to the next crisis, the next scandal.
GGcoin was king, embraced by all whose arms and pockets had too long been empty. The alternative currency became the currency. With the exchange of goods and services no longer crippled by the remittance of the VAT and other fees, small businesses and sole proprietors flourished. There began a resurgence of hand-crafted goods—individually-made clothing and jewelry, furniture and furnishings. People’s flats and houses began to look more homey and unique, and less like digitally-rendered catalogue adverts. After having lived so long inside boxes, a trend towards things less uniform was more than welcome.
But nothing is perfect. Those clever and heartless would keep scamming those trusting and naïve. Wars would keep raging. Innocents would keep dying in the crossfire. Hearts would keep breaking.
Janus Jeeves was born into his fifth life broken-hearted. He arose one sunny orange morning on American soil, a young man with such a large heart in so many pieces. This Jeeves had curly brown hair and coal black eyes. He was always a head taller than his classmates, was brilliant at English and history, bad at maths, and loved American football.
He grew up and kept his head down, working the plow. He worked in a cubicle at a mid-sized corporation at a satellite office in Albuquerque, a city that was all brown and turquoise and bright lights advertising fast food, suburban housewives who liked the jut of his chin. Lads in peacoats were now bros on skateboards, Nuvo glam rock was now Nuvo hip-hop—entirely computer-generated, the vocals and the rhymes, too. Jeeves worked as a copywriter and his name was John Little. He wrote clever copy that would h
elp sell heaters and air conditioners. Keeping people the right temperature was important.
He would wait until his next life to try and save the world again.
Next time—it would be better. Things would run like clockwork. The next time, the next time, the next time, the next.
Each time a little closer to perfection.
Epilogue
TURN THE PAGE
Sam and Sailor lived in a flat on the South side of London. Today, some Londoners would set off to work before the sun rose in the sky, hurrying underground to wait for the train. Others would work from home, some would sleep in, some would go to school, some would walk the streets looking for new work and new adventures.
Not so for Sam Numan.
“C’mon Sammy, it’s suppertime,” Sailor said.
Sam, in bed in the middle of the day, yawned, stretched, and opened one eye, squinting suspiciously at his accoster.
“Hope it’s not kidney pie again,” he said.
“Nope. Seafood pie. Mostly fish, but you like it better.” Sailor leaned against the side of the bed, waiting for Sam to be ready. Sam signaled as much by raising his arms above his head. Sailor leaned forward and gripped him around the middle, lifting him to stand. Sam rested his head against Sailor’s shoulder, content with the embrace for a moment till he extricated himself and wandered off towards the living room with his flatmate a few steps behind.
“Do I?” Sam asked. “I can’t remember. Is seafood pie what they eat in Buckingham Palace?”
“Probably these days. They eat some good food and some bad food, just like the rest of us.”
“I won’t eat any bad food. Only the quality stuff for me,” Sam said over his shoulder.
“You should eat whatever’s given you. Look how damn skinny you are. Not even rock star skinny. Just...never mind.” Sailor cocked his head to the side, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He thought about how Sam used to look, all rough edges and fire up on the stage, embodying everyone’s fantasies like some glitter acid love demon.
The Rise of Saint Fox and The Independence Page 27
