by Eric Brown
“This drug... what’s it called?”
Carmine smiled. “We call it rhapsody,” she said.
He nodded. “I’ve heard of it. It’s very dangerous. It kills.”
“Alcohol kills, Vaughan. One must not abuse substances, or they abuse you.”
“You should have told that to Genevieve Weiss and her family.”
Carmine looked at him with surprise. “But Genevieve knew what she was doing, Vaughan. It wasn’t just your regular everyday suicide. The Weiss family decided that they wished to make the ultimate sacrifice, the sacrifice of the self to the all. She is in a much better place, now. She and her loved ones have been absorbed into the infinite.”
Vaughan nodded, withholding the impulse to smile.
“Over the years,” Carmine went on, “the religion grew on Verkerk’s World. A few years ago it spread to Earth. It will gain hold, slowly. How can it hope to succeed immediately, when competing against so many ancient, entrenched belief systems, however simplistic they are? But the Truth will overcome, in time.”
“It sounds... interesting.”
Her expression showed feigned surprise. She spoke into her imaginary microphone, “From mocking scepticism, subject exhibits first signs of curiosity.”
Vaughan played along. “How regular are the services, the acts of communion?”
“Daily—that is, nightly. We congregate every midnight for the communion with the Chosen One.”
“Are the merely curious welcome?”
“We’re always recruiting new members, Vaughan. But if you came along, you would have to take communion.”
“Sounds like quite an experience. Where’s the church?”
She gave him an address in the Thai district of Tavoy, eastside, Level Five. “Be there just before midnight, Vaughan, or you’ll miss out on all the fun.”
Over in Sylvan Gardens, the ceremony was coming to an end, the mourners drifting across the lawns to the exit gates. The sun was going down over India. Vaughan glanced at his watch.
“You have to go so soon?” Carmine asked.
“Afraid so. I must meet someone.”
“Pity. I thought maybe you and me...”
He looked at her. “I thought you and Dolores were...?”
She raised her eyes to the sky. “Youstraights! Hey, I’m my own person. I’m adaptable, okay? Why don’t we...?”
“I’m sorry.”
“You have someone, right? So, what does it matter? Enjoy yourself.” She glared at him with barely concealed loathing. “Hell, and I thought I was living in the permissive age!”
“I’ve enjoyed our talk,” Vaughan muttered. “I’m sorry.”
“Hey, don’t apologise. I’m okay. You’re missing the party, buddy.”
He wondered if, were it not for the side effects of the chora, he might have found Carmine Villefranche sexually attractive. He sincerely hoped not.
“I must go. Perhaps I’ll see you tonight. Midnight, right?”
“Yeah, sure. Midnight. Hey, and if you change your mind...”
As he walked away, she raised her fist to her mouth and said, “Subject declines offer of sexual union, but evinces interest in transcendental communion. Perhaps there’s hope for him yet.”
* * * *
ELEVEN
THE HOLOSSEUM AT TAVOY
The sun was setting by the time the train carried Vaughan into Chandi Road Station. He forced his way through the press of humanity on the platform and was carried along the crowded street towards Nazruddin’s. Legless beggars in wheeled carts beseeched him with pitiful eyes and outthrust palms, the more able-bodied attempting to keep pace with him. He could not imagine a much greater contrast to the affluent citizens of the northern sector.
Outside Nazruddin’s he bought a vial of chora from a street kid and entered the restaurant. He slipped into his booth and checked the time. He was not due to meet Dr. Rao for another thirty minutes. He typed Jimmy Chandra’s code into his handset.
As he waited for Chandra to answer, he mimed drinking beer and Nazruddin obligingly ferried over an ice-cold bottle, self-mockingly holding it label upwards for inspection like a wine waiter. Vaughan gave the thumbs up as the restaurateur towelled off the condensation and placed the bottle on the table with a glass.
His handset flared into life. Jimmy Chandra, smiled up at him. “Jeff. How was the afternoon— stay till the end?”
“Till the very death,” Vaughan said. “How’s the search for the Jenson girl going?”
“Need you ask?”
“It’s just that I learnt one or two things this afternoon. I know where Elly Jenson is—or rather where she’ll be at midnight.”
Vaughan recounted his meeting with Villefranche, told him what the woman had said. He repeated the church’s address.
Chandra leaned back, tapping at a keyboard. “Okay, I’ve got that.” He looked up. “And she said that the Chosen One would be at the church tonight?”
“At midnight, for communion.”
“We’re talking about the same Chosen One?”
“I showed her the Weiss graphic.”
“I mean the girl you saw in the freighter, Elly Jenson. Is she definitely the Chosen One?”
“I know what I saw, Jimmy. And anyway, it all ties in. The Church of the Adoration of the Chosen One was founded on Verkerk’s World. The communicants use rhapsody to gain so-called ‘cosmic unity.’“
“But why would this Villefranche character tell you all this?”
“Because she’s a member of the congregation who wants to spread the word.”
“Okay, okay. I’m trying to think.” Chandra tapped at the off-screen keyboard again. “Okay, this is what we’ll do. You go along as planned. I’ll have the place staked. We’ll come in, round up the congregation and get the Jenson girl. We’ll have the exits covered. Hey, Jeff, if you ever feel like joining the force...”
“Yeah, I’ll know who to apply to. See you later.”
Vaughan took a long drink of beer, ordered a masala dosa, and snacked before his meeting with Rao.
The little doctor arrived punctually at nine.
Dressed like a million Indians of his age and caste in a Nehru suit—a faded ochre evening jacket and tight white leggings—Rao had the appearance of a frail and inoffensive grandfather. Vaughan sensed, behind the ancient wire-rimmed spectacles, a mind primed with self-importance constantly on the lookout for the next break.
The doctor bowed and placed his palms together before his face. “Namaste, Mr. Vaughan. I received your summons.”
“Glad you could make it, Rao. Take a pew.”
“I am always interested in hearing about a business proposition,” Rao said. “Especially from sources as reliable as yourself.” He knocked his walking stick on the floor, his arthritic fingers knotted around its handle like broken cheroots.
He ordered a salted lassi and Vaughan refilled his own glass. He sipped the beer, considering his words. “I’ve heard that you’re the man to approach if something is required, some device that the authorities don’t like private citizens owning?”
Rao spread his hands. “Your information is correct.”
“I need an augmentation-pin.”
Rao looked puzzled for a second. “Ah, you mean a telepathic enhancer.”
“I mean an augmentation-pin. You can call them what you like. I’ve heard that bootleg pins can be bought, if you know the right people.”
Rao fingered his tikka spot, a splash of crimson paint on the middle of his forehead, stuck with three grains of rice. “An augmentation-pin. Ah-cha. Very bothersome. A very difficult commission, Mr. Vaughan.”
“Can you do it?”
Rao was theatrical with his repertoire of frowns and grimaces. “Well, let me see. I suppose... perhaps. Yes, it could be done. The price will be high, very high, I must warn you at the outset. And also the quality of the bootleg will not be of the quality of the precision engineered variety.”
“As long as it will enh
ance my present ability.”
Rao nodded. “Yes, I understand. Of course, I cannot obtain this device immediately. I must make contacts, delicate communications involving characters with whom I would rather not deal. Do you understand my meaning, Mr. Vaughan?”
“How much?”
“A very tricky question. A conundrum, sir.” He unhooked his spectacles and proceeded to knead his tired eyes. “One year ago, if my memory serves me, I recall a pin changing hands for something in the region of... five thousand.”
“Rupees, of course?”
Rao made a sad face. “Baht, Mr. Vaughan.”
Vaughan whistled.
“That was one year ago, and of course taking into account inflation...”
“Of course.”
“I am confident that I can furnish you with an augmentation-pin for six thousand baht.”
“If you can get me a pin before tomorrow midnight, I’ll give you four thousand baht.”
“Mr. Vaughan... I have my children to cherish. Would you be so churlish as to deprive my starvelings?”
“Four thousand or nothing, Dr. Rao.”
“Four and a half thousand if I supply you with the pin before six tomorrow, Mr. Vaughan. You can ask no fairer.”
Vaughan extended his hand across the table. “Deal, Dr. Rao. Four and a half before six. After six, and I’ll give you four.”
He gave Rao his handset code, and the doctor inscribed the number in a tiny notebook with an ancient ink pen. “Until tomorrow, Mr. Vaughan. Namaste.”
“Ah-cha, Rao. See you tomorrow.”
Vaughan finished his beer and watched the charlatan hobble from the restaurant. He ordered another bottle, accessed his handset, and called up the map of the Station’s rail and dropchute routes. For the next thirty minutes he worked out how to get across to Tavoy on Level Five, eastside.
* * * *
He set off at ten-thirty, to give himself plenty of time.
The upper-deck rail network was busy at all hours, so Vaughan walked to the closest dropchute station and descended to the rail station on Level Seven. A rattling carriage ferried him through the industrial heart of Bengal Station, the journey passing for the most part through darkened tunnels. Occasionally they emerged into the bright photon illumination of a platform populated, at this time during factory work-shifts, by lone travellers, beggars, and bored station cleaners. Now and again the bulkheads on either side of the train, the walls of the factories themselves, were emblazoned with photon tubes or ancient neons spelling out the names of companies and corporations: Tata, Boeing, Hindustan Inc... There was something almost despairing about such advertising, like cries in the dark.
He alighted at the eastside terminal and walked through the busy street corridors of a food market, following ceiling arrows in red to the nearest upchute station. He shared a cage with half a dozen mendicant Thai monks, fists clenched inside bronze meal bowls like boxing gloves. At Level Five, they stepped out and he followed them from the station. Across the street—more a wide, enclosed corridor illuminated by artificial daylight—a sign displayed the district’s name, Tavoy, in English, Hindi, and Thai.
Vaughan consulted his handset’s street map and set off west. The area was predominantly Thai and gave the appearance of affluence: the two-storey polycarbon fa ç ades were bright with photon advertisements, and hi-tech gimmickry worked its magic in the air—advertisements exploded like harmless fireworks before the eye, and holograms of naked men and women beckoned passers-by into emporiums selling everything from sex to the latest pharmaceutical concoctions.
He moved away from the commercial heart of the district, passing down street-corridors flanked with restaurants and food-carts. The carts, wreathed in steam, tendered delicacies as varied as roast hog, dog, and kebabs strung with rats and toads. The aroma of cooking meat filled the air, along with the piping cacophony of Thai pop music.
The eating establishments gave way to an avenue devoted to visual entertainments: old-time cinemas, dramavilles, and hologram palaces. The fa ç ades on either side of the street were an honour guard of exotic, larger than life images—walls of copulating couples, fighting soldiers, speeding fliers...
Vaughan came to the address Villefranche had given him. He found himself outside not a church but yet another dramadrome—this one advertising itself as the Holosseum. He consulted his handset to ensure he wasn’t mistaken, and checked the stencilled numerals above the arched, neon entrance: it was the same address. He backed off across the street, allowing the crowds to flow past him, and looked right and left for an establishment more in keeping with a place of worship. He was beginning to wonder whether Villefranche had tricked him when he heard a shrill summons from across the street-corridor. “Hey, Tarzan—here!”
She stood in the entrance to the Holosseum, reaching up on tiptoe and waving. He pushed through the crowds. “What’s a tarzan?”
Carmine made her eyes massive. “You’reso uncultured, Vaughan!” she cried. “Tarzan—popular cultural icon of the twentieth century, a primitive heroic ape-man.”
“You’re so complimentary.” He looked around at the fa ç ade of the Holosseum. “Is this the place?”
“This is it. It’s almost midnight. Let’s get inside.”
He followed the woman into the plush foyer of the Holosseum. As they passed down a darkened corridor, Carmine took his hand and led him through swing doors into an even darker area. They came to a halt.
“Where are we?” he asked, apprehensive.
Before she could reply, the darkness was banished: a fanfare announced the sudden, celestial arrival of light. Around him, he heard gasps of delight. He blinked. He was standing in a crowd of perhaps a hundred citizens, Europeans, Indians, and Thais, and he was no longer in a building. As he watched, the crowd moved away around the tiers of a vast amphitheatre of stone and sat down beneath a cloudless blue sky. The illusion was remarkable. A warm wind blew, birds sang, and the scent of blossoms hung in the air.
Carmine tugged his hand. “Come.” She drew him down a central aisle into the bowl of the amphitheatre. She was about to move to a stone seat five rows from the front, but Vaughan suggested the very front row. They sat before the level performance area, Vaughan still marvelling at the fidelity of the illusion. He turned and looked behind him, up the rising sweep of the amphitheatre; the church was rapidly filling.
“What is this?” he whispered.
She reciprocated with a conspiratorial whisper of her own, “The Holosseum, Batang Road, Tavoy.”
“Very funny. I meant, which planet?”
“Verkerk’s World. Where else?”
Where else, indeed? He should have known. Beyond the semi-circle of the amphitheatre, foothills rose to a distant mountain range, spectacular in its clarity. The occasional bird, long-beaked and silver-winged, darted from trees as twisted and tortured as specimens of overgrown bonsai.
After his initial rush of amazement, Vaughan began to detect the reality behind the illusion. He touched the “stone” seat beside him, and instead of feeling the rough-napped texture of chiselled stone, his fingers encountered what was obviously a wooden bench embroidered with a fine network of holo-capillaries. He watched his fingertips disappear, eerily overlaid with the surface of the stone.
Oddly, knowledge of the deception did nothing to lessen the visual impact of the scene. A part of his mind still believed he was out in the open air of a colony planet light years from Earth.
“It’s about to start!” Carmine whispered, squeezing his arm.
Seconds later, to a spontaneous outburst of applause, a tall figure strode from behind a stand of trees and stood behind a dais in the performance area.
The Master of Ceremonies wore a white cloak that flowed from shoulder to foot, and a black mask that was no more than a featureless oval. There was something nevertheless familiar about the figure, something at once imperious and languid.
“Welcome, communicants,” said a deep, dark voice.
; Vaughan turned to Carmine. “Dolores?”
Carmine was staring, rapt. She nodded. “Dolores is the High Priestess of our Church. Now, shhh!”
Dolores was saying, “After the sharing of wisdom, the meditation, we will participate in the Communion of Unification. Today as ever we are blessed by the Godhead incarnate, the vessel through which the ultimate union can be achieved. Let us give thanks!”
