Beyond Asimios: Book One

by Martin Fossum

  These were fellow students from the Paris chapter, and Nava felt a sharp pain in her stomach, as if she’d been slugged with a fist.

  —These are setbacks, Nava said as she took hold of Elvin’s hand. It’s your courage that will help save us. The word is spreading. They cannot stop us. They cannot kill the revolution.

  Elvin attempted a smile

  —I also say these things to keep me going, Elvin said. But the dragon has been stirred from its sleep. It knows we are a threat, it will do everything in its power to stop us.

  —That’s the reason why we’re here, isn’t it? We’re here to put our minds together and think. Don’t lose heart, dear Elvin.

  Nava held him again, smelling the scent of warm bread lifting from his body and the faint trace of mint from the gum he turned between his teeth.

  —We must talk, she said. I want to hear everything. You may have lost Jerusalem, but there are bigger battles to fight. The war has only just begun.

  —Yes, we’ll talk, dear friend.

  Nava drifted off into the pool of bodies and voices and made her way deeper into the room. She’d lost track of Michael and Tomas, but she felt safe among her comrades. Then a whistle pierced the air. Claps sounded and Nava found herself at the back of the room where a set of tables had been pushed together. A number of people were already seated, and at the center of them all sat Atlas Kolek, his small black cap loose on his thicket of charcoal hair, and his flat, bulldog face lost in some internal deliberation. When Atlas looked up, his dark eyes fixed on Nava and he pawed the air indicating that she should sit.

  She did.

  Once seated, Nava looked for faces she could recognize. Directly across from her sat Katie Kollwitz, the performance artist. She looked exactly like her images on the Nexus: she had straight, fiery hair and freckled cheeks. She had a small nose and mouth over which sat a pair of alert green eyes, and the shaved hair on the left side of her head revealed her scar. Not long ago, Kollwitz had become a celebrity for live-streaming her illegal VI removal. She’d eluded arrest for almost a year now, hiding out in network safe-houses.

  Next to Kollwitz sat the Spanish poet Hector Lorca. Lorca was slouched in his seat, one of his boot heels on the table, the other boot slung over the arm of his chair. He was speaking to Kollwitz, and Kollwitz followed his words with keen attention. Lorca was a small man – he was delicate, almost fragil. He wore his rebel guerilla look with conviction, though. His clothes looked appropriately mussed and disheveled. His leather jacket was worn in the proper places, and his pants were mended with stylish patches and colorful thread. He wore the brim of his navy officer’s cap pulled low over his eyes, and his trademark mustache travelled downward from the corners of his mouth toward his chin, and then upward where they brushed the arms of his sunglasses. Lorca waved an unlit cigar as he spoke, and Kollwitz followed it as if she were waiting for it to release some spell. Lorca’s poetry had mobilized millions of Spaniards to protest political oppression and economic decline. Nava knew from studying that he singlehandedly brought down two Spanish presidents. His followers were legion. I’m often asked how a poem can change someone’s life, he’d been quoted, and I tell them that I do not know. I’m not a politician. I’m not an economist. I’m not a general or an engineer. All I know is that I listen and the words are born. It is on the wind that these words come. I am the reed through which they are formed. Nava had heard that Lorca might be in Berlin, but she never thought he’d show up here.

  Anrund Achebe, sitting to Lorca’s left, was the next person Nava recognized. He was rough-shaven and his receding hair ended in a tight ponytail at the base of his neck. He was somewhat overweight, and he nervously shuffled and reshuffled a deck of cards on the table in front of him. In London, Achebe became famous for leaking thousands of com threads that showed evidence of collusion between British election officials and Excelsior Capital. The threads were seen by millions on the Nexus. He was arrested, of course, tried for treason, and sentenced to death. But his sentence was commuted on the condition that he assist transnat authorities in upgrading their system encryption. He agreed to the conditions, but upon his release, he pulled his VI and fled the grid. He was one of the greatest technical consultants to the revolutionary movement, inventing no-tech hacks against all kinds of security systems. He developed synthskin masks to foil facial ID apps, and he taught people to use plastic sheeting during marches to confuse drone targeting systems. He was also an expert with a wire clipper. With this tool he could knock out power to an entire city.

  A few people down from Achebe, Nava could see, sat Olivia Bross, the American mutineer who created an illegal no-tech zone in the northern part of Old New York State. She’d once been a high-ranking ESCOM financial exec. She came from old money rumored to be traced back to the Bushes and Kochs. But Bross fell out with her life of privilege. She cast aside belief in the neo-capitalist state and sought a return to spiritual equilibrium. She pulled her VI, left the grid, and bought a large swath of property where she built a model no-tech kibbutz. Formerly a full-fledged player in the feudal transnational system, she was now an anathema to the ESCOM propaganda machine. She attended anti-ESCOM events to speak out against the transnational tyrants. She was often incarcerated, but inevitably wended her way through the puppet court system like a diamond making its way through the gut of a serpent. She was a stepchild of the system, and nobody could touch her.

  In the crowd of people standing behind the chairs, Nava spotted Michael, who nodded. She winked. He smiled, bit at his lip, and closed his eyes, as if to prepare himself for what would follow. Next to Michael, Tomas stood, tipping back a bottle of beer, gazing up at the rafters, his thoughts lost to other things.

  Rafiq was still nowhere to be seen, and Nava hoped he hadn’t been identified and detained while making his way through Berlin.

  Nava looked back over at Atlas and he was cracking his knuckles against his jaw. The big man adjusted the cuffs of his sweater and shuffled through the stack of papers in front of him. Then he laid his palms on the table, gave a few short coughs, and looked up at the gathering. Another sharp whistle penetrated the din. A minute passed before everyone quieted down, and the leader spoke:

  —I zank you everybody for coming. I had agenda planned for ziss meeting, he said soberly. But I tink vi do something else…

  Atlas turned over the first page from his stack of papers and began to read:

  —Peter Heidle, Dag Zorenzen, William (Villiam) Caldwell, Maria Verdini, Clive Hjul, Erich Holt, Mika Mbuti, Trish Cook…

  He read several more names and then paused.

  —This is a list of two hundred and fifty brothers and sisters who have been detained or killed in last forty-eight hours, he said. Anrund and Gunter provided this list. It was taken from official sources.

  Silence throughout the room. Nava looked over at Michael, who stood still, his eyes shut hard.

  —We know this, that the authorities have stepped up their measures. Vi also learned that any activist caught alive is getting the implant and getting scrubbed. This is punishment worse than death…

  A wave of confusion travelled through the crowd. Faces twisted up with emotion, and angry voices rang out. Atlas held up his hand and the room grew quiet.

  —I will finish this list of names, he said. Vi give them this much. They have paid a price for their efforts. Vi show zem our respect.

  Atlas read the list: Elsa Kverk, Linda Deng, Mazel Rothfuss…

  When one name was read, a woman at the back of the room broke down, whimpering. This happened again a little later…a name was read and someone reeled with pain. Atlas read on until every name had been called. When he was done, he turned over his list and looked up.

  A man pushed forward from where he’d been standing in the back

  —How can we continue? he said. The moment we make progress, they come back at us with more force?

  The man breathed heavily, struggling to hold back his emotions.

  —Mayb
e we’ve gone as far as we can with peaceful protest? said another who shouldered his way to the front. He held up a clenched fist as he spoke. What if this is the moment when we meet their violence with our own?

  Shouts rose. There was some pushing a shoving.

  —He’s right! someone called out.

  Nava looked over, surprised to see that it was Rafiq who had spoken. Rafiq moved in, his hair disheveled and his face bearing the marks from the synthskin mask, and he leveled his long arm and finger at the man who’d just spoken.

  —He’s right, Rafiq repeated. Non-violence is fantasy. We must adapt. We are no match for the authority’s tech. We will be led like lambs to slaughter if we do not defend ourselves.

  —What are you saying? Lorca said as he wagged his cigar at Rafiq. You want us to draw blood? You want us to cross the line from day into night? You, my friend, are a fool.

  Shouts and clapping. Arms were raised in the air, and Lorca’s name was called out in solidarity.

  —I am a fool? Rafiq said. Not long from now you will reconsider. You’ll have a choice…to join in victory or face extinction.

  —He’s mad! one person said. Who let this character in? Let’s run him out of here!

  —Turncoat and traitor! another shouted. Where is the Rafiq we once knew? His anger has won! Throw him out!

  —You fail to understand, Rafiq called out above the ruckus. Do you want to hear more? How our families and loved ones are stripped of their minds? Made into slaves? Do you want to watch the blood of your comrades run in the streets? Do you want to die for nothing?

  Cries of apostasy were hurled at Rafiq. How had he gone astray?

  He was tortured, some argued. That worm is still eating him from within.

  He’s a traitor, others said. He’s an agent provocateur!

  —Revenge is eating him up.

  —He’s a fool.

  —He’s too smart. We should have seen this coming.

  As shouts and arguments escalated, Nava lost focus. She was too tired to join in this fight—too wasted. She remembered the bookstore they had passed through on their way in, and the magic of that sanctum was calling to her. Books, and the place of books, had always provided her with a sense of peace and security, and the thought of being among books filled her with desire.

  Nava pushed her way to the back of the room and slipped through the door. Stepping carefully, she made it to the stairwell door and then slipped through its narrow opening. To her relief, the guards were gone. She took the stairs two at a time and at the top she turned the handle and pushed her way into the large room.

  Unlike the basement, the air in here was peppery and dry. Thin shadows fell over the floor and fingered their way through the tall shelves. She quietly made her way down one of the aisles, brushing her finger against the spines of books as she went. The light was too low to make out any text, so she couldn’t decide what type of books these were. She wondered if this might be a museum. Or was it an old archive? Nava tugged at one of the books and it slid out reluctantly.

  —Hello, came a voice. Are you looking for something?

  Nava froze.

  The language was English, but the accent German.

  —I’m sorry, Nava said as she held the large book in her hands. I shouldn’t be here.

  From the beard and the accent, she guessed that this was the man who’d let them into the building earlier.

  —It is late, but it shouldn’t be a problem, he said. This is a business, after all.

  —I should have stayed downstairs, Nava said.

  The man mumbled about giving him a moment.

  A weak glowlight shone into her eyes. Nava pushed the man’s arm down to redirect the beam. He then took the book from Nava’s hands and brought the light over it to inspect it.

  —You like science, he said.

  —Not necessarily, Nava said.

  —Well, you picked a good book, he said. Griffith’s Introduction to Elementary Particles. Somewhat dated now, but a standard text in its day. It’s in excellent condition. I should get twenty for it, but you can have it for ten.

  —No, thank you. I’d rather not…

  —Ok, ok. It’s a bit anachronistic, what with all this psycho-quantum nonsense, but it’s good science nonetheless. How about eight? Eight Ecredits?

  Nava grabbed the man’s glowlight and pointed the light at her face so he could see her shake her head.

  —No, she said. I can’t buy this book.

  —All right, sehr gut. He slid the book back on the shelf and then scratched his beard with the hand so that the beam from his glowlight bounced around the shelves.

  —What are you interested in? There must be something here for you, some author or subject?

  —I don’t know. I should be downstairs…

  —Now, around the corner here we have the social sciences, he said. To the right we have psychology and quantum psychology, and one row over we have sport, art, and religion.

  He stopped for a moment.

  —You must forgive me, he said. First and foremost, selling books is my profession. It’s my job to pair a customer with her book, and even though it’s after hours, I feel it my obligation to help you. Now, you seem bright. Sie licht in deinen Augen haben. Might I make a suggestion?

  —If you insist.

  —I’m fond of fiction. Es ist mein Spezialitat. I bet there’s a book there that will interest you. Please…

  The man turned and walked, so Nava had to jump to avoid being left behind. Just as she was about to ask his name, he offered it:

  —I am Arnulf, he said over his shoulder. I own this store. For over forty years. It is a blessing and a curse.

  Arnulf coughed into his fist and sniffled.

  Nava told him her first name, but he didn’t seem to be interested. As soon they reached the end of a row, Arnulf turned and started down another. He took a few steps, and then came to a stop. He waved his glowlight over a cluster of shelves.

  —Now, here you have your canon, he said. German classics: Goethe’s Faust, Grass’s Die Blechtrommel. Over there you have Hesse and Ricarda Huch, and the sincere but insufferable Ridvan Hulker, who wrote about collecting books and therefore holds a small but unearned place in my heart. But I apologize, Arnulf said. These are German writers. You wouldn’t be interested in these.

  —Do you have any books about the future? Nava asked. Do you have any books that describe the fall of the companies and the return to rule by the people?

  — Ah! So you’re a fan of science fiction?

  Arnulf shuffled further down the aisle and cast his glowlight over one of the lower shelves.

  —I like this author, Arnulf said as he extracted the book. Kara Gaaki Bjumark. She is formidable. She writes about what Ray Kurzweil described in the early twenty-first century as Singularity. Of course, Kurzweil’s dream of semiconductor immortality was never realized, but Bjumark predicted a greater collective Singularity…one that involved what she called “paraconsciousness,” not dissimilar to what Carl Jung described as a zeitgeist or collective unconsciousness. It’s plausible, if you ask me, Arnulf said as he handed the book to Nava.

  Nava turned the book around in her hands before handing it back.

  —I think this might be a little much for me right now, she said.

  —I have Le Guin here, Arnulf said as he put the Bjumark book back and swept his light across a row of books a few shelves higher up. One couldn’t find a greater humanist than Le Guin. Then there’s Butler’s Kindred. And Ko Un. Un won the Nobel Prize for poetry many years ago. Wait…that is not right. Un shouldn’t be here. There should be no poetry here. Poetry is on the other side of the store. I apologize…

  Arnulf reached past the poet’s book (he was standing on his toes) and took out a different one. He tapped it with his glowlight and chuckled. Here’s one for you. I thought I’d gotten rid of it. Fossum’s Beyond Asimios. A second-rate book, but famous for one thing: some idiot at Hermes (someone with an affection for bad
science fiction) decided to name our only extra-solar system planet after it…and boom! it’s a classic.

  —Why sell books? asked Nava from where she was standing in the shadows. I’d never have imagined it. I though this was an extinct vocation.

  —First of all, you’re asking a question and then, as I understand, making a statement, Arnulf said as he slid the book he’d been holding back into its place. Would you care for a drink? I’m right in the middle of cataloging, and enjoying a bit of port. The port is good. Very good. I wouldn’t say so if it weren’t true.

  —I’m sorry, I don’t think I should…

  —Please. I insist. It would give me great pleasure. You see, every hour of my waking life I’m bombarded with the phantoms of the written word. To be in the company of a living human is welcome reprieve. Then I’ll answer your question, about how I came to sell books.

  —Ok, she said. I’ll take you up on your glass of port, but then I must return to the meeting.

  —Your meeting is important. Meetings always are. There are matters to discuss and actions to be decided on. Such is the way with things. Ja! This way, then. Bitte, this way…

  Arnulf ambled ahead, his figure diminishing in size as he put space between them, and Nava hurried to follow. At the back of the building, they entered an office with a warm light illuminating a large oak desk. The desk was littered with papers and books and notecards, and in the middle stood a silkscreen monitor that emitted a pale blue glow. The walls were floor-to-ceiling with bookshelves. On the floor around the desk stood several stacks of books, which Arnulf navigated with gentle indifference.

  —You may not believe it, but there’s an order to this chaos, he said as he cleared a place for Nava on an old chair. He motioned for her to sit (she did) and then he circled his desk where he dropped into an old recliner that squeaked loudly under his weight. He then disappeared for a moment, amid the sound of drawers opening and shutting, and emerged with a glass snifter that he cleaned with the corner of his vest. He took up a bottle from beside the silkscreen and filled the snifter a couple of fingers high. He slid this glass over to Nava and then swung the neck of the bottle over his own and splashed it full to the rim.