Only This

Only this

1 Mila stood before the holo-V. The fine-pulsed chimera of light and electromagnetivity moved in the room: driven to us along the quantum byways of the tower’s ENT lines. “No,” she exclaimed, “it cannot be”. Her voice rasped sweetly. “Viens,” she said. “Vite.” I stepped from the balcony. The stained and scratched silicon door closed quietly behind me. “What is it,’ I asked. “C’est incroyable, c’est vraiment incroyable,” she said. “What is unbelievable?” I wanted to know. The face of the n-Teller floated among images. It was a queer face: too large and angular. A face as though made of equal parts fantasy and despair. This was Global-Net’s anchor on reality. Its voice spoke in post 7th-Republic French. Phrases of English and Chinese were locked in. Mila touched my arm. It was indeed unbelievable. The Confederacy had closed its borders. All external bio-Passes, holo-Passes, space-Tru Passes, whether from the eastern Atlantic zone, the western Atlantic zone or the Pacific zone were to be invalidated. The Confederacy, the thirty-two states of the former US, was in turmoil. ‘And,’ the n-Teller continued, ‘the NAU, the North American Union of Canada, Alaska and the Seventeen has appealed to the UN Security Council, to China and the Eastern Alliance to guarantee the integrity of its borders - if necessary with military action.’ I listened carefully. Followed the images. Mila voice-activated the Cmenu, pulled up a txt screen. >At about 13.00, CMT, a group calling itself the Guerillas of Christ for the 3rd Millennium seized power in the American Confederacy. Armed with light laser weaponry, communication scrambling devices and backed by renegade elements of the state’s Air, Space and PSY Authority they took government complexes in Dallas and Florida. A spokesman, calling himself Elijah the Avenger declared it to be a glorious day. A new strength, a new discipline has been born. ‘It was,’ he continued ‘a movement toward security and righteousness. Furthermore he called on citizens of other Global sectors to support the actions. The Un Security Council has yet to comment. Beijing says it is currently monitoring the situation< 1

I sighed. Then began to laugh. Softly. Mila looked at me. “Why,” she asked. “Why what?” I said. “Why are you laughing?” “I don’t know,” I answered. “It’s funny. The Confederacy out of bounds. It’s simply funny.” She shrugged her shoulders. “So it’s funny.” I looked at her. “Just recently I was thinking of how things change. How what is up suddenly becomes down but then it was down all the time. Our dreams are transient. What we think of as real is an illusion. It’s a fear.” She put her head against my shoulder. I felt the warmth of her body. I ran my hand through her thick hair, savoring its texture. Then I gently caressed the face I had come to know so well. She looked me in the eye. “What do you want to do,” she asked. “I’m going to sleep. I want to sleep for a while.” “Are you unwell,” she asked. “You have not been well today?” I smiled. “No. I just feel a little strange. As though something is about to become clear. I cannot explain. I’m ok. I’ll sleep for a while.” I stepped away from her. I walked toward the sleeproom, thinking of the curtained, heavy darkness. Then I called back. “When I wake lets go out. Lets go to the Old Sector.”

2 When I woke it was evening. A warm, golden light suffused the doorway. I thought of how the long curved windows of the balcony would be glowing with the setting sun. I lay for a moment, thoughts running through my mind. I had not worked in fourteen days. Now there was a story. I would be needed to retrieve the transcripts from Visio-France-14, GlobalNet’s local Service-Node. Then begin preparation for porting to the databanks of the EuTel-Sat. Summarize them in English before they went to the Sino-sector where they would be rendered into Cantonese and Mandarin for txt-stream. Still there was more than work on my mind. There was Mila: my dreams, waking and sleeping. I thought of when I first met Mila. It was winter in San Sebastien. That was a bleak period. Drifting as I was want to do. Not sure how much credit I still had: a data-Translator and vagrant.

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Mila was sitting in a nutri-Bar. The décor was twentieth- style. There was music coming from somewhere. Real sound, an alto saxophone and a guitar, a jazz-blues maybe. Silvery notes floated over a dreamy accompaniment. Melancholy too: the ache of the old immigrant cities and ports. Before we were all immigrants She did not turn around. She sat in a nylon rain-breaker and highneck. Her copper wave of hair and pale skin were soft under the ambient light. It was only when I was drinking my juice and staring at the maroon warmth of the wine I was aware she was talking to me. She spoke in Russian, which I did not understand. So I asked her to speak in English or French and heard the Slavic weave of her voice for the first time. Fingering a scratched looking p-C and asking if I knew the upload pre-fix for somewhere I had never heard of. I did not and shrugged. There was an active fict-Tab on the bar before her. She had been reading. We walked around the coast and left the town. Up across a headland hanging over a choppy sea, darkened by grey and amber sky. The cloud was low and in places broken. I was dressed in a zip-over and mandarin jacket - real leather – a rarity I had picked up second hand. Winter over-pulls, a fake-fur hat and travel boots kept me warm. Mila had wrapped a heavy woollen coat over her rain-breaker. In the wildness of the coast, the blown, leafless trees some connection was made. We walked against the wind and then with the wind. Climbing as though into the pale scattered sunlight. Then coming back to the town. Finding a small harbour south of the seafront, deserted and wave sprayed. We sat and listened to the waves and watched the sun set: red and slow. In the old-world Pensione I removed my jacket and sweater and searched my travelbag. I found what I was looking for: a sealed pack of pre-Rolls, pure and sweet from the Afghan valleys. They were a gift from a friend in Copenhagen. Rare, with the original Van Schengen stamp on their white pure-paper stems, an old fashioned sailing ship and sun. We smoked slowly. Sitting next to each other, our backs to the bed. We looked through the long balcony windows. Not voice activated these sea-blown, sun-beaten antiques of the twentieth. No photoelectric cells to change transparency, to re-polarise. No silicone. There was just the long and shadowed street and the juxtaposition of old and new. In the distance a promenade with its bars and ENT centres burning tungsten. Then there was the sea, dark and mysterious as it has always been.

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We became silent. I felt her next to me. I turned and saw the grey of her eyes, dark. I put my hand to her face, touched it as though I were a blind man re-finding the contours of long-lost love. I felt her hand on the back of my neck. She pulled me to her and our foreheads touched. And we remained, in the furrow of that moment, in that place of meeting. Breathing until the tenderness changed and became desire, until I felt a longing within me. It burned up and took me. Took her, took the street, took the night. We made love on the bed. With the intensity of strangers who have found themselves at some unexpected juxtaposition of time and imagine they may have always know one another. With candour, affection, the longing only one human can know for another. Later I lay awake as she slept, her breathing even. Her face was fine in the night-light. I felt warm and remembered the salty taste of her skin on my tongue. Through the window the sky was clear and full of stars. Moonlight threw the railings of the balcony, the roofs into relief. Everything was indigo with a pale sheen.

3 To get to the Old-Sector we needed to take the m-Rail. The station could be reached by community turbo-Lift. Because most sectors of our city-tower were off-limits to any with public-sector status we had to activate our bio-Passes. This ensured we did not attempt to leave the lift at halts where our access was restricted: perhaps seventy percent. The station was empty but for Security-staff. The air smelt stale and of electrical discharge. There was the almost plastic heat of fibre-optics and rail hardware. Silicone and titanium and dust mixed with those very human smells; perfume, sweat, urine, food. Mila leaned against me. I smiled. She buried her face in my jacket. And let out a sigh. Over her shoulder I noticed a station-marshal watching us. His black one-piece and visor-protected face gave him a somewhat hybrid air: half-human, half-insect. I saw that the gel-display on his hand-held was lit, meaning it was actional. The display band above his visor shimmered so he was a live-feed to his unit-cell. I whispered to Mila. “Don’t turn too quick but I think a security-marshal is sizing you up. Maybe he has mistaken you for a deranged cy-user or . . .” Mila turned, as I knew she would. She stared directly at the stationmarshal. He looked away, quickly, pretending to examine the timetable shimmering above the rail. Then he walked further up the platform. “Perhaps he is an old friend,” I said to Mila.

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She flashed an angry smile then raised her eyebrows, gave a little shrug. “Perhaps he is,” she answered. “More likely he is simply bored. Strutting around a station all day, riding the m-Rail. Looking for trouble but not wishing to find it.” The train approached the station: the direct-banlieue Evreux to Paris service. It would stop only at Mantes and St Germain before terminating in Paris-Les Halles. We sensed its rush through the tunnel. Pushing the dust and scents of the spring night air before it. Swallowing the kilometres like a sleek predatory fish. We went through to Les Halles. I wanted to walk, to stroll through the streets. The Meknez and Cadiz ports were open which meant access to St Michel and the Left-Bank was not restricted. “Lets walk,” I appealed to Mila. Mila did not always like to walk. She preferred to take the t-Bahn. Perhaps because she had unlimited travel-time, was always flitting about the Parisian t-sectors, she considered it a natural way to move. She worked for a skinartist on the Rue St Honoré. Officially she was named his ‘colour-coordinator’. Mila could make me laugh with her mimicry. She would do the skinartist’s grand entrance at a viewing, or the launch of a new holo-V installment. She would do him, sweeping in, his face a study in sensitivity and beatitude, drug induced of course. On his arm would be his ‘guru’, a small, docile man from Kolkatta. Or she would stagger and mime him being bundled into his private transport after one wine too many. Its black and sleek shape hovering just above the street, its blast-proof door sliding shut to conceal him from the world. Until Mila was needed, the following morning, afternoon or weekend “I want to walk,” I said to Mila. “The night is clear. It’s spring. I love the newness of spring.” There was a full moon. It came up in the domes. Multiple moons, drifting across the skyline. They shimmered and broke among curves and lines. Hiding then revealing themselves again in an arc. They were like lost children asking to be noticed. “You know,” I said to Mila, “spring makes me realise how dark the body becomes. Spring opens a nerve. Each spring I feel I am stepping out of myself again. I am stepping into a new self. Only each new self is part of some other self I have yet to touch.” I looked at Mila. Sometimes she ignored me when I talked like this. I could smell her perfume. It mixed with the scent of food, of coriander and garlic from nearby restaurants. Suddenly I wanted to be alone. “Mila,” I said. “I want to walk alone for a bit. 5

She stopped. Then frowned. She gave her face of ‘I don’t care but I really do care and I won’t let you see it’: the struggle for maturity in a 36-year-old body. Cursed with the weight of an over-defined society. “Where will you go?” “I don’t know. I just want to walk.” She was already checking her p-C, pulling it from underneath her linen-white wrap-around. “I have to get some clothes,” she said. There’s an Uzbek designerdisplay on the Place St Andre-des-Arts. . .opens only nights. . .” “Meet me at the river, the steps. You know where. Ninety-five minutes,” I called after her. Mila knew me by now. She had learned of my sudden moods. When it seemed things reversed. What was inside became out. I withdrew and crossed a strange river under a leaden sky. It was a scene from an old Flemish painting. Was that Charon waiting by the banks of the Styx? I came out onto the Boulevard Sebastopol. The t-bahn was busy. The PR-status cars cruised the centre lane. By the ped-lanes, PUs waited. They were colourful, painted in wild designs. North-African flourishes, Sanskrit text and the ever-present ‘publicité’ inlays: splicing commercial messages with updates on celebrity, sports and our leaders. I liked this part of the city. The strange old facades of the buildings gave atmosphere. Yes they were shadowed by the once radical Centre Beaubourg; now shadowed itself by the Centre Chinoise and the VisioFrance Sat tower. Still they spoke of the past, of time as a continuum not spectacle. I walked until I reached the Rivoli. I turned right and sauntered. Taking in the sounds, the smells, the spring night, musty and warm. I felt relaxed suddenly. As though whatever was unclear was about to become clear. I reached the Place des Pyramides. The trees of the Tuileries stood quiet and shadowed. I thought of the coolness and darkness beneath them. Lights reflected from the covered Quai de Louvre. Where the old buildings ended and the gardens began there was an ENT node. It led to the Carrousel. As was customary, a titanium display-tree hung with tiny screens showed what was available. Everything from a casino, an eros-centre to the art of the museums was on offer. A crowd stood arguing. They were an assortment of people. Old and young, different skin types, sectors east and west. A thin man faced an elderly Chinese. The thin man was dressed in a long beige robe. His voice was electro-treated. The Chinese wore the typical dress of an

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Eastern official, a mix of traditional clothing and western business attire. “But brother,” quavered the thin man, gesturing dramatically with his arm, “yours is a spirituality compromised with economics. Our beliefs are unconstrained. We do not look on the business of life with longing. We find no pleasure in the body. It is in the ancient cosmic powers we find our meaning.” I had heard this before. The thin man was a New Worlder. New World was an unusual sect from the Pacific zone. Once they had been popular but were in decline. This was perhaps due to a near fifty year wait on a spacecraft they claimed always to be imminent: but never arrived. I watched as the Chinese bowed. He was probably happy to concede the point. It was a Daoist concept to accept the wisdom of difference. But there was a sudden cry from the crowd. A strange, tattered figure stepped forward, dressed in a workman’s one-piece. Cheap sunglasses covered his eyes. His French was fluent though full of the broadness of North American English. “No,” he cried. “There is only one who can deliver us.” Eyes turned on him. “Listen, listen,” he shouted. “Ignore these fools. They speak only lies. Today those who would bring us truth seized power in the Confederacy. Comrades the soldiers of Christ are marching. Their victory will be swift. Their vengeance mighty.” A voice murmured from the crowd. “Vas-te-faire foutre Ámericain...!” The strange man continued. “Brothers, sisters. Listen. Take the Lord Jesus Christ for your leader now. Turn to him. March with the guerillas of righteousness. Be on the side of good. Reclaim the millennium for He who is the Way. He who is the Truth and the Life. The powers of the eastern Satan will wane. Death to them.” He pulled the sunglasses from his face and threw them to the ground. There was something wild in his eyes. An intensity. The posed sanctity of a 15th century painting. I backed away. The crowd became uneasy. The young man brought his arms down, abruptly. An older couple near to me started and turned to go. Yet his movements were quick. With a sleight of hand unexpected, he pulled a small metallic device from his breast pocket. He twisted it and looked into the air above him. “I will die for the Lord,” he proclaimed. It was clear what he held. A micro-mine. There were small, stifled cries now, anxious exclamations. The New Worlder stepped back. The Chinese appeared frozen. I saw a Security Marshall, from the ENT node, begin to walk toward the crowd. The man in the work-suit was quick. He opened his mouth and swallowed. 7

I knew micro-mines were primed within ninety seconds. After that any significant movement would cause detonation. He stood still: this strange man in his work suit. Slowly, very slowly he raised his arms until he stood in a cross-like position. A terrible smile crossed his face. “Lord, lord,” he cried out, his voice breaking, tears welling into his eyes. “I stand here for you. I shall stand here always for you. My saviour. My commander. I will be your foot-soldier in this city of darkness. In this city of sin . . . I . .I . .I am ready to shed my blood.” Even as he breathed in, as he prepared to speak again, the Marshall ran. Mistaking perhaps the cries of ‘no’ from the listeners, their strangled shouts, their scattering, as an indication the man held a weapon. Then he dived. There was a thud and a ripping sound. The Marshall’s body covered the man. For a moment they were complete. Then there was a hole in the Marshall’s back. Pieces of flesh and bone and blood flew. I saw the American’s legs twitching. Then stop. The upper part of his body was shattered. The New Worlder lay unconscious, his beige robe, stained red. The Chinese swayed on his knees, staring in horror at his fleshspattered body. Some staggered away. Others just stood stunned and silent. A few were injured. The security-Marshall had cushioned the blast. I watched for a moment. As though I were outside myself. I was too shocked to move. I was not hurt. There were no body parts or blood on my clothing. From the corner of my eye I saw a street-Marshall arrive. With his visor down, his helmet and his body armour already activated, I knew he would have called in his unit-cell. I turned and pushed back quickly through the crowd. I began to walk up the Rivoli: the musky spring air seemed suddenly deadened with burnt flesh and sirens. The t-bahn was rapidly clearing its centre lane. I stopped under the arches near the Place Chatelet: and retched. I was shaking.

4 Mila was waiting where we had arranged. She stood by the river, under the shadow of Notre-Dame. The Cathedral was silent. Its dark walls muted the light. I stopped. I wanted just to look at Mila for a moment. I wanted to look at her leaning over the water’s edge, her copper hair and pale skin softer in the moonlight. Then I called. “Mila.” She turned and smiled. 8

I suddenly felt weak. I walked forward, taking the steps slowly, my feet echoing off worn stone. “What is it,” she asked. “What is happening? I heard sirens. My p-C has gone dead.” “I was there,” I said. “I saw it. It was one of those psy-terror acts. Only it went wrong.” Her face became anxious. Her eyes shadowed. “Where?” “On the Rivoli. Across from the Pyramides. Before an ENT node. It’s the third this month. The third in the Old Sector.” I put out my arm and pulled her to me. Until I could smell her warmth, sense her concern. I buried my head in her shoulder. “Tell me,” she said. The water pushed against the stone embankment. It was green and dank and ancient. “I don’t know, I said. “I don’t know. It was so casual. So easy. I mean, the violence. It happened and then was done. We found a bench. Now the sirens had ceased. The city was finding itself again. Its life was returning. The activity of streets and buildings and traffic and human beings took up. The imperfect world we needed to continue in. The sky was spring-clear. Stars shone through the moon’s penumbra. I watched Mila stare into the water. Her eyes moved with its flow to the stone banks to the shadowed bridges. I saw the laugh lines around her eyes, the deepening of her features with time. Small changes noticed that only being with someone could bring. “Do you remember the night in San Sebastien?” I asked. “Yes,” she answered. I waited. She moved, she uncrossed her legs, placed her feet at an angle to mine. “I remember the sea, the coast, the wind-blown trees, the lights like diamonds on the promenade.” She paused. She sat forward. Her face was lifted to the moon, to the stars, the city, as though they were simply dreams of worlds within her. “I remember how I woke and you were warm against me. Then I slept and dreamed as I hadn’t dreamed for a long time.” She turned. Why do you ask?” “Nothing,” I said. “I was just wondering.” She took my hand. Slipped her fingers through mine and wound them there. Then leaned close to me.

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Copyright © Peter Millington. October 2005

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