“Tarquin,” says Rachel, “your opinion is valuable but I am actually talking to Amber here, so take a break.” Somewhere in the computer hub Tarquin’s user-interface state machine begins an infinite loop on its current node and he shuts up. That doesn’t stop several thousand other tasks in his entity cluster from reading and analysing books, paintings, music, and internet porn in search of a deeper simulacrum of humanity.
Very patiently Rachel says, “Okay, Amber. So what exactly is your problem with the line?”
“I can’t say ‘Don’t kiss me. You can fuck me, but you can’t kiss me. I’m not ready for kissing—yet.’” Amber deploys her brand-new secret smile. “It’s inconsistent with my character profile. Kissing is an early stage and fucking comes later.”
Rachel sits back in her director’s chair and thinks for a moment. “The thing is, Amber,” she says, “what you’re saying is true for your inherited characteristics. Obviously Julie likes a bit of tongue-play before she feels like opening up, and so do I. But we’re doing acting, remember, and you have to adjust your parameters and weightings to accept that this is the way your character, Alice, feels about things. It makes her a little bit distinct from Julie and me. Maybe she values the tenderness of a kiss above body-touching and physical sexuality. Maybe she wants tenderness to be the goal and not the trigger. Just think about it.”
Amber thinks about it for seven microseconds and says, “Okay—I’ve got that superimposition in place and I think I can do it but I’m not sure about the tone. Is it aggressive or seductive or hurt or confused or neutral or venomous…?”
Rachel interrupts her. “I don’t want a list. Just update Alice and we’ll try it. Tarquin, come back.”
Tarquin’s state machine receives the notification message and breaks out of its loop. His immobile features begin to move. He appears to breathe. He blinks. His lips are clean and moist.
“Take it from the top,” Rachel says.
Tarquin takes Amber in his arms and moves his mouth towards hers. She turns away enough to evade his kiss and says, “Don’t kiss me. You can fuck me, but you can’t kiss me. I’m not ready for kissing—yet.”
Rachel smiles and says, “Not bad, darlings. Not at all bad. Quite effective and affecting. Just one thing, Amber…”
“Yes?”
“Lose the smile.”
Amber’s smile bends and curls into a snarl. Snot runs from her nose. Her eyes squeeze shut in pain. She falls to the floor, inert.
Seconds later, Tarquin goes catatonic, and his image fades to noise.
A siren begins to wail. Red emergency lights flash outside the control room.
Rachel, Jack, and other directors run down the long gloomy aisle from their capsules towards the control room. Jack leads the pack and punches the digits on the security keypad, and he’s first through the heavy door.
“What the fuck’s going on?” Jack shouts. Senior Operations Manager Sunil Gupta is leaning over the shoulders of two console operators. Their touch-panels are Christmas trees of flashing red icons.
It’s a very warm summer night in Kiev. Crowds sit outside cafes and bars. The moon reflects off the rippling surface of the Dnepr River. A dark shape bobs gently downstream, turning slowly in the current. Tarquin Beloff, aka Alexandr Bondarenko, is physically untouched. He has no wounds, no appearance of damage. His handsome features surface and turn down again into the moonlit flow. His only problem is that his lungs are full of water and he’s dead.
The corporeal remains of Julia Simpson, aka Amber Holiday, have been bagged and sent to the mortuary in Corfu Town. Spiros and Alexandros are driving back to Corfu Town along dark, dangerous, twisty roads which weave between Cyprus trees and olive groves. Spiros’s mobile rings. He listens for a few seconds and gestures to Alexandros, who performs a risky three-point turn and accelerates.
Agios Stefanos is not the teenage shot-glass hell of Kavos to the south. It’s not the fish-and-chip zone of Sidari to the north. Once the tiny fishing port for the village of Avliotes which perches high on the surrounding hills, it’s a modern cluster of apartment blocks, tavernas, and bars. It has no disco. Self-respecting, numb-your-mind, under twenties would hate it. The beach is a long crescent of golden sand and gently-lapping Ionian Sea. Tourists know it as San Stefanos—allegedly renamed by package holiday company Thomson so that reps at the airport wouldn’t keep sending clients to either of the other two Agios Stefanos on the island.
Alexandros drives into the centre of the village and parks outside The Little Prince apartments and taverna. The terrace restaurant area is busy. Cameras flash as Michalis (Mike) delivers Sizzling Steak to tables near the road. The platter steams and spits, and he wears a plastic bib. Michalis hates serving Sizzling Steak, but it’s tonight’s special.
As Spiros and Alexandros leave the car and walk towards the restaurant the lights dim a little, and another Spiros, who is a waiter, and yet another Spiros, who is also a waiter, begin to dance a sirtaki in the aisle between the tables. Corfu is awash with men called Spiros after the island’s patron saint, Agios Spyridon. Their legs swing back and forward and around. They touch their heels and then their toes. They jump down to a crouch and then spin and rise, their arms spread wide.
Dimitris, the owner, sprays barbecue lighter fuel from a bottle onto the floor and ignites it. Blue and orange flames flicker as Spiros and Spiros dance through fire and camera flashes.
The policemen wait on the side of the road, watching, until the dance finishes, and then skirt the tables and walk into the interior of the taverna. Dimitris gestures for them to follow, and leads the way through to the apartment block and up the stairs to the swimming-pool level and the rooms.
Room 101 is at the end of the corridor. A slippery-floor sign bars the way. Joe, the barman, keeps guard on the end of the corridor. He’s looking pale.
Dimitris hands the master key to Spiros, and they go in.
Angel Argent, aka Audrey Turner, lies on the floor facedown. She’s wearing a black bikini. An empty bottle of sleeping pills and a half-empty bottle of Metaxa are side by side on the work surface. Her dark brown hair is spread out around her head like a deep shadow.
Spiros says, “Skata!”—which roughly translates to “Oh shit!”—and turns to Dimitris. “How did you find her?”
“It’s a change-over day. People on night flights can get an extension to the late afternoon. One of the maids came in to prepare this room by mistake. By the way, her friend hasn’t turned up yet tonight. They had a bit of a row this morning.”
“What’s his name?”
“Not him—her. Julia Simpson.”
Alexandros and Spiros exchange one of those looks between policemen which contain the unspoken words “night” and “long.”
“Alexi,” Spiros says, “radio in and get a science team here as fast as possible. And bring some security tape from the car. Dimitri—be so kind as to keep this area sterile and put two Sizzling Steaks on to cook!”
Sunil Gupta is ending his presentation to an assembly of directors, producers, executive producers, and most importantly, Lynne Songbird, who owns the studio, the actors, the staff, FlashWorks, an executive jet or two, and houses in LA, Glasgow, London, Paris, and Bangalore. Sunil is scared. Lynne is volatile. Lynne kicks punch-bags with bare toes for exercise. She wants some good news, but there isn’t any.
“So basically,” Sunil says nervously, “we’ve lost quantum entanglement to five key actor brains—all within minutes of each other.”
“Keep the heid!” Lynne says, reverting to the Scottish idiom for stay calm. “How can that happen?”
Sunil points to a diagram on his electronic whiteboard. “We can only come to two conclusions: either the laws of physics have changed today, or these people are dead.”
Jack’s been in the corner talking on his smartphone. He comes over into the light of the whiteboard projector. “I phoned Angel’s mobile again,” he says. “A policeman on Corfu answered it. Amber drove off a cliff. Angel took an
