Where was he? Germany? No. That had been last week. Wales? Welsh enclave in Paraguay? Why did he have such a bad headache? Constantine had a trick for moments like this, moments of hotel angst when he couldn’t remember exactly where he was. He looked at the prints that hung on the walls. Abstract. Dot art. Australia. Stonebreak.
He suddenly remembered Mary. Last night had been strange. The last few weeks had been strange. The way the world seemed to be dropping out of view, gaps opening up where they shouldn’t be. The way people froze in place or smeared themselves across the scenery…Even so, last night had been strange by anyone’s standards. And then they had come for him and led him back here. Back into his safe, comfortable and, above all, anonymous routine. Given him a glass of whisky and left him to sleep.
Constantine always slept naked and they hadn’t neglected that detail. He wondered who had undressed him.
He turned on the visual feed that matched the news sound channel.
India, and the prime minister had apologized for the setbacks in the country’s VNM program, but promised that the general public would see the benefits within the next five years.
The Mediterranean Free State, where pictures of one of the country’s leading business women engaged in an intimate liaison with her husband’s best friend had inadvertently been released into the public domain. Again, there were calls for the banning of the stealth technology that made obtaining such images possible.
Japan, and reports that the renationalized space program had gone deeper into debt, owing mainly to costs incurred by the warp drive research project. The theory seemed good; the first colony crews had already been selected on the strength of the AIs’ claims. So why had none of the ships yet managed to make the jump?
Constantine sipped his tea. His head pounded. He felt greasy and bloated: furred halitosis in a broken-down body. He needed a shower.
The bathroom offered cool antiseptic white tiles and a gentle smell of mint and tea tree oil. He felt like laying his head against the wall to take away the pain. The shower was already running, gentle gusts of scented steam puffing into the room. His wash bag had been unpacked and laid out by the sink, and the reason for the pain in his head now became obvious. A clear plastic strip sat between his toothpaste and his razor, four pills nestling in their slots. Had it been a month already? Obviously yes. They had warned him at the start that he would get headaches when the dose was running low.
“A warning signal,” the doctor had said. She had worn a dark business suit, dark tights, and sensible dark shoes, making the translucent green surgeon’s gloves on her hands seem vaguely obscene. She had perched on the edge of her desk and run her fingers across Constantine’s forehead. He had felt the light touch of latex and smelled its faint aroma, mixed with the peppermint on the doctor’s breath.
“The first day you are overdue you will wake up with a headache. The next day it will be stomach cramps. The third day, headache
“Are those symptoms of MTPH withdrawal?” asked Constantine.
“For the third time, this isn’t MTPH. MTPH would not allow four independent personalities to develop in your mind. Do you have any idea what went into developing this compound?”
She gazed into the distance as she spoke, her fingers still softly kneading Constantine’s scalp.
“Anyway, MTPH isn’t physically addictive. Neither is this. We added the headaches ourselves as a warning.”
“Couldn’t you have put in something a little more pleasant?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. A little buzz.”
The doctor gave him an unpleasant smile. “I think it says a lot about us that we never even thought about that. We instinctively went for the pain. Doesn’t that make you wonder about our worldview?”
“Mmm.”
“Mmm indeed. Just be grateful we went for an oral delivery system.”
The memory faded like a Cheshire cat: with a picture of that unpleasant smile on the doctor’s face widening to show her teeth. He always remembered her like that.
Constantine picked up the plastic strip and popped the first pill. Four pills, four personalities.
He placed the first pill, the red one, in his mouth and swallowed it. He had been told that any apparent effect was purely imagined, but he was prepared to swear that as the pill went down the world took on a sharper and more defined focus.
“Speak to me,” he muttered.
– What do you want me to say? Have you noticed that they have put two different sorts of leaves in the teapot? They must have had to open a new package while making it.
“You’re fine, anyway,” Constantine muttered.
The pills were color-coded: red, white, blue and grey. Red for the observational personality, white for the mathematical.
“Square root of eight thousand and thirty-two?” he murmured.
– Eighty-nine point six two, correct to two decimal places.
The blue pills were his favorite. The doctor had claimed they gave taste and integrity, artistic flair. She was right, but only after a fashion. The blue personality had a distinctly different outlook from Constantine himself, something he found invariably interesting, and occasionally useful.
“Speak to me, Blue.”
– Jasmine tea followed by waffles and honey? I don’t think so. It’ll all be cold by the time you get out there, anyway.
Last came the grey pill.
“Hello, Grey,” he said. There was no reply. There never was. Not for the first time, he wondered about the grey personality, lurking unseen and unheard somewhere in his mind.
Constantine filled a plastic cup with water and took a sip. His headache was still there. He cursed the doctor, as he did this same time every month. He had done his bit, hadn’t he? Why did he have to wait for another hour or so before the pain ebbed away?
He stepped into the shower and began to soap himself.
“What day is it?”
– Thursday, said Red.-This is it, Constantine. We’re nearly there. You are visiting a building site today, a few hundred clicks from Stonebreak. The quorum may well be formed there.
“Mmph. About time.” Constantine rubbed shampoo into his hair.
– This could be the first of the last three meetings.
Constantine said nothing. Finally to be set free, to be released back into the real world. It was almost too much to hope for. He spoke carefully. “Will they know who I am?”
– Some will, some won’t. It’s the ones who aren’t aware of your mission who should provide us with the best picture of the world at the moment. I’d advise that you keep quiet about who you are. To begin with, at least.
Constantine said nothing in reply. That was what he had planned to do anyway.
He changed the subject. “How do you feel about what Mary was saying last night? Do you think that Stonebreak will collapse?”
– It’s probable, said White.-VNMs weren’t as efficient at reproduction when this place was built. The likelihood of a design flaw showing itself increases the more that the machines reproduce.
– Frightening, isn’t it? said Red.-All that effort goes to waste because one machine was faulty at the start. It’s like a whole building collapsing because of six sick bricks.
– Let’s just hope we’re not here when this place finally falls apart, interrupted Blue.
“Mmm.” Constantine rinsed soap from his hair. Who else had three, maybe four personalities looking over their shoulder at everything they did? It was no wonder he was cracking up.
The summons to the meeting came just after he had finished breakfast: a discreet message flashing up on his console. Constantine made his way up to the roof where a flier awaited.
The hotel was a low building, set near the edge of the second level of Stonebreak. A fresh breeze wafted over him, dissolving his headache. He walked toward the edge of the roof to look out over the green patchwork of the first level.
