Twenty Sixty-Four

Chapter 6

The Convention Center Bar was almost empty. A ray of sunlight slanted through the high windows, falling on plastic table-tops. It was the lonely hour of 15:00. Aggressive rock music trickled from the faceboogles.

Bradley sat in his usual corner, gazing into an empty glass. Now and again he glanced up at a vast face eyeing him from the opposite wall. THE RONALD IS WATCHING YOU, the caption said. Unbidden, a waitroid came and filled his glass up with diet Freedom Cola, shaking into it a shot from a hose on its midsection. It was rum-flavored with cloves, the bar's speciality.

Today, Bradley was paying attention to the faceboogle. Right now, only music was coming out of it, but there was a possibility at any moment there might be a special bulletin from the Immigration Department. The news from the cyber-warfare front was extremely disturbing. He had been worrying about it all day. A Eurafrican bot army (Amerussia was at war with Eurafrica: Amerussia had always been at war with Eurafrica) was operating on the Pacific infrastructure at terrifying speed. The mid-day bulletin had not mentioned any definite area, but no doubt data-centers at the mouth of the Salish sea were a battlefield. Victoria and Port Angeles were in danger. One did not have to look at the map to see what it meant. It was not merely a question of losing the West Coast: for the first time in the whole war, the entire digital territory of Amerussia was menaced.

A violent emotion, not fear exactly but a sort of undifferentiated excitement, flared within him, before fading again. The war slid from his thoughts. These days he could never fix his mind on a subject for more than a few minutes at a time. He picked up his glass and drained with a single gulp. As always, the spiked diet cola made him shudder and even retch slightly. The stuff was horrible. The cola's artificial sweetness was bad enough, as were the cloves and rum. Each ingredient was disgusting in its own sickly way. Mixed together, they still could not disguise that flat oily smell, which haunted him night and day, inextricably mixed up in his mind with—

He never named it, even in his thoughts. His mind twisted and revolted in a constant turmoil, trying not to picture it. He was always half-aware of it, hovering close to his face, the taste always on his tongue. As the rum took effect, he belched through purple lips. He had fattened since his release, had even regained his old color. His features had thickened, the skin on his nose and cheekbones was coarse red now, his bald scalp too deep a pink. He had taken to wearing orange-tinged bronzer, to hide the discoloration and show devotion to The Ronald. A waitroid, again unbidden, brought a 4D chessboard and a tablet with the screen open to Fax News at the chess problem. Then, seeing that Bradley's glass was empty, he extruded the necessary hoses to fill it. He didn't need to give orders. They understood him. The chessboard was always waiting, his corner table was always reserved. Even when the place was full he had his table, as nobody cared to be seen sitting too close to him. He never even bothered to count his drinks. At irregular intervals they emailed him a receipt which they said was the bill, but he had the impression this was purely a formality. He paid without studying the amount, always having plenty of money now. He had a job, a sinecure, much more highly-paid than his old job.

The music from the faceboogle stopped and a voice took over. Bradley raised his head to listen. No bulletins from the front. Just a brief announcement from the Winning Department. In the preceding quarter, it informed, the last budget quota for chocolate had been over-fulfilled by 98 per cent.

He examined the chess problem and set out the pieces. It was a tricky ending, involving a couple of knights. 'White to play and mate in two moves.' Bradley looked up at the portrait of The Ronald. White—the ultimate winner—always mates, he thought with a sort of cloudy mysticism. Always, without exception, it is arranged. In no chess problem since the beginning of the world has black ever won. Did it not symbolize the eternal, unvarying triumph of Good over Evil? The huge face gazed back at him, full of calm power. White always mates.