Secrets of the Antiwave

PART 3 | Chapter 13: Hello Liquor, My Old Friend

We stayed the night in Huxley's guestrooms. After several attempts at falling asleep, I went onto the balcony to smoke. I wasn't surprised to see the rest of the team already standing there.

We stared at the stars, wondering if they were still singing their majestic songs that we so dearly missed. I strained my airs, attempting to hear even the faintest of hums. Xu's phone went off.

It was López, 'Xu, you'll never believe it-'

'Winthrop has released the secret of the antiwave?'

A sigh on the other end, 'So you've heard as well. I hear some of you are together on Mars. That's good. I'm flying in tomorrow, I'm sure the rest will follow suit.'

Silence fell upon us again. The Martian wind screamed over ill-named mountains and valleys.

'And what will we do,' said Xu, 'once we're all back together?'

'Why, we'll kill the bastard. Fight him any way we can. We can't just --'

Gunshots punctured the air, followed by the crackling sound of a fallen phone. Groaning. Footsteps.

'Stay of this, if you know what's good for you.'

The phone hung up. Dull and empty ringing. We shivered in the warmth of the night.

***

Cyrus Winthrop, Doctorate in Theoretical Thermophysics, specialist in Bullshit and Lies appears on-screen.

'As we speak, dozens of Neowave arrays are being built across the System to meet the demands of the twenty-second century! Thanks to Interstellar Communications, you'll be able to speak with your loved ones instantaneously! Yes, that's right, your words will travel faster than light!'

Thunderous applause interrupts. Withrop continues, 'The Terrestrial Military forces will soon be better armed to protect our homelands, uniting us all towards a better, faster, more efficient future! The Neowave is the future of mankind! The Neowave will change everything! The Neowave is now!'

* * *

Dmitriev apologised to Huxley in the morning. The outburst was blamed on an old feud between himself and Winthrop, although Samuel saw that something far worse was at play. He drove the six of us down to the train station. I shook hands with him on the platform.

'Look, Isaac. If there's anything I can do for you...'

'We're all fine, Sam,' I said, 'Thanks a million for having us over. Besides, it'd be best if none us got involved in this, ah, business, for now,' my eyes scanned the crowd.

Huxley nodded, handing me a card. 'Call me if you need anything,'

'But I already know your number...'

'This one is secure.'

* * *

The day after we arrived in Wyndham, a spaceship with Mitra aboard exploded on entry.

We received no more phone calls.

While Interstellar Inc. and the Terran military built relays across the System, we sat in our apartments and plotted. And whenever we were on the verge of calling Huxley, whenever we were on the verge of orchestrating an underground protest, whenever were on verge of doing something, anything, but inaction, there were news reports of another terrorist attack: anti-Neowave protest cut short by car-bomb, sixteen killed, forty-three injured.

These events never struck the populous as disturbing. Only once were the attacks ever discussed on holovision 'What's so bad about instant communication?' said an anchorman, 'I fear the Luddites are at it again. As for the terrorist attacks? These things happen, the aftermath of the Saturnian War won't be gone in a day.'

Two months later, Jackson had been killed. Xu, who had been staying with McGregor and Stevenson, received a complimentary return ticket to Jupiter from Interstellar Communications. We got the message and went our separate ways. We waved goodbye to Xu for what we thought to be the final time.

* * *

I attempted to settle back into my almost-satisfactory routine back in Wyndham. No success. I couldn't write on the train, I couldn't write on the auto-taxi, and I couldn't write at home.

It took me four months to recognise that I wasn't on the verge of writing. My talent was gone for good. But by then I'd accumulated a hefty debt. Sure, I could've just asked Huxley for a quarter of his fortune and he'd give me half, but that didn't seem right. When you're depressed like I was, the only thing worse than being poor is being rich.

Besides, from the way Huxley looked at me during our final meeting, from the way he carefully discussed the attacks on the protests, I knew he was willing to go too far. He knew that the Neowave was bad, and he was willing to die for it.

Journalism made make sick as well, so I threw in the towel and got a new job. My literature degree was rendered useless, as was my bachelor's in journalism. However, I'd made a new friend over the years -- hard liquor. I got a job as a barman at one of those kinky non-automated taverns, where people talk to the staff.

I couldn't pay half of my bills, but at least I was working, surrounded by people just as miserable as me.

The first thing I sold was my typewriter.

As the Neowave's release day approach, giant relays populated the low-orbit sky -- flotilla castles, titanium hornets, rows of sky-borne dreadnoughts awaiting the general's command. In the night, they watched me with their glowing red eyes. Solar flares, freak weather, and storms populated several seconds on a news ticker. No one noticed or cared. After all, natural disasters no longer posed a threat to any human settlement. Humanity had conquered nature.

* * *

After a thorough day of unrewarding work. I returned to my apartment. Walking into the complex's transporter, I punched in my apartment code. A second later, I was transported into a small and windowless antechamber. Ahead was my welcome mat, and the entrance to my door.

I checked the mail chute, vaguely riffling through the clinking assortment of glowing crystal-printed envelopes. All they needed was a fingerprint to vanish, a single CONFIRM and they'd be gone -- I didn't even bother. I wasn't in the mood to think about bills. Whatever happened, happened.

I was just about to shut the chute when I felt my finger brush past something unexpected. A paper envelope. I pulled it out and inspected: it was unmarked.

I tore it open and stared.

I slammed the apartment door, threw off my things and blasted the waterless sonic shower on full. A minute later, I was dressed and gone out the door.

'GO TO THE SMO FACILITY. TAKE YOUR PHONE WITH YOU.

--R.'

* * *

I rode towards the SMO by gyrobike, parking right next to the scrapheap that had once been my hover. Meanwhile, orange dust-clouds were picking up all across the Territories, the strongest sandstorm in thirty years was sweeping around the planet's surface.

The facility was horrific. It was as though some manic-depressive sculptor had organised the perfect train-wreck, immortalised in corrosion and deteriorating debris. Columns poked out of iron-lattices -- a thousand dislocated joints.

All the picket signs and banners were still there, melted like dust-coated candlewax. It was like walking into a ghost town, where everyone had abandoned all their things as they ran from a calamity.

I walked past the yawning darkness of the entrance, brushing away the vines. A shape moved beside me in the darkness. A glowing mask.

'Terrible sorry, Isaac,' said a digitally-garbled voice.

Hard metal collided with my neck and everything went black.