When they were gone, he sat and waited. The grass was soft, the sky was bright, the air was calm. He wasn't fooled. There'd been moments like this before: moments approaching tranquility. They meant nothing, heralded nothing, changed nothing. There'd always be another vision of decay, another nightmare of mutilation. And another return to Hamburg.
He scratched the smooth skin of his abdomen; the last number he'd cut had healed long ago. Since then, he'd stabbed his body in a thousand places; slit his wrists and throat, punctured his lungs, sliced open the femoral artery. Or so he believed; no evidence of the injuries remained.
The stillness of the garden began to unnerve him. There was a blankness to the scene he couldn't penetrate, as if he was staring at an incomprehensible diagram, or an abstract painting he couldn't quite parse. As he gazed across the lawn, the colors and textures flooding in on him suddenly dissociated completely into meaningless patches of light. Nothing had moved, nothing had changed -- but his power to interpret the arrangement of shades and hues had vanished; the garden had ceased to exist.
Panicking, Thomas reached blindly for the scar on his forearm. When his fingers made contact, the effect was immediate: the world around him came together again. He sat, rigid for a moment, waiting to see what would happen next, but the stretch of dark green in the corner of his eye remained a shadow cast by a fountain, the blue expanse above remained the sky.
He curled up on the grass, stroking the dead skin, crooning to himself. He believed he'd once hacked the scar right off; the new wound he'd made had healed without a trace -- but the original faint white line had reappeared in its proper place. It was the sole mark of his identity, now. His face, when he sought it in the mirrors inside the house, was unrecognizable. His name was a meaningless jumble of sounds. But whenever he began to lose his sense of himself, he only had to touch the scar to recall everything which defined him.
He closed his eyes.
He danced around the flat with Anna. She stank of alcohol, sweat and perfume. He was ready to ask her to marry him; he could feel the moment approaching, and he was almost suffocating with fear, and hope.
He said, "God, you're beautiful."
Order my life, I'm nothing without you: fragments of time, fragments of words, fragments of feelings. Make sense of me. Make me whole.
Anna said, "I'm going to ask you for something I've never asked for before. I've been trying to work up the courage all day."
"You can ask for anything."
Let me understand you. Let me piece you together, hold you together. Let me help you to explain yourself.
She said, "I have a friend, with a lot of cash. Almost two hundred thousand marks. He needs someone who can --"
Thomas stepped back from her, then struck her hard across the face. He felt betrayed; wounded and ridiculous. She started punching him in the chest and face; he stood there and let her do it for a while, then grabbed both her hands by the wrists.
She caught her breath. "Let go of me."
"I'm sorry."
"Then let go of me."
He didn't. He said, "I'm not a money-laundering facility for your friends."
She looked at him pityingly. "Oh, what have I done? Offended your high moral principles? All I did was ask. You might have made yourself useful. Never mind. I should have known it was too much to expect."
He pushed his face close to hers. "Where are you going to be, in ten years' time? In prison? At the bottom of the Elbe?"
"Fuck off."
"Where? Tell me?"
She said, "I can think of worse fates. I could end up playing happy families with a middle-aged banker."
Thomas threw her toward the wall. Her feet slipped from under her before she hit it; her head struck the bricks as she was going down.
He crouched beside her, disbelieving. There was a wide gash in the back of her head. She was breathing. He patted her cheeks, then tried to open her eyes; they'd rolled up into her skull. She'd ended up almost sitting on the floor, legs sprawled in front of her, head lolling against the wall. Blood pooled around her.
He said, "Think fast. Think fast."
Time slowed. Every detail in the room clamored for attention. The light from the one dull bulb in the ceiling was almost blinding; every edge of every shadow was razor sharp. Thomas shifted on the lawn, felt the grass brush against him. It would take so little strength, so little courage, so little love. It was not beyond imagining --
Anna's face burned his eyes, sweet and terrible. He had never been so afraid. He knew that if he failed to kill her, he was nothing; no other part of him remained. Only her death made sense of what he'd become, the shame and madness which were all he had left. To believe that he had saved her life would be to forget himself forever.
To die.
He forced himself to lie still on the grass; waves of numbness swept through his body.
Shaking, he phoned for an ambulance. His voice surprised him; he sounded calm, in control. Then he knelt beside Anna and slid one hand behind her head. Warm blood trickled down his arm, under the sleeve of his shirt. If she lived, he might not go to prison -- but the scandal would still destroy him. He cursed himself, and put his ear to her mouth. She hadn't stopped breathing. His father would disinherit him. He stared blankly into the future, and stroked Anna's cheek.
He heard the ambulance men on the stairs. The door was locked; he had to get up to let them in. He stood back helplessly as they examined her, then lifted her onto the stretcher. He followed them out through the front door. One of the men locked eyes with him coldly as they maneuvered the stretcher around the landing. "Pay extra to smack them around, do you?"
Thomas shook his head innocently. "It's not what it looks like."
Reluctantly, they let him ride in the back. Thomas heard the driver radio the police. He held Anna's hand and gazed down at her. Her fingers were icy, her face was white. The ambulance took a corner; he reached out with his free hand to steady himself. Without looking up, he asked, "Will she be all right?"
"Nobody will know that until she's been X-rayed."
"It was an accident. We were dancing. She slipped."
"Whatever you say."
They sped through the streets, weaving through a universe of neon and headlights, rendered silent by the wail of the siren. Thomas kept his eyes on Anna. He held her hand tightly, and with all of his being willed her to live, but he resisted the urge to pray.
30
The leaders of the Contact Group assembled in Maria's apartment. They'd barely taken their seats when Durham said, "I think we should move to my territory before we proceed any further. I'm on the far side of the hub from the Autoverse region -- for what that's worth. If distance still means anything, we should at least try to run our models somewhere reliable."
Maria felt sick. The City itself was right beside the Autoverse: the fairground on the edge of the desert. But no Elysians were being computed in that public space; only buildings and puppet pedestrians. She said, "Six other founders have pyramids adjoining the Autoverse. If you think there's a chance that effects are spilling over the border . . . can't you find a pretext to get them to move their people as far away as possible? You don't have to spell things out -- you don't have to tell them anything that might increase the danger." Durham said wearily, "I've had enough trouble persuading thirty-seven dedicated Autoverse scholars to occupy themselves with projects which will keep them out of our way. If I started suggesting to Elaine Sanderson, Angelo Repetto and Tetsuo Tsukamoto that they rearrange the geometry of their computing resources, it would take them about ten seconds to put the entire Autoverse under scrutiny, to try to find out what's going on. And the other three pyramids are occupied by hermits who haven't shown themselves since the launch; we couldn't warn them even if we wanted to. The best thing we can do is deal with the problem as quickly -- and inconspicuously -- as possible."