Chapter 26Four Towers Down

He stood at the other end of the shelves, watching that hand put the box of medicine back in its place.

It went back without a sound. The label faced out, lined up with the boxes beside it. The hand paused where they lined up, and stayed still until the fingertips had left the side of the box. Only then did it draw back.

He stood two steps from the shelf. Both hands had stayed at his sides all the time, holding nothing. The skin round his palm was thicker than elsewhere. Gripping had made it so.

The medicine boxes at this end had handwritten labels, one layer over another. In a few compartments the labels had been torn off, and a white patch was left behind. The chiller against the wall hummed, and it had not stopped once since he came in. The row of price tags above his head was brushed by a draught through the gap in the door. The tags knocked against one another and came apart again. At the far end a lamp was a dim yellow point, lighting his hand but not his face. He stood very straight, his left knee unbent; if he bent it, the knee would make a sound first. His fingers were cold, and the knuckles had gone a little white.

At this hour there were no cars in the street. Far off a train went past; its sound came up through the ground in one rush, then a pause, then another rush. Beneath it the chiller’s hum went on, steady for a long time and never changing pitch. The floor tiles were white, a few of them cracked, with grit settled in the cracks. On the bottom shelf the compartments were empty. Each had a small label stuck to it with the name of a medicine written on it, yet there was nothing inside.

The veteran did not look over this way. He drew his hand back from the shelf, wrist first and fingers after, the same as when he signed. He turned and walked towards the door. In the reflection on the glass, that person’s face lay over a row of tags; after two steps the overlap came apart.

His box had gone back the same way. Turned round, the side checked, set back, lined up.

He put his right hand into the inside pocket of his coat. The form had been folded in half twice; the creases were white, and the corners had gone soft with sweat. He did not open it fully. He opened only half, and held the middle down with his thumb so that it would not curl.

This was the second copy of a form. The paper was thin. Printed across the top were the words ‘Substitute Procurement’, and below them were the model, the quantity and the unit price, with the amount in the last column. He did not need to look at the amount; he had checked it when he signed. The original leg had a joint that returned to its place by itself, and when that person walked, the joint gave a soft click. The substitute did not have one. The substitute was a tube, a connector and a foot that could only press down. He had read all of this on the form. What he had looked at was the bottom line. The signature in the approval box was his. The strokes were pressed harder than any of the writing above, and the ink had come through to the back of the paper in small dots, one after another. The recipient’s name was on the line above, spelt correctly.

After that form was approved, that person’s leg was changed to the one there now. The cheap kind. The form said cheap; he had known it when he signed.

On the day he signed that form, the air conditioning in the room had been turned down low. There was a cup of tea on the desk, and he had not drunk it. The tea had gone cold, and a ring of white had formed on the side of the cup. He had read that person’s name off the paper letter by letter, and every letter was right. When he signed, the pen paused on the paper for a moment before it came down.

His other hand went into the outer pocket of his coat. The screw was there; it had been there for nearly a month. It had worn a round hole through the lining, and the edge of the hole had frayed, so that a fingertip found it at once. He took it out and laid it in his palm, against the paper.

M6. On the thread there was a mark where a spanner had bitten, and round the mark the metal had worn bright from being turned in and out many times. It had come off that person’s prosthetic. Of the six screws, only this one had been replaced. It was a little shorter than the other five, and its thread was coarser.

He had tried to say that sentence three times.

The sentence was: I signed that form.

That was the one sentence he meant to say, and he had never once said it aloud. The first time, he came back to this street from work with a bag of bread in his hand. That person was crouched on the steps counting money, and halfway through went back to the beginning and counted again. He opened his mouth, and what came out instead was a figure: how much cheaper the substitute was than the original leg. The second time, that person was leaning against the roller shutter, reading a sheet of paper. He could not make out the words from two steps away. The wind was strong. The sheet was blown over and back again, and his hand was pressed to his chest, right on the dog tag. He opened his mouth again, and what came out was half of that figure, because he was already thinking about where that half had been saved. The third time, that person walked to the corner and stopped at the red light to wait. He added up every figure from the first entry to the last. When the adding was done, the sentence had gone, and only an account was left.

He did not walk over. His reasons were specific; he could count them off one by one. To cross the street he would have to go through a lane of traffic, and the light was red. Once across, he would have to speak. Speaking meant saying that sentence, and once he had said it, that person would certainly ask what he had signed. The figure was already at his lips. Once it came out, the sentence would turn back into an account.

He closed both things into his palm, his fingers folding one at a time. The command ring above his left forearm turned half a turn, slower than his hand, and came to rest half a turn behind. Only one thin line on the ring was warm.

Tonight he did not pay either.

※

The sea lit up first.

It was not a lamp. Something beneath the surface lit the water from below, right through to the top, turning it into patches of grey-white. The stones of the dock were lit, and the water in the cracks between them glowed too; but the glow was not colour, only light. The light had drained the colour from the waves in the harbour. The crests still moved, and what moved was grey. There were no boats on the water. Waves slapped against the foot of the dock with a dull sound: one, then a long gap, then another. Once the light had come up, the sound paused for a beat before it carried on.

The altar stood at the far end of the harbour, on Liberty Island. An old star-shaped wall ringed a flat piece of ground, and the stone of that ground had split in a ring. The stone was grey-white, with fine grass growing in its joints, and the light of the numbers turned each blade white. Out of the cracks rose numbers, green and red, jumping upward one square at a time, alternating, and they climbed straight up a vertical light column. The light column went through the night cloud, and whatever lay behind the cloud could not be seen.

The row of tags above his head had stopped. The row hanging by the roller shutter at the corner had stopped too. Until now they had kept swinging whenever air came through the gap in the door. Now every one of them turned towards the sea at the same moment, as though a single thread held them.

Across the street the exhaust vent was still breathing out white steam. The veteran stood beside the steam, his back to this side, one hand pressed to a pocket. A puddle on the ground lit up, then went dark again. He did not look up.

He folded the form and pushed it into his trouser pocket. The pocket was shallow, and one corner of the form stuck out; he pressed it with a finger until it was all the way in. The screw was still in his palm.

He came out from the end of the shelves, past the mat at the door, which was wet. The air outside was cool, carrying the salt of the sea, and it came in gusts from the far end of the street. There was no bell on the door, only a spring, and when the door shut it bounced twice; the second bounce was lighter than the first. On the steps the mouth of the canvas bag lay open, and the bills had spilled across the steps. Each gust turned a page. He did not pick them up.

At the end of this street was the dock. The mooring bollards on the dock were iron, one after another, evenly spaced. He walked along the dock towards the light column. The stone was grey, and it slid away behind him, slab after slab. He counted his steps. At the fortieth step the stone turned from grey to black, where damp had soaked in. Ropes had rubbed against the bollards many times, and the top of each one had a ring of shine. The buildings on both sides of the street were grey, their windows dark one after another. Only one window on the second floor across the way was lit. Its light came from a television with the sound off, and the people on the screen kept talking. The dog tag on his chest knocked against his collarbone, again and again.

He lifted his head once. In the west the disc hung in the sky, only one thin crescent of it left. The lit side was very thin, its rim pale violet, and on its lit face white clouds hung, not moving. The dark part, which was most of it, held patches of light, one patch after another: the lamps of another city at night. Beside the disc, a little higher than it, the black mouth was open, with a thin white ring along its edge. Outside the ring the stars were bent out of shape, very slowly. He glanced at it, then lowered his head.

The tag was blank. It had been issued blank the year he enlisted. He had handed in the form for the engraving, and the approval had never come through. Later he signed many approvals at his desk, every one of them passing through his hands first, and he did not chase his own. The side that should have been engraved had been rubbed over and over by his thumb until it shone more than the other side. To the touch the two faces were different: the bright side smooth, the dull side rough.

※

The air behind him split open.

It was a crack, and through it showed stone steps, going down one after another. The break was one step wide. The stone bore very fine lines, running down step after step, every line pointing the same way. There was no wind in the Star Corridor, and no sound. The edges of the steps gave off a cold light, step after step, and no bottom could be seen. He turned round. He heard the first step land on the stone, and then the second.

Mitsuki came out first. The crescent-shaped mark under her left eye lit up, from the outer corner of the eye to the cheekbone, cyan. The straight blade had no scabbard. A line of cyan light ran along the blade, and the knot on the hilt was cherry-pink. She landed on the stone, and her wide left sleeve swung out and came back. She looked at him, only once, then drew her eyes back and let them rest on the sea. The mark under her left eye was still lit, but the light had stopped at the cheekbone and did not run any further down.

Qingluan came second. She looked down at her palm, then turned her hand over to look at the back, where the markings were. The sound rings behind her right ear lit ring by ring, down to her collarbone. Her ink-green shawl slid from her shoulder, and its ends broke into points of light that did not fall but rose. The pair of feather shapes behind her had not closed; they were jade-green.

Jaewon came third. The broken silver microphone earring in his right ear showed an electric violet core at the break. He turned the broken end towards the sea and tilted his head slightly, as if to see how it looked in the light. The toes of his white shoes had gone fuzzy. His entrance had come half a beat late, as it always did; the shadow print on the back of his jacket lagged another half beat before it caught up.

Swan came last. The stiff collar of white feather pieces stood up layer by layer at the back of her neck. Her left foot wore a satin pointe shoe, and her right an old trainer, with the hole still in its toe. She looked down at the ribbon on her left shoe; a frayed end stood up, then lay down again. She raised her hand, and a patch of hexagonal scales rose on her wrist, pearl-white and platinum. It flashed once and drew back in. Her left foot did not leave the stone. Her right trainer was planted on the stone, and its tread left a grey-white print.

Mitsuki brought the straight blade across her chest. The light along the back of the blade ran down its length and went out at the guard.

The five of them stood in a row for the first time. Mitsuki was at the far left, Andrew at the far right, and between them Qingluan, Jaewon and Swan. They faced the sea. Five shadows fell across the stone, of different lengths, their edges all faint.

None of the other four called out to one another by name. Once they had taken their places, each looked down at their own feet, then raised their heads. Their breath came out white and scattered at once in the cold air. Jaewon moved his right foot half an inch towards his left, then stopped, and did not go all the way.

No one spoke.

The wind came from the far end of the dock and blew through the hair of all five. No one brushed it away.

He counted. The habit had been formed at roll call. That year the squad leader stood at the front of the line with a clipboard in hand. The names on it were in pencil, soaked by rain, and some had been rubbed out and written again. On one occasion the clipboard fell into the mud, and the squad leader did not pick it up; the names went on being read, and whoever was called went on answering. That winter, sometimes a line was missing from the list. When the reading reached that line, the squad leader paused and said one word: “Empty.” Then the reading went on. The count ran from left to right. The number counted had to match the list on the clipboard, and if it did not match, the count began again. Before dawn the people stood in neat rows, their breath coming out in puffs. He stood in the third rank. When his count reached himself, he paused and waited for his name to be read, and then he answered one word: “Here.” He counted people, and he counted feet.

The shoes of the five showed seven kinds of wear in all. Swan had two of them: the ribbon on her left shoe had broken off a length, and the trainer on her right had a hole in its toe. Jaewon had two: the toes of his white shoes had gone fuzzy, and the outer side of his left heel had worn flat. The toe of Mitsuki’s right shoe sat a little lower than the left, and her weight always came down on her right foot. Qingluan’s rubber-soled shoes had worn flat in one patch at the front. His army boots had worn thin in one patch on the outer heel.

※

A hand hung down from the top of the light column.

At this distance the hand was only an outline, its fingers spread, reaching down out of the stream of numbers and sinking slowly. The Liberty Mask settled from the stream of numbers into the centre of the altar. He came down from the same height as last time, and even the angle of his bent knuckles was the same. The tip of one foot touched first on a line cut into the middle of the altar, and the line was not an inch out. The stone made no sound, and not one blade of the fine grass had bent. Once he had settled, the stream of numbers around him drew back layer by layer, to his shoulders and then to the tail of the torch, until only one thin green line was left, joining him to the light column. The white paper tags hanging in his joints lit up one after another, each for a moment.

The face was a verdigris-green mask. At this distance it was impossible to tell whether it had eyes, or where it was looking. Its front faced the dock, towards the five of them, and it had not turned a single degree.

He raised high a missile-shaped torch, and where its flame would be was a jumping stream of green and red numbers. The numbers fell one square at a time, and went out when they reached the stone of the altar. He struck a freeze pose like a Broadway curtain call: one hand raised over his head, the other pressed to his chest, his head tilted a little towards the unseen audience. The hand pressed to his chest held its knuckles at one fixed angle, and did not move.

For half a second there was absolute stillness. Dust hung where it was; even the thin layer of mist over the sea had stopped.

Andrew spoke. He spoke to the altar, not loud; he never raised his voice. All four of them heard. His feet did not move, but his heels pressed on the stone, harder than usual. Through his clothes, his thumb pressed the dog tag and found a blunt nick along its edge.

He counted them off in his head first: Shanghai, Tokyo, Seoul, Paris. The Shanghai tower was Qingluan’s, the Tokyo tower Mitsuki’s, the Seoul tower Jaewon’s, and the Paris tower Swan’s. All four were already undone. This one was the fifth. He spoke only when he had finished counting.

“Four towers down. This is the last one.”

When he had finished, he let the pause run long before he drew in a breath.

The sound from the altar had no echo. It landed straight on the ear, and was gone once it was said. He leaned on each noun in turn, every one landing on the beat, and each one placed with precision.

“Freedom is the best business.”

※

He pressed the torch downward.

A ring of control ripples pushed outward. The sea was pressed into a grid as flat and ruled as a ledger page, square by square, from the altar to the dock. The lines of the grid were lit. Each time they lit, the grey layer beneath the sea lit with them, then dimmed. Every crest on the water had been pushed down by it, pressed into one flat level. He did not raise his voice; he sounded as if he were reading out a quarterly report.

“Democracy is the most expensive commodity. Those who cannot afford it, please queue quietly.”

When the ripples reached the dock, all five stepped back at once. Mitsuki’s left foot braced first on the ground, and the blade did not move. Swan raised her hand; the scales on her wrist flashed once and blocked part of the ripple, and what was left pushed her back. Qingluan’s shawl was pressed flat against her back, and the points of light at its ends sank a short way. Jaewon stepped back; the shadow print lagged half a beat before it followed. Andrew’s left knee gave a sound, dull and old. He took one step back, then stopped, half a beat behind the others. His right hand rose to his chest, then fell, landing on the blank dog tag.

Five short marks were left in the stone. Their edges were very even, as if drawn with a ruler. Inside the marks the shadows of price tags rose, white, one after another, then sank again. Andrew’s mark lay in front of his right foot, a finger’s width from the toe of his shoe. He did not look down. He knew how long it was.

Behind him a huge currency hologram rose. It was grey-white, with rows of numbers, and the edges of banknotes turned over one after another. The portraits on the banknotes had their faces worn smooth, leaving only an oval. Along the edge of the hologram ran a row of very fine lines, each tied to a price; whenever a silhouette changed, its price jumped one notch. Along the edges of the banknotes ran a line of small print, too small to read, and he did not look at it. The light of the hologram fell on the five faces, white, each face lit separately. Deep inside the hologram silhouettes flashed past: a helmet, a broken stretch of wall, the pole of a flag, a row of people holding something up. Two figures stood side by side, one tall and one short, their feet on the same line. There was no place name, and no date. Each silhouette flashed and gave way to the next, and at certain numbers the change paused.

In Andrew’s ears, the first thing to sound was counting.

A voice was counting: one, two, three, four. Wherever the count reached, the silhouette there lit up. It was counting people. When it reached seventeen, the voice paused, then went on. It counted on to a great many, and the voice did not stop, and no one answered “Here”. His lips moved once, but he made no sound.

He bowed slightly, as if acknowledging the unseen audience. The tags in his joints rattled, and crumbled like paper.

The view drew back from the altar and fell, all the way down to the height of the sea. The sea had been pressed into a grid, grey, square by square, and pressed very flat.