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The terrorist pushed the woman aside and in two rapid strides reached the back office door and kicked it open. He lifted the computer above his head and slammed it down hard onto the floor. Ripping the wires, he furiously raised it again and again above his head and slammed it onto the stone floor until it fell to pieces. On some of those pieces he stepped in anger, as if trying to reduce them to dust.

  The security man was still standing there, glued to the ground.

  “Everyone down on the floor, cover your heads! Don’t do anything!” roared the colonel, getting down.

  The ferocious power in his order sent everyone tumbling unquestioningly to the floor, even the security man obeyed. The only left standing was Isaac who didn’t want to piss the terrorist off again.

  The hobo carried on smashing the computer in the office, frenziedly ripping out wires and various attachments. Isaac could hear something grating and plastic splintering and through this racket came the howling of a siren out in the street and brusque voices. The police! He remembered that the station was just a hundred meters away. He heard the sound of breaking glass and then a monstrous blow to the head knocked him off his feet and he lost consciousness.

  Chapter 3

  It took a while before Isaac could think clearly, his head was buzzing and spinning and he felt slightly nauseous. They were dragging him somewhere, with his arms in handcuffs painfully twisted behind his back. A van, a police station, iron bars slamming loudly, and his consciousness fully recovered once he was in the cell. “Never mind, they’ll figure things out,” he thought wearily and slumped onto the metal bed. Still feeling a bit sick, he closed his eyes and instantly blanked out.

  He dreamt of a war…. a big war. He didn’t know who was fighting whom or why, but he saw a nuclear explosion, the plane falling. Whole districts were set on fire. He saw a lot of different cities without names, and all he knew was that one of them was Paris. Isaac observed the immense, towering conflagration from a hill about thirty kilometers away. He couldn’t make anything out clearly, but he knew for certain that it was Paris. He was gazing, spellbound at the appalling spectacle, when suddenly some soldiers drove up, six or maybe eight of them.

  There was no fear, he calmly emptied his cartridge clip into the first two, grabbed his automatic and killed the others. He did it absolutely dispassionately, quickly and without a single hitch, feeling slightly frustrated that the bullets – they were bright blue, he could see them quite clearly – flew through the air with a strange slowness. Darkness. The picture had disappeared. Isaac was somewhere between sleep and waking, and he even started trying to analyze his dream, still without waking up:

  “In real life he was not capable of murdering someone, but this wasn’t the first time he killed in a dream. What can you say about the life of a man in whose dreams cities burn, wars are fought and planes crash?”

  Someone was prodding Isaac insistently in the side, and he finally woke up. He just wanted to be left alone to sleep. His head was filled with some kind of soft goo, weariness had eaten its way into his thoughts and settled there, but his annoying neighbor wouldn’t stop. The drowsiness in Isaac’s eyes gradually dispersed and he recognized who it was. He was in the same prison cell as the terrorist. Isaac knew there must have been some sort of mistake!

  The hobo woke up Isaac, and was attentively looking into his eyes.

  “Hey, how are you doing?” he inquired.

  “Fine.”

  “That’s good, good. You sure?”

  “Fine,” Isaac repeated angrily.

  The stranger gave him another searching look.

  “What’s your name, lad?”

  “Fine,” hissed Isaac again and closed his eyes.

  “My name’s Mr. Elvis. I’m the Messiah, I fight the devil. I’ve saved you. We’ve got to…”

  Isaac heard the stranger speaking on and on. He opened and closed his eyes repeatedly, without attempting to understand what this madman was driveling about. His head hurt badly enough already.

  Suddenly he felt something on his palm, something hard and prickly. Tried to turn away, but Elvis jerked him rather sharply by the shoulder.

  “Hey, you? Don’t you understand? I’ve been speaking for half an hour and you still don’t understand?”

  “What? Yes, I understand, I do,” Isaac gasped out. Anything to get this guy off his back.

  “What does he want from me? Hell, I’m in here because of him. Someone clubbed me over the head because of this asshole. I wish those thickheads would get on with figuring this all out. Maybe I need to go to hospital,” – Isaac’s thoughts flowed sluggishly through his head. He closed his eyes. He felt being shaken by the shoulder with crude determination.

  Elvis continued spitting his words: “Hell spawn! Heart of the devil! Cursed machine! This devil will bring sorrow upon you. I saw the light, the determination in your eyes. They will take this away from me…”

  It was some kind of a hideous dream! A waking nightmare! Isaac tried to stand up and call a policeman, but the attempt to get up gave him such a sharp pain in his head that he groaned out loud.

  “God has no need for soulless bodies, and then the end will come…” Elvis went on raving, as if nothing had happened. “Are you listening to me?”

  The hobo didn’t look like he was going to give up. He seemed blinded by his own insanity.

  “Orange energy is people’s souls, don’t you understand? He’s taking away our souls. That is what makes us humans.”

  “Screwball talk. Roaring. Roaring in my head. Everything’s weird, and I need water,” Isaac thought.

  “Well then?” Mr. Elvis was certain what he’d said was convincing, even though Isaac hadn’t grasped a single thing.

  A sharp pain in Isaac’s shoulder woke him up completely and he concentrated.

  “And only by tearing out the devil’s heart and destroying it, can I complete my mission. What you have in your hands is absolute evil, destroy it, burn it.”

  Only now did Isaac finally realize that everything happening was real and he was holding an object that looked like a piece of a microcircuit. Of course! It was from that computer, a piece of the board with some kind of circuits and chips on it.

  “Henri Cavalier, get out here.”

  “My name’s Mr. Elvis!” the crazy messiah growled, then he turned to Isaac and added in a whisper: “Remember what I told you. Burn the heart of the devil. Promise me. And then the victory will come.”

  Isaac nodded, and his thoughts immediately flew to Vicky. “Oh, God! The surgery, the money for the surgery. Oh, God! I’ll be too late. Where am I? Oh, God! Vicky!”

  It was a nightmare: the jail cell, the policemen running around, Elvis. Isaac hammered desperately on the bars several times with his hands, but no one took any notice of him. Only once did a doctor come, examined Isaac’s head, shone a little torch into his eyes and said indifferently that it was no big deal, Isaac would live. He left, leaving behind some kind of prescription. A nightmare, only it wasn’t a dream.

  “Isaac Leroy!”

  Isaac opened his eyes and stared at the policeman who was shining a little torch in his face. Isaac took an instant dislike to him, first because the torch was shining in his eyes, and secondly, because shining a torch in someone’s eyes was quite abusive. Especially since he was innocent.

  “Out you come!”

  The attempt to stand up gave him a dull, aching pain. Isaac sat back down again. Something pricked his hand. The computer board! He stuck the hand holding the piece of board in his pocket. “What a fool I am,” he thought. “What did I take it for? If they find it, I’ll never beat the rap.” The words of Mr. Elvis came to his mind.

  “Come on, move it, you little shit,” Isaac heard the same malicious voice say. “I’m not going to hang out here all night because of you.”

  The policeman walked into the cell and put handcuffs on Isaac. They walked down a long corridor and turned into an office.

  “Patrice, take the handcuffs off him and bri
ng him something to drink,” the officer sitting in the office told the policeman who had woken Isaac up so crudely.

  “Good evening,” Isaac heard the dry voice say, this time speaking to him.

  “Evening,” Isaac mumbled, his hands had turned numb, as he kept them in his pockets.

  Feeling the piece of the board in his hand and realizing how dangerous his position was, Isaac clutched it tightly and pushed it deeper into his pocket.

  The pocket was strangely empty. Although, why was that strange? They’d probably taken everything he had as a safety measure. His belt was missing too, now he understood why his trousers kept slipping down during the short walk. He wondered where Mr. Elvis had been hiding the board. They must have searched him. But that was a fanatic for you; he would give his life for the cause, so hiding a microcircuit was no big deal.

  The policeman was confident:

  “I’ve already gotten to the bottom of everything, but we need to run through a few formalities, so let’s get started quickly and then you can go home.”

  Isaac nodded again. He didn’t understand what these formalities were, he wanted to find out as soon as possible how Vicky was, and dump the dangerous object that was in his pocket.

  “So, first name?”

  “Isaac.”

  “Surname?”

  “Leroy.”

  “Age and date of birth.”

  “Twenty-nine, 28th of December.”

  “Parents’ names?”

  “Alexander Leroy and Anna Kramer.”

  Isaac kept on and on answering questions. It was ok, but he wanted to sit down. He kept shifting from one foot to the other.

  The officer looked up from the report.

  “I’m sorry, have a seat! I don’t usually stand on ceremony during an interrogation. A habit – pardon me, sit on the chair.”

  Altogether the questioning and drawing up the report took about twenty minutes. Isaac explained why he was standing; he didn’t know they were going to storm the agency.

  Captain Robert (the officer turned out to be a captain) explained to Isaac that he had been stunned when the office was stormed because only two people were standing – the terrorist and Isaac. The security guard in the agency had switched on his walkie-talkie, so when they stormed the place the assault team knew that all the hostages were lying down. That was why they had taken Isaac for an accomplice.

  However, the testimony of the other victims had completely convinced Robert that Isaac wasn’t involved in the terrorist attack. Robert had checked that Isaac was there to download his energy, having first drawn up a provisional contract. Robert had read it and he had discovered that Isaac’s only relative, Victoria Frank, was in the hospital, waiting for surgery, and the contract stipulated that the cost of the surgery should be paid out of the Collective Mind money, and thus his final doubts about Isaac had evaporated.

  “You can collect your things now,” Robert added calmly. “By the way, what’s this gismo?” he asked, holding out the V-Rain. “I can tell you quite frankly that I deleted it from the inventory of your things, otherwise we would have had to hold you for another week, until we’ve figured out that this little thing wasn’t connected with the attack in any way. I’m really sorry, we dealt with Cavalier first and sent him to Marseilles, and then a whole horde of people descended on us: our bosses, prosecutors, the deputy prefect, journalists. It took us a long time to get round to you. And then, your sister’s surname isn’t the same as yours. I didn’t know she was your stepsister. But I checked all the information on you today, so that you could get back home, even if it is late. Off you go, it’s already ten o’clock.”

  “It’s my invention. Harmless. It’s just to keep the rain off.”

  Isaac raked up his things, and the V-Rain squeaked plaintively. All this amiability from Robert made him feel uneasy

  “Isaac, I’m very sorry,” the captain suddenly added in a quiet, fatherly voice. “The news I have from the hospital isn’t too cheerful. Your sister has been in a coma since this afternoon.”

  The ground suddenly crumbled under Isaac’s feet. He started crying. His mouth still felt dry, but tears the size of large hailstones rolled down his cheeks. He couldn’t say a single word, small change scattered onto the floor and his hands, full of various little bits and pieces, shook so badly that he simply couldn’t find his pocket.

  It wasn’t fair! Bastards! Nobody specifically. Everybody. Isaac loathed them all.

  “I spoke to the doctor, don’t despair, of course it’s bad, but her life isn’t in any danger. You’ll definitely find the money for the surgery. And you should also see a doctor yourself, our medic said you have a slight concussion.”

  No one was waiting for Isaac in the dark street. There was nothing for him in the future either. Rage against the whole world overflowed him, anger at the world, at his own helplessness. He picked up a stone and dashed it into a shop-window. The siren howled and he turned into an alleyway. He finally arrived home at dawn.

  It was already lunchtime and Isaac was struggling to keep his eyes open. His body was complaining after the strain of the previous day, the despair that had made him decide to sell his creativity. The explosion, the hit to his head, the police station, Vicky being in coma; he didn’t sleep well turning from side to side the whole night. When he went to bed he couldn’t even undress and Elvis’s present was painfully prickling his leg as a reminder of the promise.

  Isaac pulled out the piece of the board from his pocket and investigated it. The piece was just a piece. Actually, some parts survived. Now Elvis gets behind the bars for a long time not even knowing that he didn’t destroy anything but Isaac’s plans. Actually, the other way round: he served Isaac a favor as he would have been a Happy or Vegie according to the opponents of the downloading by this time. Now he unexpectedly earned some time and gained new hope. He didn’t want to feel doomed.

  Isaac quickly undressed and plodded into the bathroom. Looking at himself in the mirror, he opened his eyes wide and raised his eyebrows. Squeezing his eyes open and shut he thought he looked more like a shabby hobo. Gazing out at him from the mirror was a thin young guy with dark hair and piercing grey-green eyes. The nose was a bit on the large side, so were the ears, and the cheeks were slightly hollow. You couldn’t really call him classically handsome, but the girls always saw something in him and they probably knew better. Even the small scar on his chin didn’t spoil his looks, instead it added a touch of the brutality that was lacking. Isaac made a slipshod attempt to tidy up his hair, but it still stuck out rebelliously. He glanced at the uneven covering of stubble on his face. “Unshaved as always, and I’m not going to shave,” he thought.

  “Women like stubble for some reason,” was the first clear thought that came to him. “And at the same time they complain that it’s prickly.” He tried to imagine what it was like when you stood at the mirror first thing in the morning and a girl walked up to you and ran her hand over your unshaven cheek like in an advertisement. But that was on television, that sort of thing didn’t happen in real life. Hop into the bathroom, grab a quick wash and dash off to deal with business at hand.

  The few girls Isaac had dated before had never done that.

  To get your cheek stroked, you needed someone you loved. A girl who loved you, not just some casual hookup. There hadn’t been any genuine loving in Isaac’s life since his sister had been ill and he didn’t wonder where it had gone.

  No one needs a boyfriend with problems, especially one who’s almost a beggar. Everyone has enough headaches of their own; they can do without anyone else’s. After discovering Vicky was ill, Isaac didn’t have the time or the money or, more importantly, the desire to have a genuine affair.

  He had to make do with the girls – the drunk ones – who came his way at the America. Hints were quite often made and he was given to understand or even told straight out that he was cute, that he had handsome features, that he was tall and well built. In fact he wasn’t that tall, but that didn
’t bother Isaac, it wasn’t a problem in his life. No one needed to explain to Isaac what the female tourists had in mind when they said that sort of thing to the first young guy they met. Take everything given, as they say, though he was always short of strength after a long shift and those short term lady friends simply highlighted that nobody seriously needed him. And he oh so wanted to be genuinely loved. Isaac could really be very dedicated to his loved one. It’s just that he had no chance of showing it. Even for his sister he was ready to sacrifice himself. When she fell sick, Isaac got deprived of the only love creek that the world directed towards him.

  Isaac woke from his thoughts beside his computer, with a cup of coffee in his hand. “Oh, coffee! When did I manage to make that? Some things get done on autopilot, as if you have your own barman sitting inside you,” Isaac chuckled to himself, but he wasn’t feeling cheerful. “Stop. Why go straight to the computer? That’s a habit. I have to call the hospital and find out about Vicky.”

  “Grace Kelly Hospital, how can I help you?” the phone said in the familiar rapid patter.

  “My name is Isaac Leroy…” Isaac cleared his throat, his voice was hoarse. “I’m calling to find out about the condition of my sister, Victoria Frank.”

  “One moment.” He was put through to a different number, introduced himself again and was reconnected again. Finally he heard the duty nurse in the right department rummaging through her papers and the clatter of a keyboard and then a considerate voice chirped in his ear.

  “Monsieur Leroy.” Isaac could never get used to that ceremonial form of address, and he winced every time. “Monsieur Leroy, your sister has stabilized and the worst has passed. At the moment she is listed as serious but in stable condition.”

  “But I was told she’s in a coma! I want to speak to her doctor.”

  The stupid, pathetic hope aroused by the medical term “stable condition” had been a mistake. The doctor confirmed that Vicky was in a coma, but only yesterday her condition had been much worse. She could have died. It was all over now, the doctors were monitoring her progress and it would be clear when the surgery could be performed.