Clone City

At the conclusion of yet another meeting, Arron, the Director of Administration and the same person Ord had met on submitting a C80, decided to visit his favourite club, the Alzaris. It was one of the most exclusive, but, unlike so many of the new members, Arron did not go there to rub shoulders with names. He liked it for its calm, unchanging atmosphere. As he grew older, it seemed to him that Joypolitan society was becoming ever more desperate in its search for novelty. Why can’t they leave things as they are? he wondered as he stepped into an elevator.

As it soared upward, he tried to clear his mind of the clutter of impressions left by the meeting. Gorvik was not going to give up – he was determined to get the Seventh amended. If he could, he’d have it repealed, never mind amended. Can’t see it happening though. Not as long as Darvin’s in the chair. Sovran seems to be moving in Gorvik’s direction. Lara will never endorse it. Neither will Q’zar. The question is, will Valchek? He’s probably biding his time, waiting to get the highest price for his allegiance, never mind the issue. Darvin’s going to need more than political cunning if Gorvik and Sovran join forces. He’ll need a strong argument – something he sadly lacks.

Alighting at the next floor but one from the top of Joypolis Tower, Arron was met by Georg, the club’s major domo. He extended his hand for Arron’s cape. Arron unclipped it, handed it him, and followed him into the club. Georg swung the cape with a practised flourish over his forearm and led him as if they were entering the court of a foreign king. Arron wondered what it was about this man that made him do everything, even the smallest of tasks, as if they were all of such momentous importance.

As they entered, he looked around and noticed with satisfaction that the club was, just as he had hoped, almost empty. There were only two guests and they were about as far away from his customary seat as possible. When he sat down, Georg asked if he required ‘his usual’ and withdrew at his nod. Recently, some members had taken to calling him by his name. Arron considered this far too friendly. Turning, he gazed out of the window to change this fruitless line of thought.

Had he not seen this view countless times, it would have left him breathless. At a hundred and eighteen metres high, the view was magnificent. As he rested his eyes upon the green patchwork of the forest rolling into the distance, he settled back into his armchair and thought of Laia. He felt so happy. Laia, the very courtesan Ord had encountered on his way to the Secretariat, had agreed to become his official consort. He remembered how he’d fretted before popping the question. He was terrified she might refuse. Praise the Codes, he thought. He did not want to go through all that again.

He had liked her right from the start – the very first time he had set eyes upon her. He pictured the scene again. ‘Yes,’ she’d said, ‘Yes.’ And all this happiness was because of that yes. The relief he’d felt was overwhelming. He felt as if his head were in the clouds. Or, at least, as close to passion as a man of his age and temperament could be. As the joy subsided, a warm afterglow had filled him. This, he thought, is much better: it can be savoured. He took a sip of claret and, realizing he’d not even noticed Georg put it there, took a quick look around before returning to his reverie.

At the beginning, he did not think he had a chance. All right, he had the status and, in one sense, he could have almost anybody he wanted. But for a consort and a civic ceremony he wanted someone for whom he felt something special. Of course, he’d met other courtesans, but their charm seemed artificial. Flatterers, the lot of them he thought. But Laia, she had it all – youth, beauty, and that extra something that he couldn’t put his finger on, but which made everything so complete. For him, it wasn’t just her natural charm and beauty, it was the quality of feeling she brought to their relationship. She created the most marvellously intimate atmospheres, the like of which he’d never experienced before. I adore her, he thought. I’m in love!

He’d worried that she might refuse because of his age. She was only twenty-four and he fifty-six. But she didn’t seem to mind. He actually believed she should mind. Or, at least, at first he did. But when he realized his age did not enter her reckoning, it mattered less and less. At one point, he wondered if he weren’t being selfish: robbing her of a more robust relationship. But gradually, he realized why his age did not matter: she had never known her father. But what did it matter if he were a father-substitute if it did not affect the quality of their love?

No, she had been too young to remember her father. Not only he, but everyone knew this. Her father had been involved in the crime of the century. Alex Drovny was his name. He and her mother, Pharo, were partners. Social media was full of gossip about them. They often appeared on television, talking about what they liked to eat and whether they would ever live together and so on. They were very happy. But Drovny was also desired by the wealthy Azari. She craved him as her gamete partner and was not one to be denied. She arranged to meet Pharo on the pretext of having her horoscope done. Pharo, unaware of her true motive, kept the appointment. It was her last. After weeks of searching, her body was found rotting on the outskirts of the city. She had been stabbed to death. When investigators, at Drovny’s prompting, started questioning Azari, she denied the charges. But when the murder weapon was found, the evidence was stacked against her. A formal charge was delayed because of her position and influence. At one point, it looked as if she might even get away with it. Incensed, Drovny broke into her apartment, strangled her and committed suicide.

According to Q’zar, the excitement whipped up by Media played no small part in the bungling of the investigation by his department. Eventually, he managed to marshal political support and put pressure on Media to shift its focus to other matters. Lee, who then headed Media, reluctantly agreed. Gradually, the whole matter was consigned to history. All three became icons of the pitfalls of passion and the affair dubbed the Romeo Complex. In short, it was explained away.

In the aftermath, one of the recommendations was that Pharo and Azari’s daughters, Laia and Zarina (renamed Zuriko) should be fostered within the School of Aesthetics so that the karma of their past should not be revisited upon them. Karma, indeed, scoffed Arron. But he had to admit that, in this case at least, the recommendation had proven successful. Neither Laia nor Zuriko seemed to bear one another any grudge and both had grown up as psychologically normal.

He believed his reputation was in the clear. Drovny’s suicide had proved he was innocent, Laia was much liked and Zuriko hugely popular. No doubt when they declared their civic union, some political enemies might try to sully his reputation. And, yes, he supposed he would run the risk of losing face. But the impression he’d got from sounding out a number of influential figures was positive. Some even hinted that he might gain from such a union. He did not like the insinuation of altruism for political gain, but he’d thought about it very carefully and believed his gain in terms of happiness far outweighed any possible, temporary loss of face.

At this point, Arron’s reverie was interrupted by laughter from a group of people entering the club. He leaned over and saw Sovran leading them. Tall, black, and with features so arresting one could easily imagine she was an archetype of her race. She certainly had charisma, and though one could hardly fault her for that, Arron knew this gave her an uncanny gift of getting people to talk far more than was good for them. He eased himself back into his armchair. After a few moments, he heard their chatter subside as they moved away. He stole one more glance in their direction to see where they had sat. That’s where O used to sit, he thought.

Recently, he had noticed an article in the Joypolitan Times. It was a satire of O’s Belief Department. No doubt Sovran was behind it. It was not a lead story or anything like that. That would have been too risky. It was an ongoing raillery of an inefficient government department. Different names had been used to avoid political repercussions, but it was clearly ridiculing O and his department.

Hardly surprising, Arron had to admit. O had neither been seen nor heard of for almost five years. As a result, both the department as well as O had become a laughing stock. But for the fact that O was a direct descendant of Dovan, the leader of the Founders, criticism would have been far less muted.

Originally, O’s department had been established to provide citizens with an alternative to religion which was considered subversive. But O’s teachings had become more and more divorced from mainstream thinking which was utilitarian. O was not his real name, but one he had chosen as symbolising his belief in the contemplation of the void. He no longer lived on the Topround of the Tower with Joypolis’ elite, but wandered the streets like an itinerant. While most citizens considered him eccentric, the reaction of the nobility ranged from embarrassment to outright condemnation. No one knew exactly where he lived. Security could easily find out, but O’s privileged position forbade them from doing so. It would have been ‘bad form’.

Arron’s rumination on O’s withdrawal from public life were interrupted by another group entering the club. This time they sat within earshot, something he could not abide. Not wishing to make it plain that he was leaving because of their presence, he lingered and watched how the wild ground between the trees at the edge of the forest and the city’s perimeter was being levelled to provide landfill sites. May the Will of the Founders protect us from the Outside, he murmured before draining his glass and heading for the exit.