Conversation · Joyce Messier

"A city state divided into free market zones. Under the everlasting interregnum of the Coalition of Nations. And you, of course -- the Citizens Militia."

The clatter of typewriter keys fills the main hall of a re-appropriated Silk Mill -- Precinct 41. Chad Tillbrook presses ENTER. Outside: Officer Elfboy Williams slams the door of an armoured motor carriage...

"The Zone of Control is the third incarnation of Revachol. After the failure of the Suzerain and the Commune."

"What happened in the rest of the world?" (Proceed.)

"Modernity. They developed the marvels of interisolary communication, telematic milieus, radiation, coloured plastics. Meanwhile, in Revachol West, the aftermath continues for the fifth decade."

51 - 8 = 43

"Wait, you're saying it's been like this for 43 years?"

"Time flies."

"That's it then. Another topic."

"Anxious to hear more about mineral rights or who got shot in the head?" A flash of teeth in her feisty grin.

"What have we been doing all that time?"

"The Twenties saw a decade of urban war: West of the river levelled, offshore platforms in flames... Still, it's regarded as an improvement on what came before: '08 to '19 was simply hell..."

"And after that?"

"The Thirties? Things settled down in the Thirties. Revachol East transformed itself into the world's largest tax haven -- with the international community's blessing. For the first time in a long time it seemed like things were going somewhere."

Then you happened. Your youth in the Thirties.

All that untaxed income must have fuelled The New. That can only mean one thing...

"That's when they discovered Disco."

"Yes. And quantitative easing. It was a market mirage, unfortunately. The Forties dispelled it. An isola-wide hangover, you might say. So, here we are..." She curtsies.

"Welcome to reality, baby."

From the looks of it the Fifties haven't been much better for the Zone of Control -- you can see it in her eyes. Days slipping away....

Say nothing.

She's silent a moment, contemplating. When she finally speaks, her tone is wistful: "We could have had so much more. Every one of us -- if only we'd played it right."

"You don't seem to be thrilled..."

"I've no right to be dissatisfied," she shakes her head. "This shirt is Barbara Muskova. This raincoat is impervious to rain and is guaranteed for a hundred years, my daughters will wear it. No, it's just..." She looks at the crumbling tenements, paint flecking from the stone...

Her voice is almost wistful. "We could have had so much more. Every one of us -- if only we'd played it right."

For her to be where she is Wild Pines Group must have picked the right side.

"Welcome to reality, baby."

"Were they?"

"No. It was a market mirage fuelled by cocaine and quantitative easing. The Forties dispelled it like a cold splash. An isola-wide hangover, you might say. And here we are..." She curtsies.

"It's been like this for how long, exactly?"

"Forty-three years. Hard to fathom, I know."

"Our lives are not the same."

"No doubt -- but we share the same time and position on the planet's crust. That counts for more than you'd think."

Something tells you her life and yours are not that similar.

"No way."

"Indeed. Tzaraath is a highly infectious microorganism that destroyed brain tissue. The actual causes of the Revolution were material. The pandemic only provided the spark."

"Which side was Wild Pines Group on?"

"They picked the winning side. That's why they're here and others are not."

"They got lucky."

"Perhaps it wouldn't have turned out that way had I been in charge. I might've bet on the king and led the Pines to doom."

"You would have sided with the king?"

"I would have sided with the cannons. If you'd seen the calibres of the things, you might've, too... " She thinks. "Perhaps it's better I was born when I was..."

"Ten of the fourteen indotribes got it wrong: Feld, Coupris, Tricentennial... So I suppose I would have been in good company."

"Coupris is still around, aren't they?"

"That's not Coupris, dear. It's just a brand name, snatched up by a Vespertine holding company. No, the real Coupris is as dead as the king they bet on."

She narrows her eyes -- turning her gaze to the future out of professional habit...

All she can see are vague outlines of a great winding down. The doldrums. People killed, but no great transitions of wealth. It makes her feel old -- and something else. Something you can't put your finger on...

A quietly simmering rage.

"They chose wisely."

"What would you have done differently?"

"Good question." She cranes her neck: "What would you have done differently?"

No -- her first.

"I would have sought a medical solution. Sounds like tzaraath drove those people mad."

A cold creeps up your spine, reaching its tendrils up your neck, toward the back of your head...

"So a quarter of humanity..." she calculates, "...simply lost their minds? And how would you stop a prion -- a complex folding protein; un-life -- with the technology 50 years ago?"

"Okay. Maybe it's impossible. What happened had to happen. And always will."

The wind stops and for a moment there's silence. The charge dissipates into the dark water. All is quiet on the Martinaise inlet...

A dog barks, a gunshot echoes off the walls of some distant building. A woman's voice...

ALWAYS.

"Always," She nods. "That's the can't-do-attitude that truly defines Late Modernity. You may prove a Modern Man yet."