"My agent of fortune returns. Happy Dante."

"My agent of fortune returns. Happy Dante."

"What's the favour you mentioned?"

"Are you... outside just now?"

"I'm not entirely sure where I am."

Alternative wording

"Yeah, I'm near the Bazaar."

Alternative wording

"Yeah, I'm on a roof in the Housing Campaign."

Alternative wording

"Yeah, I'm in Party Alley."

Alternative wording

"Yeah, I'm by the Old Docks."

Alternative wording

"Yeah, I'm by the Quisach Roundabout."

Alternative wording

"Yeah, I'm in the Backways."

Alternative wording

"Yeah, I'm out on the Pitol Tract."

"Perfect. Beautiful. Next question: Do you know what a ginkyo tree looks like?"

"I'm well acquainted with the old Luzian ginkyo and its significance."

"You've been busy."

"The Opera never tires."

"So it appears." A pause. "I take it that means it hasn't yet shed its leaves?"

"The leaves are still there."

"Lucky for you then."

"For my part, I can't see a tree like that and not think of home."

"I hear they're all clones of the same tree."

"Yes, perfect reproductions. Far better than anything Anonimo's poor imprints have managed, despite our imagined techno miracles."

"And yet for me they all recall a single tree: An ancient specimen, in the centre of the courtyard at my old school..."

"Seems like a contradiction."

"Particulars make the universal. Didn't they say you were a communist?"

"Are you getting nostalgic over there?"

"Have I reminded you recently that I'm in a lightless hole beneath the earth? I'll take my succor where I can."

"Yes, perfect reproductions. Makes you humble to think of the state of our own techno capabilities."

"Loving old trees doesn't sound very techno-fascist."

"There's nothing the techno-fascist palette craves more than the sick-sweet nostalgia for the future we've yet to attain. At higher tiers, this nostalgia also encompasses an appreciation for that which would be lost were our radiant dawn to come to pass."

Hook it right up to your pleasure centre, this is the good stuff.

"You're saying you feel the loss of the ginkyo even though it's still here."

"Precisely. An exquisite sensation, to taste the memory while savouring the actuality. I hope you get to experience it sometime."

"Technology does not exist in opposition to nature. It masters, dominates, but also respects that which knows its role. Like the relationship between man and slave. We make each other."

"Trees just don't seem very techno is all."

"You like thinking of the home you're trying to flee?"

"That's the idea, of course. They're not native to this place. They were carried clipping by clipping from the temperate zones of the Empire. But here's the rub, they never truly adapt to their adopted climes..."

Like you, the eternal stranger. All safehouses, no home.

You are reminded of certain religious teachers of your childhood, who wore traditional silk raiments all year round.

They frequently lost fingers to frostbite in the Mircean winter, and wore their absence like trophies.

"The result is that all Luzian ginkyos, wherever they are in the world, lose their leaves at precisely the same time every year."

A gäng of ten million hearts beating as one.

"What's more, they lose them in spectacular fashion -- over the course of just a few hours. In the morning you might see them in their full glory, and by evening they'll be naked, a brilliant gown strewn about their feet."

"Sounds beautiful."

"It's incomparable. And one's appreciation for it only deepens the more you understand its significance..."

"The envoys of the first Illuminated Empire made sure to plant ginkyos in every territory they claimed -- thus wherever the Empire's light touched, no matter how remote or seemingly inhospitable, there's a reminder of home."

It's nighttime in Party Alley. The people are out, nothing can keep them away.

Bands of rain continue to move slowly north and east across the region. Walks home expected to be unseasonably melancholic. North wind 5-8 kph, becoming calm after midnight.

"Thank you for indulging a poor man's whims. I was afraid I'd miss the leaves falling this year."

Overcast skies incoming, bringing light rain and a strong tendency to see oneself reflected in the environment. Expect gusts up to 20kph.

Patchy fog in the morning expected to burn off yesterday's illusions. Increasing clouds, low near 9 degrees.

It's evening in Party Alley. The people are out, searching for comfort and pleasure.

It's morning in Party Alley. There's almost no one around.

It's midday in Party Alley. The people are going about their shopping.

"Sounds boring."

"Only for a minor soul alienated from the natural world and its treasures..."

"Sounds like it turns you on."

"Like the sexual act, it's an intensely spiritual experience if you've got any appreciation for it..."

"Enough tree-talk, I did your favour."

"And to think, we were just getting to the best part." A sigh. "You never like my stories, it seems."

"Thank you for letting me know. I was afraid I would miss them falling this year."

"Maybe I'm just mad for trees."

"Perhaps so." A pause. "I take it that means it hasn't yet shed its leaves?"

Say nothing.

"I take it that means it hasn't yet shed its leaves?"

"I'm standing near one right now, in fact."

"Very good. Now, tell me: What's it like? I want to feel like I'm there, looking at it with you."

"I'm not really one for descriptions..."

"I've been in this timeless box for days. I've not seen natural light since they brought me here. I've not felt a breeze on my cheek either."

Describe the ginkyo tree.

A fireball of gold, frozen in time. People go about it, oblivious to the miraculous violence in their midst.

A few metres away, another aero-tram arrives. A loving couple, sloppy drunk, embraces, milliseconds away from being engulfed in brilliance. No one seems to notice.

THE WORLD WILL STOP FOR THE VERY THOUGHT OF US

No one, except you.

"It reminds me of an explosion."

"Ohhh! An arresting image. What do you suppose it means?"

"I caused it -- this is my doing."

"What's that -- stirrings of a guilty conscience? Or some kind of premonition?"

The moment passes. The loving couple have collapsed in embrace.

TAKE ME TO THE PEOPLE'S SQUARE CARNATIONS IN YOUR HAIR AT LEAST YOU GET TO KEEP YOUR NAME

When you look at the ginkyo again, it's no longer a symbol of your past failures and future forebodings. It's just a tree again.

Alternative wording

When you look at the ginkyo again, it's no longer a symbol of your past failures and future forebodings. It's just a tree again.

Alternative wording

When you look at the ginkyo again, it's no longer a prop in your paranoid psychodrama. It's just a tree again.

Alternative wording

When you look at the ginkyo again, it's no longer a symbol of your 'hardcore' self-image. It's just a tree again.

Alternative wording

When you look at the ginkyo again, it's no longer a flickering mental figment. It's just a tree again.

The moment passes. The commuters have deserted the plaza.

The moment passes. The pensioners have got on with their shopping.

The moment passes. The kids have moved off.

"This isn't real. It's a staged action, the real explosion is invisible."

"Now you're just babbling. You sound like a chemical fiend."

"It's like a missile strike, just what we've been missing."

"Do you often dream of senseless destruction? May be a sign of a malformed conscience."

"It's just an image my mind is making, it means nothing."

"Sure, sure. Probably it means nothing at all."

A few metres away, another aero-tram arrives. Commuters step off, their bodies sore after their daily labours, milliseconds away from being engulfed in brilliance. No one seems to notice.

A few metres away, another aero-tram arrives. A few old pensioners disembark for their daily shopping, milliseconds away from being engulfed in brilliance. No one seems to notice.

A few metres away, another aero-tram arrives. A few crusty youths play music from a nearby boombox, milliseconds away from being engulfed in brilliance. No one seems to notice.

Metaphors, sensory details, vivid descriptions -- these are the tools of cowards. Just say what's in your dome.

"It's very leafy, I'd call this a very leaf-oriented tree."

"'Leaf-oriented', is that your best? You sound like an idiot with a 'liberal arts' degree."

Education: University of Landau (Degree incomplete). Course of study: Modern economy (maternal pressure).

"At least that means it hasn't shed them yet, that's the main thing. Thank you for indulging a poor man's whims."

"It's haunted, isn't it? This tree is full of ghosts."

"'Full of ghosts'? Did your mother huff paint thinner? Your skull must be soft."

Preferred vices, mother: Nicotine, alcohol, 'diet shakes'. No known history of solvent abuse ('low-class').

"At least tell me has it still got its leaves? You're capable of that, right?"

"You insulted me, now wallow in uncertainty."

"Woe to me for having such a petulant phone pal. Fine, forget it."

"It does, yeah."

"Good, good. That's what I needed to know. Thank you for indulging a poor man's whims."

"Nature is weak as balls, there's nothing to say about it."

"'Weak as balls', is that your best? You sound like an adolescent who's never known the belt's kiss."

No references found under 'mother' and 'abuse, physical' ('low-class'). 'Abuse, verbal' contains frequent references to 'withholding affection' and 'withering criticism'.

"I'm not painting you a mind-picture, sorry."

"Disappointing. But tell me this at least: Does it still have its leaves?"

"Why do you care? It's just a tree."

"It's so much more than that. If you had any conception."

"The leaves are still there, yeah."

"Good. That's good..."

"I don't know much about trees."

"It will be the most violently, gloriously yellow one. The one that most reminds you that all of human existence is a mere fleck of dust on the geologic timescale."

"Yeah, there's one right here."

"There's a yellow tree in Party Alley, near the aero-tram stop."

"If you would, please find the nearest payphone to that tree and call me from there. It's important."

"I haven't seen a tree like that."

"There should be one near the Party Alley aero-tram stop. Call me back once you've reacquainted yourself with eternity."

"Yes, there's one near Party Alley."

"Fine start. Next question: Do you know what a ginkyo tree looks like?"

"I can see your yellow tree from here."

Alternative wording

"I can see your ginkyo tree from here."

"Is your name 'Dante' by any chance?"

"It might be. Though under the circumstances I'd say 'Poor Dante' is more appropriate."

"I found your exit papers."

"Ah, what relief. You've set an old man's mind at ease."

"And what about my other requests? Tempo gave me certain assurances."

"Hang on, what assurances?"

"Nothing extravagant. Safe passage to Novessa, a residence permit and a little apartment in the old town, a lectureship at the Polytechnic, total immunity for any 'offenses' your Party believes I've committed against 'the people'."

Speculative freelancing. Your old asset had no authority to make offers on behalf of the Opera.

HE CAN FIND HIS 'IMMUNITY' IN THE LUNAR CADMIUM MINES.

"Whoa, whoa -- what kind of 'offenses' are we talking about?"

"Don't worry, only things of a purely cultural nature."

"Uh... look, Tempo couldn't really get any of that stuff."

"Really? Not even the little apartment in old town? I was told the roof would have that beautiful red tile..."

A romantic image drawn from postcards issued by the Tourism Bureau.

"I suppose I sound ungrateful." He sighs. "Well, I'll await your word."

"No problem, I've taken care of everything." (Lie.)

"Splendid. Then I'll await your word."

"But now I'm curious what you intend to do with them. Does that mean you've decided to help me get out of this place?"

"Maybe. I've got an offer for you."

"Joy. Deneb has seen fit to raise me up from my despair. What's the price?"

Slavering, savouring.

"The contents of your mind. You're going to get me a shot at the Grand Lich."

"I suspected as much, of course. But tell me, why does your Opera want to kill the Luzian Minister of Mass Culture?"

No judgement in his voice. His curiosity is innocent, almost childlike.

"Because we're natural enemies."

"I think you mean you are ideological enemies. Naturally, you may get along quite well."

"So I'm to play the traitor's theme. Help a gang of communist thugs assassinate my friend and master, all to disrupt our brilliant march toward the Final Society..."

The line hums. Dank water drips.

"Sure, nameless one. No problem."

Alternative wording

"Sure, Hershel. No problem."

"That's it? No pangs of remorse about betraying your own kind?"

"What can I say? Prison has made me into a realist."

"I only hope that you don't plan to shoot me in the back of the head at your earliest convenience. An ignominious end for Poor Dante."

Alternative wording

"I only hope that you don't plan to shoot me in the back of the head at your earliest convenience. An ignominious end for a poor prisoner like myself."

You can practically feel the fetid water sloshing about his feet.

"Who said anything about shooting you?"

"No one had to say anything. Some words are as superfluous as names."

Silence pops and hisses on the other end of the line.

"Seeing as how you've already secured my exit papers, I suppose that means we have a deal."

"There's just one teensy weensy matter -- my exit papers."

"You mean the ones Tempo promised you?"

"What good is my freedom if I'm trapped in Portofiro, easy prey for the Weeping Eye or anyone else who holds Poor Dante's choices against him?"

Alternative wording

"What good is my freedom if I'm trapped in Portofiro, easy prey for the Weeping Eye or anyone else who holds an old man's choices against him?"

Where the Opera would send him, he'll have no need for papers.

"Any idea where these papers are?"

"Tempo assured me they were already fabricated and ready to be retrieved. Of course, he was probably lying."

"Got it. I'll find them."

"Thank you, nameless one. Then I suppose we have a deal."

Alternative wording

"Thank you, Hershel. Then I suppose we have a deal."

"Maybe, if I have time."

"Hardly an inspiring response. Remember, we need each other."

"There's no matter. I've got them."

Say nothing.

"You turned on your comrade way too fast. What have you got up your sleeve?"

"Be serious. They took everything when they tossed me in here. I haven't even got sleeves."

"Cool tits."

"Well, there's this big board in Opera headquarters, it says 'WIN CONDITIONS' at the top..."

"I pray to Deneb that you're speaking figuratively."

"... it's not a literal board. More like a table..."

"Ah. You're being literal, aren't you?"

You've exchanged the tyranny of history for the tyranny of the spreadsheet. A poor bargain.

"... I think La Luz is winning, if I understand correctly..."

"Are you going soft in the head?"

"... you see, the Superbloc is going for the moral victory condition..."

"Not familiar with that one, I have to say."

"... and anyway, the board says the Lich needs to die."

"It's true what they say: Better never to look behind the curtain."

"I told you already -- I'm on a quest for forgiveness."

"Of course. A heartwarming tale of regeneration through violence. We may make a fascist of you yet."

"Our ways are our own."

"As good a reason as any. Maybe the best one, all things considered."

"Don't know, don't care."

"No. Why should you? You're just the errand girl."

"I haven't made up my mind yet."

"You know, some would say toying with an old man's hopes counts as elder abuse."

"I have an offer that might get you out of here."

"What can you tell me about the Hundred Eyed Golem?"

"You mean Tesoro Buendia, the head of the Weeping Eye."

"You don't like his epithet?"

"Oh, I do. A quaint Opera tradition, the demonisation makes us easier to kill. We do it too, mostly with undesirable minorities."

FALSE, TECHNO-FASCISTS ARE ALWAYS EASY TO KILL. THE NAMES ARE SIMPLY THE TRUTH OF THEM.

"I'm guessing he's another imprint, like the Lich."

"Naturally, given his position. He's from a 'hardline' strain, nearly all the security and military chieftains are."

"What's he like?"

"Cruel. Intelligent. But also somehow unimaginative."

"He's addicted to cartomancy, I've heard. A ludicrous habit for the head of our secret police, beholden to the turn of a card." He sighs. "But here we are."

A broad-set man surveys his cards through double-lensed spectacles, whispering to himself as he draws. Agents of the Weeping Eye sit heads bowed around him, waiting for the word of god.

"I hear he and the Grand Lich don't get along." (Proceed.)

"They represent different ministries, with different prerogatives. Tesoro and his goons still look at the world in terms of possessions and the tonnage of aircraft carriers. He's one of the most rabid proponents of Reunión."

A cleavage you'd do well to remember. There may be something to exploit here.

"Facundo and the Ministry of Mass Culture, however, take a different view."

"I imagine the Golem isn't too keen on these secret treaties."

"Hates them. Astute of you to notice."

"Any advice, if I ever meet him?"

"Yes. Pray for quick death."

Fuck that. Grant him one instead.

"That's enough. Thanks."

He says nothing, yet you feel him weighing you up on the other end of the line.

"I found the 'device' you gave Tempo."

"See? I was true to my word. What do you make of our techno glories?"

"I hear it makes copies of people."

"No, not copies. Imprints. The difference is subtle and vast."

"What it attempts to do is copy the mental pictures the machinery generates. Even then the picture quality tends to be shit. The tragic beauty of the prototype."

Trapped between the old reality that created it and the new one it failed to bring about.

"How does this 'imprinting' work, exactly?"

"Begin with a memory. The more formative, the better. What the device does is transfer that memory from the user to the subject, making the subject believe the memory is their own."

"Of course, under normal circumstances, the mind would simply reject this false memory, the same way the body might reject a foreign organ."

"I heard drugs and hypnosis are involved."

"All transformation is violent. Don't be squishy."

"Naturally, the process works best on catatonics and simpletons."

... like your unfortunate double, for instance.

"Assuming the subject is sufficiently pliant, the transferred memory imprints itself."

"And the mind constitutes a new psyche around the imprinted memory."

"A new psyche that mimics that of whoever supplied the memory."

"That's the idea, anyway. Of course, the quality of the copy depends on many factors: The vividness of the memory, the suitability of the subject, and so on."

"And this... really works?"

"So the device is some kind of mental theatre projector."

"What a sweet way to think of it. Simply an exchange of home movies."

"How do you make the subject accept the imprint?"

"Dream guidance, dissociative anaesthetics, you can use your imagination."

"I took it for a spin. The results have been... mixed, so far."

Alternative wording

"I took it for a spin. The results have been more 'tragic' than 'beautiful', so far."

"A tale as old as Anonimo himself. May I ask where you found a suitable subject?"

A little impressed, a little disturbed.

"My own double was incapacitated by our enemies. I couldn't stand to keep looking at him like that."

"So rather than leave him a blank canvas you made him a self-portrait in a convex mirror."

"And? Are you pleased with the results? I suppose if we're speaking it means they haven't succeeded in murdering you yet."

We would never... would we?

"Excuse me?"

"Have I frightened you? Not my intention. It's just that the experience of meeting your imprint can be quite visceral. Stirs up painful feelings about the nature of the self, among other things..."

"The same may be said for the imprints themselves, of course."

"They seem deeply confused about the nature of their role."

"Can't really blame them. To be ripped from blissful eternity and thrust into this sewer..."

He's leaning against the wall for support, pressing his mouth to the receiver. He stirs the dark water with the tip of his foot.

"I would say confusion is the natural response."

"They seem deeply confused about which of us is the real deal."

"I've reinforced the hierarchy. My imprint is seen and not heard."

"Is that right? The classless society begins at home, I suppose."