The dust devil did a manic mambo on the blacktop and moved across the road to molest a gaggle of camera-toting tourists before unspooling. Watching from the car, Tom considered the cruel genesis of the wrinkled arroyos and stratified spires protruding from the desert floor like exclamation marks. He knew the scenic overlooks along Arizona’s Route 179 did a good business catering to visitors intent on capturing digital recollections of the red rock vistas. But out beyond Sedona’s commercial encampment of psychics and shops full of vortex maps and Jackalope postcards, he also glimpsed the sculpted remains of a geological last stand against entropy, a graveyard of mineral-rich mountains stripped to their bones and left in the sun to bake in their own pretty ashes.
Xander insisted on sending a driver to pick Tom up in Phoenix and bring him to the hideaway he was leasing from an A-list actor shooting a movie in Asia about Genghis Khan. “You’ll never find it on your own,” Xander boasted, “not even with a GPS.”
Arizona was quite a departure from their month-long hiatus in Berlin, where they had immersed themselves in the local EDM demimonde, staying with DJ friends in the louche former East Berlin area of Friedrichschain. Their lair was stumbling distance from refitted power stations and factories where insomniacs roamed murky chambers outfitted with heavy shades to blot out the dawn and keep them undulating to the beat, alone and together, grinding their hips inside the rhythm machine, taking refuge from their worries and obligations, napping for short intervals in the crannies and nooks around and between the monolithic speaker banks, oblivious to everything except the steady thrum of electrons spinning and sparking in the artificial night.
During their fourth week in Germany, Xander announced that he was looping back to Barcelona for a few days and then flying home to rekindle his muse and work on some new music. Tom stayed behind in Berlin, content to continue sampling the post-Soviet charms of Bitte, developing a taste for Bavarian beer and bratwurst and monitoring the EDM scene through industry colleagues and the 4chan b-tards, who were busy helping Anonymous take down a gang of Russian ransomware pirates. Since absconding to Germany, Tom had continued his campaign of electronic samizdat, and Swarm had begun to surface in the cultural mainstream, sometimes in reference to a shadowy cyber insurgent who had amassed an underground army of followers, sometimes as a catchphrase to describe a dawning realization that the true danger posed to society did not come from any single person or group but from the metastasizing grip of the Internet itself, reigniting the debate over the nature and limits of personal responsibility and social freedom, except that this time the argument was being monitored and measured in an echo chamber of blogs, texts, and tweets.
Was Swarm a person or a movement or something much more elemental, something hidden in plain view, like air, and just as ubiquitous? That day at the expo in Austin, conjuring flash mobs to flummox the feds, Tom had never felt more liberated and empowered. It was almost as if he had stepped out of Luminescence and into the physical world with a corresponding power to summon an unstoppable wind. By commanding the minds and actions of others in real time, his synapses had begun to fire in concert with a larger nerve center, a brain that was no longer his alone or limited by the physical and neurological limitations of his own body. How else to explain Lucy’s uncannily timed appearance at SXSW than the possibility that, under certain circumstances at least, zeph.r’s effects were not completely temporary. The intensity of their fusion had opened a door that could never be completely closed, no matter how much he tried to shake off his emotions or forget her desperate pleas as he pulled the plug, not just on their relationship but the entire virtual world that had once contained it.
Sitting in a café built of bricks recycled from the Berlin Wall, Tom pondered his predicament. He had created Swarm to protect himself, but the twined tango with his shadow self had become symbiotic. He was no longer merely speaking through Swarm; he was relying on Swarm to give him a voice that was echoing through the cyber-verse to a degree that even Tom found astonishing. But how could he lead the insurrection as a furtive fugitive in European exile? The cutting-edge video installations of WTV33, Room Division, and other Berlin innovators were tempting platforms for a widespread zeph.r transmission. But the anti-rave backlash trying to shut down EDM culture in America, or the new Kulturekampf, as the Berliners called it, had also started to surface in Europe. Tom couldn’t risk attracting attention to himself, certainly not at a time when the search for Swarm was becoming an international cause célèbre. By hopscotching across dark nets in cyberspace, Tom could communicate with anyone anywhere without leaving a digital footprint or deliver the mesmerizing graphics from “Stardust” along with his blogs and the zeph.r code in a downloadable app. He had even updated Swarm’s avatar so that a single pixel was added to his image with the arrival of each new viewer, rendering his visual appearance as a pulsating aggregation of microdots, the hive mind in a faceless humanoid form. Newspapers and websites around the world started publishing screenshots and video clips of Swarm’s stochastic silhouette, and one night, on his way home from the clubs, Tom passed a young German sporting a Swarm T-shirt. Tom wondered what the journalists and fans would say if they knew that every version of Swarm’s protean portrait, by virtue of becoming minutely modified by the very act of being seen, was intrinsically unique.
Despite his close call with the authorities in Austin, Tom was undeterred from his quest to use zeph.r as a bridge between the ineffable energy of collective thought and the quantum holy grail of particle physics, a tool that could pierce the membrane between omnipresent but unseen forces and reveal a unified supersymmetry of pure, transformational awareness. He knew that the laws of evolution were on his side and that it was only a matter of time before he found a way to gather the cranial critical mass that Dr. Park had warned against. But where and how? Maybe there was a clue to his next move in the way Swarm’s call to action was ricocheting around the planet, across borders and languages, gaining traction by the nanosecond. Tom had been scouring the Web for the latest manifestations of his alter ego, tracing the semiotic Braille of hyperlinked meme pathways, when he got the text from Xander inviting him to Sedona.
“We’re almost there,” the driver announced as they approached the end of a box canyon. Just when Tom was sure they could go no farther, the car took a sharp right and started climbing an escarpment on a dirt road that eventually dead-ended at a speaker box welded to a rusty red gate. The driver pushed the call button, and Tom heard Xander say, “Open sesame!” The motorized gates swung aside. They drove another ten minutes before Tom saw the house, a protruding blade of glass and steel stabbed into the mesa overlooking the north exposure of Cathedral Rock.
The front door was ajar, and Tom entered the sleek, cool interior, following a muffled thrum through the bamboo-floored rooms until he found Xander ensconced in the center of a makeshift studio, bobbing to the beat with a pair of headphones covering his ears, surrounded by a panoply of glowing consoles, LED screens, and keyboards, all connected to a tangle of wires strewn across the floor like linguini. Tom spotted an analog Moog Sub Phatty synthesizer and a vintage theremin in its original wooden console with what looked like a stubby car radio antenna poking up.
Seeing Tom, Xander removed the headphones and opened his arms wide. “Ditat Deus!”
“Amen, brother.”
Xander dropped his arms. “Dude, it’s the Arizona state motto. It’s Latin for ‘God enriches.’”
“Music to my ears.” Their hands clenched in greeting.
“You have no idea.” He pointed to the theremin. “Ever seen one of those?”
“Yeah, in books anyway,” Tom replied. “It’s the first instrument designed to be played without being touched. You could use it in our next gig.”
“Whatever,” Xander said. “I missed you, man. I have to say, I wasn’t sure you’d actually come. Still too much heat in Austin to go home?”
“It’s why you’re here in middle of nowhere, isn’t it?”
“Maybe I just needed a change of scenery.”
Tom pointed to a silver metal box about the size of a toaster oven stashed in the corner. The front-panel display had old-fashioned knobs and dials and a gleaming cathode-ray tube. “What’s that little gizmo?”
“Oh, that’s a Rife square wave generator,” Xander said. “It was built in the nineteen thirties by a scientist named Royal Rife. He believed that by exposing the brain to specific microwave frequencies, you could change people’s moods, improve their health, and even cure cancer. Our host—whose name I’m forbidden to utter by a legally binding NDA Agreement…” Xander leaned forward and silently mouthed the actor’s name. “He said I could use it, so I thought it might be interesting to see if the Rife beam box could be synched with the Omnisphere, you know, to intensify the audiovisual effects.”
“That would be sick,” Tom said,
Xander flipped the switch, and the Rife sprang to life. The dials flexed behind the indicator panels, and the cathode throbbed with a purplish glow. Even from across the room, Tom could detect a faint oscillating whine, a sound that was unexpectedly, excitingly familiar.
“Wow, that’s pretty intense,” Tom said, covering his ears with his hands. “Are you sure it’s safe?”
“Well, my landlord uses it all the time, and he looks pretty healthy.” Xander clicked off the Rife. “I thought this would be a good place for us to get some work done. No interruptions, just like the old days, you know?” He got up and gripped Tom’s shoulder. “C’mon, let’s have a drink. In the freezer is some ice wine I brought back from Berlin. There’s some killer sativa too.”
Xander retrieved a pair of tumblers and a tall, thin bottle filled with a clear liquid from the mesquite and granite bar and led the way out to the terrace. “This stuff will blow your mind, and if it doesn’t, the spice in the pipe definitely will,” Xander said as he uncorked the bottle and filled their glasses. “It’s made from late harvest grapes that freeze in the first frost. The pulp separates from the skin, releasing concentrated flavors and, some say, the grape’s true spirit.”
Tom lifted his glass. “To icy spirits and warm climates!”
“To hot women and cool mixes!”
The ice wine was dense, sweet, and bracing. Tom gazed into the gaping canyon and marveled anew at the g-force of their social acceleration. In less than two years, Xander had progressed from drug-dealing DJ wannabe to discerning oenophile and friend of unnamable movie stars who kept vintage microwave-beam generators in their bathroom. “This kind of reminds me of Vegas,” Tom said, “only better.”
Xander’s smile melted. “Nope, it’s nothing like Vegas or New York.” He lit the pipe, took a hit, and passed it to Tom. “This house is built on a vortex, you know, a geo-dimensional power spot. Do you feel it?”
“I do,” Tom said, holding his breath. “I most certainly do.” He exhaled and took another exquisite sip. “So, Xan, the ice wine and this cool-ass crib definitely don’t suck. But what are you really doing here, besides ignoring the headlines and playing with Rife beam in the bathroom?”
Xander’s gaze hardened. “I told you, I came here to work. I’m writing stuff for the next record and working on music for a film. Fabian thinks it’s a good move for my artistic cred. He says sound tracks are the next big thing.”
“No kidding. What movie?
“Hang on.” Xander dashed into the house and came back with a Velo-bound typed manuscript.
Tom read the title aloud: “Ocean’s 9/11.” He flipped through the pages. “It’s a joke, right?”
“Yeah, definitely,” Xander agreed. “It’s a rom-com about a terrorist attack on Vegas.”
“Didn’t that kinda already happen, during ARK?”
“But actually!” Xander took another drag and put it on the table. “I’m glad you brought it up. You know, I’ve been reading J. Krishnamurti, the Indian philosopher. He says we all want to be famous because we think it will give us freedom, except that the moment we aspire to be famous, we are no longer free.”
“Is that why you stopped touring, because you felt trapped by your fame?”
“No, I already told you. I stopped doing live gigs because the vibe went sour and people were getting hurt. In Spain, some people were saying that EDM DJs are techno terrorists.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Agreed, but still. In the Spanish press, they called me a murderer, Tom. A matador.” There was an ache in Xander’s voice that Tom had never heard before.
“Look, I hear what you’re saying. I feel it too, a change in the barometer, a shift of gravity. But I can’t back away or hide from it. We can’t stop being who we are.”
“Who are we, Tom?” It was more of an accusation than a question. “I’ve been thinking that maybe things happen for a reason. Maybe there’s a lesson, a message of some kind, in all the strange shit going down.”
“Who’s message?”
“I don’t know. But I thought if I turned down the volume for a while, I might be able to hear it.” Xander deferred to the yawning silence before continuing. “I went on a little excursion the other day, up to the Hopi reservation. It was pretty interesting. Maybe we can take a ride tomorrow and I’ll show you around.”
“What’s at the Hopi reservation?”
“Injuns!” Xander made a savage face emitting tribal hoots and Tom had to laugh. “There’s a guy who’s friends with my actor pal,” he continued, “He took me to a ceremony, you know, with a shaman, near a place called Prophecy Rock. It’s kind of a big deal to get invited, but this guy’s pretty plugged in with the locals. Anyway, it made an impression. I see things differently now.”
Tom considered the impassive walls of sandstone across the valley, tiny fissures burrowing into the rock for thousands of years, then one day the whole cliff collapses. “I feel the same way, buddy.”
“So then you’ll come to the reservation with me?”
“That’s not what I meant,” Tom said. “But, yeah, sure. Why not?”
“Awesome!” Xander jumped to his feet in celebration. “Wait, I wanna show you something.” He went into the house again and came out with a book-sized tablet. He tapped the screen, and sheets of water began to spill along the patio roof, glistening panels of liquid enclosing them on three sides. The temperature dropped immediately, and the acoustics shifted. Cathedral Rock was still visible, deconstructed and blurred into a flickering watercolor.
“You’re kidding me,” Tom said. Even in his enlightened state, Tom noted, Xander hadn’t tired of cool toys.
“It’s called hydro-architecture, walls made of moving water.” Xander stood up and pushed his finger through the translucent plane. “Tom, let’s try something. If you go out and get on the other side, I’ll get my camera and take your picture through the water.” Tom went outside on the terrace and slowly pushed his hands and face through the liquid curtain.
“Wow,” Xander said, snapping away. “The colors are fucking incredible. You look like you’re passing through the portal to another dimension. It’s kinda scary.”
“Yeah,” Tom said. “It is.”
Fluorescent lighting was cruel to most people, but Susan Oliver looked poised and lovely as she patiently waited in the interrogation room at Austin police headquarters. Her blonde curls and long white dress clashed with the drab surroundings, making her seem like a creature from another world, which, Duggan considered, was more or less true given the circumstances. There was nothing remotely exotic about the man in the blue suit sitting next to her, who reflexively glowered at Duggan as he entered the room and took his seat.
“Hello, Susan. It’s nice to see you again. I want to you thank you for taking the time to come in today.”
“Hi,” she said sweetly. “Nice to see you, too, Agent Duggan. I think you’ve already met my lawyer, Mr. Reyman.”
“Yes, I have,” Duggan affirmed. “I’m sure he’s informed you that you are not a suspect and that I just want to ask you a few questions.”
“On the condition that I can ask you some questions too,” she replied.
“I can’t promise that I’ll answer them, Susan, but you’re certainly welcome to ask.”
“You can call me Lucy. I mean, it actually makes more sense, you know?”
“Whatever you prefer, Lucy. Is that why you’re wearing the same dress you had on at the gaming expo?”
“I guess.”
“And maybe you could help me understand why you changed your mind about coming to talk with me?”
“Agent Duggan,” Reyman interrupted, “may I remind you that my client is here of her own volition and doesn’t have to answer any of your questions if she doesn’t wish to.”
“It’s okay, Mr. Reyman,” Lucy said with a rebuking tone. “Agent Duggan, I’m here against my attorney’s advice. But it’s only fair that you know I didn’t come here to help you. I came to help Swarm, you know, Mr. Aws. It took me a while to figure that out, so here I am.”
“What do you mean by help Swarm?”
Lucy shifted in her seat and tugged on a lock of buttery gold hair. “Well, like I told Professor Park, the main thing is I don’t want him to get hurt. I was there at the expo, and I know he’s in a lot of trouble …” Lucy put her hand up to her mouth, her eyes glistening with concern for her phantom lover, a person she knew only as a faceless body and an avatar called Swarm. “If I help you catch him, will you promise me he won’t get hurt?”
“You know I can’t do that, Lucy.”
“Then can you at least promise me that I can have a couple of minutes alone with him before you take him away?”
“A couple of minutes, yes,” Duggan said. “Alone, no.”
Lucy wiped her eyes and pushed her hair back behind her ears. “I figured that was the best I’d get.”
“You really care about him, don’t you?”
“Do you know what it feels like to love somebody, to touch each other’s souls across space and time, and yet you can’t ever be with that person? Physically, I mean.”
Duggan tried to look empathetic.
“So tell me, Lucy, what did you touch in Swarm’s soul?”
“Agent Duggan,” Reyman objected, “we had an agreement that you would respect certain boundaries about Ms. Oliver’s relationship with Mr., ah, Swarm. This man played with my client’s heart, and he owes her an apology and an explanation.”
Hearing a lawyer refer to a suspected cyber terrorist as if he were some kind of deadbeat boyfriend was almost too much for Duggan. He looked at the ceiling and took a breath before resuming.
“Lucy, in your online dates, did Swarm ever talk about his plans, about where he was going next, what he was planning to do, anything like that?”
She nodded and sat up straight in her chair. “Right before he left for China, before that last time I saw him in Luminescence, he said that he was close to reaching the critical mass for bio-emergence. I mean, he didn’t actually say it. I just knew. He was looking for a big event, lots of people, a party or a concert. And he was working on a device to make the mutation process go faster and mobile.”
“What did he mean by making mutation mobile?”
Lucy shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “I really have no idea. But if you take me to where he is and let me talk to him, I’ll do my best to find out.”
“But you’ve never seen his face, so how can you even be sure it’s him?”
“I know what he looks like inside. I’d see it in his eyes. Trust me, I would know.”
“And you’re willing to travel if necessary?”
“Sure, whatever it takes.”
Reyman held up his hands. “That’s absolutely out of the question, Agent Duggan. How could you possibly …”
Lucy gave her lawyer a fierce look of reproach that froze him midsentence.
“I’ll go wherever you want, Mr. Duggan,” Lucy said. “I can feel him changing. Don’t ask me how, but I can. I know he misses me, and he feels bad about hurting me. He’s afraid of me because I’m the only thing that could hold him back from the next level.”
“The next level?”
“Morphosis, the next evolutionary step in our species.”
“But how could you hold him back?”
“Because I’m the only one who knows his other self. You know, the part that’s still human.”