LoveStar (10 page)

“I'll think about it,” said Simon, preparing to hang up.

“I'll hold,” said the moodman.

“What?”

“Your week's leave begins in two minutes.”

A clock appeared in front of Simon and started to count down the two minutes.

“Two minutes?”

Flustered, Simon hurriedly looked over the special assignment and weighed up the choices. “If I don't do it someone else will,” he thought to himself. “That someone else could be a brute of a debt collector who uses extreme methods.”

“I'll take it on,” said Simon dully, with only fifteen seconds remaining.

He received instant total access to Indridi's and Sigrid's personal media. At first it seemed a bit of a dirty job to Simon, but he convinced himself that he was mainly doing Sigrid a favor that she would appreciate later. Then his guilt gave way to a pure spirit of competitiveness. He went energetically to work, directing appropriate documentaries, propaganda films, and ads their way. He adjusted song lyrics and talk shows before forwarding them: “True love never lasts beyond five years and seven months.” He pulled a few strings to make their life a bit harder by influencing the banking system and timetable of shifts at the geriatric unit.

But Indridi and Sigrid were stubborn, unbelievably stubborn, and his budget was running low. If things went on the way they were going he would get nothing in return and his personal rating would drop even further. He'd soon be reduced to being a trap or howler. Simon decided to invite Indridi to lunch and assess his will to fight, see whether his defences hadn't lowered enough for an ordinary lecture to do the trick.

“RAVEN LIQUORICE,” answered Indridi wearily when Simon called. (It was Thursday, when iSTAR would hire out part of the howlers' daily vocabulary. A company could have its name substituted for hello, bye, really, yes, no, black, or white. This turned conversations toward the brand.)

“I was wondering whether we could meet up at lunchtime?” said Simon.

“SINALCO, I'm afraid not,” said Indridi. “I'm meeting Sigrid for lunch.”

“I sent Sigrid an e-mail,” said Simon. “She said it was okay by her.”

“MANGO ZEST, she said that?”

“Let's say twelve, at The Althing, the new place in the old parliament house. Bye.”

“COUNTRY COOKIES.”

Simon briefed himself well in order to exploit the lunch to the fullest. He went carefully through all the reports about Indridi. He was recorded as a down-to-earth, honest, and loyal individual. According to the service rep who managed Indridi, he was borderline autistic from a marketing point of view. No doubt that explained why he clung so tightly to Sigrid. Indridi could be relied on to buy blueberry yogurt, Bounty bars, Adidas shoes, Grandma's Pancakes, Blizzard skis, liver paté, and Co-op bread. If he went out at lunchtime he generally bought soda and olive bread at the Norwegian place in the old City Jail downtown, or chicken at the Indian place in the old Ministry Offices. He read the Morgunbladid newspaper and ate ham and pineapple pizzas. He was filled with insecurity if the packaging of his favorite brands was changed or production stopped due to technological advances or low sales. It generally didn't pay to pester Indridi, but when a new invention or product line came on the market there was everything to lose. Indridi had a strong sense of sympathy and generally sided with the underdog or those who were badly treated in some way. The reports said: “Never buys mega-bestsellers, tries to even out the share of those which are good but sell less.”

Indridi looked rough: unkempt and unshaven with shadows under his eyes. The waiter brought a complimentary beer for Simon while Indridi devoured a puffin sandwich. Simon had recommended it wholeheartedly.

Simon put a book on the table. It was a bestseller that had sold millions of copies within certain target groups. Indridi picked up the book and examined it.

“Great book,” said Simon. “Shame it's been overshadowed by other titles, just because they're better marketed. It's sad when sales hype matters more than quality.”

“I've heard of it,” said Indridi. “Wanted to read it.”

Simon employed his closing tactic. “I'm in a book club. I could have it sent to you at club price.”

“FRESH HADDOCK, thanks,” said Indridi, which Simon took as acquiescence and closed the sale on the spot.

They were sitting by the window in The Althing chamber. Above them was a screen with a direct link to the Democracy machine. It was connected to the pulse of the nation at iSTAR and provided such a complete picture of the people's wishes that it had replaced both parliament and government. The nation's views on motions, which the government firms (mostly owned by iSTAR) placed before it, were updated hourly. There weren't actually that many motions and some were only there to amuse the restaurant customers. Indridi watched the letters moving across the screen: Do you want to add the LoveStar symbol to the national flag? Yes: 69%. No: 11%. Motion carried. . . . Do you want an oil war with the Faroe Islands? Yes: 49%. No: 51%. Motion rejected by a narrow margin. . . . Do you want rebirths and spare copies to be legalized again? Yes: 81%. No: 10%. Motion carried. . . . Do you want to cut your standard of living and provide better services for the disabled? Yes: 15%. No: 69%. Motion rejected. . . .

Simon cleared his throat and turned to the issue at stake. The book sale was only a warm-up, his way of getting in the mood. While they were sitting there the topic of conversation edged ever closer to the center, like a needle on a record, closer to the goal where it would all end.

“How are things going with you and Sigrid?” asked Simon, sipping his beer.

“Sigrid and I didn't calculate together,” said Indridi sadly.

“Shame,” said Simon, “but, look on the bright side, you have to be glad for her. It's impossible to feel sad about other people's happiness.”

“PRINCE POLO, perhaps not,” said Indridi.

“Your time will come, Indridi. Be sure to remember LoveStar's philosophy: Free the one you love. To me these words contain an important truth. Maria and I decided to see whether we could free each other. It was hard at first, but now we're fine. I've never had so many compliments from complete strangers.” (He got a lump in his throat merely from thinking about Maria.)

“But our case is really special,” said Indridi. “You don't understand how it is between Sigrid and me. Our relationship is unique.”

“Unique? What do you two talk about?”

“Talk about?” Indridi thought. “Just, lots of things. Sometimes we lie around all evening talking.”

“But what do you talk about?”

Indridi thought but couldn't remember any particular topic of conversation. “I don't know exactly,” he said.

“But what do you do?”

Indridi thought and shrugged. “What anyone does,” he said. “Live, and cuddle when possible.”

Simon had difficulty hiding the fact that he had always found Indridi and Sigrid rather nauseating. Nauseating was perhaps putting it too strongly. Indridi and Sigrid were incredibly sweet together and okay in most ways, even fun, but they were somehow so steamy. Always had their hands down each other's backs, grabbing each other's asses. There was something in their eyes and the way they kissed for no reason. Even when they weren't French-kissing, their kisses were lewd with wet, pouting lips and half-closed eyes that looked creepy with only the whites visible. If they behaved like that in public you could bet they went a lot further in private. Simon felt uneasy shaking their hands, as if he had touched a soiled doorknob in a public restroom—there was no telling where their hands had been.

Simon looked at Indridi, who was raising his index finger to his nose. Simon grimaced. He suspected them of wiping each other's scent on their fingers or the backs of their hands before they went to work. They both had a strange nasal twitch that reinforced his suspicion. He was sure they sent each other regular messages saying when they should both sniff: “Sniff me.” He suspected them of being in constant audio contact, even when they weren't always talking to one another, just to be sure that the other was alive and breathing. If Simon bumped into Sigrid at a store she often referred word for word to the conversation Indridi had had with him earlier that morning. Simon tried not to let them get on his nerves, they were all right and he had nothing against them really, but it didn't alter the fact that Indridi and Sigrid were steamy and he always sensed something desperate and doomed in their behavior.

“I would do what's scientifically right,” said Simon. “According to the statistics, love like yours lasts a maximum of five years and seven months. You can't beat statistics. After inLOVE is completed and the world has merged, love will flow like milk across borders and all wars and conflicts will end. We all have to do our bit.”

“I'm never going to let her go,” said Indridi. “I wouldn't survive an hour without her.”

“There goes the global argument,” thought Simon. He watched Indridi raise his finger to his nose, sniff it, and slide it into his mouth. Simon felt sick. No doubt he was now getting the message: “Sniff and taste me.” Simon took a sip of beer before carrying on.

“I'm your friend and I would never tell you to part unless I knew that it would be best for you both. The introductory offer only lasts until the new year, then the price goes up and what'll you do if your love fades and you want to meet your perfect match? You'll lose hundreds of thousands of points.”

“Sigrid is priceless to me,” said Indridi, shaking his head. “Love can't be measured with money.”

Simon clenched his toes. The financial argument didn't work. Nor did the global argument. He sighed and grasped at his final straw: Indridi's sympathy for the underdog.

“I just hope he survives this,” said Simon.

“Who?”

“I hope the man who was calculated with Sigrid has a strong character. You never know . . .”

“Never know what?”

“Some people won't want to live,” said Simon carefully. “You must understand . . . suicide.”

Indridi stared down at the remains of his puffin. Simon looked at him gravely:

“I wouldn't say this unless I knew it was for your own good. If Sigrid's other half dies and you're calculated shortly afterward, a disastrous chain reaction will have been set in motion. Think carefully, Indridi. This is no game. You must see the bigger picture.”

Indridi sat silent and pensive until he howled: “DON'T FORGET YOUR MEETING, SIMON!”

Simon looked at the clock. “Thank you,” he said. “I almost forgot. Better get going. See you!” Simon hurried down the corridor.

“Could you possibly lend me some money?” Indridi called after Simon.

“Haven't a dime, sorry,” he said, vanishing from the room.

Indridi considered his situation. “Disastrous chain reaction.”

He remained sitting at the table, not knowing what to do with himself. He wanted to take a peep at REGRET and get confirmation that everything was how it should be, but gave up the idea when he saw the people sitting on the benches in Austurvollur square. There were always some victims of REGRET, people who became seriously ill from the bleak answers it gave them. Those who sank deepest into REGRET spent all their money on it and became hyperaware of what would have happened and therefore what might happen. They hugged the walls so as to have as little impact on the world as possible, always weighed things up carefully in advance, and had anxiety attacks when it came to making a decision or a change of policy because the end of the world lay literally at every step. When they subsequently examined their life on REGRET, it always transpired that every single decision they had made (generally after two hours of thought) was the right one. It was a good thing I put on the red trousers, otherwise I'd have been killed. It was good to be careful, it was good to talk quietly, it was good to not disturb the world, and it was a good thing I checked with REGRET.

Although those who were dependent on REGRET tried to have as little impact on the world as possible, it was these people who were most noticeable: the woman who sat in Laekjartorg square, waiting for a bus, but refused to board when the bus came because she hesitated and thought: “Its route could lead to certain death.” So she decided to wait for the next bus, and so on, until she sat down on a bench, accepted a drink from the down-and-outs, checked REGRET, and received the instant answer: Every single bus would have led to certain death.

A tightrope walker must never look down or he'll lose his balance. These people always looked down. Stared down into the abyss and lost their balance.

Indridi was on the point of losing his balance and took care not to look down. The waiter came to the table. He was wearing a black cloak and a wig. Indridi sat looking in embarrassment at the waiter who loomed over him like a British judge.

“Can't pay; can I wash up?” asked Indridi.

“I'm afraid there's no washing up on offer,” said the waiter sternly. “You can pay by howling. Ten howls for a puffin sandwich.”

“Bloody hell, what a rip-off,” thought Indridi, and bargained: “A single trap?”

“Epilepsy trap with a text, during Friday's rush hour,” the waiter said shortly.

“Epilepsy trap with a text?” asked Indridi.

“A rare and effective trap. Really makes the text stick in the recipient's memory.”

Indridi agreed to the conditions with half his mind. Sometime on Friday he would have an epileptic fit in a busy place and the announcement would be engraved on the recipient's memory: “YOU'LL HAVE A FIT IF YOU MISS OUT ON THE ALTHING'S PUFFIN SANDWICH OFFER!”

Sigrid was in a bad mood when Indridi came home. Her lunch break had been spent arguing with the furious neighbor about the noise from their apartment.

“You left the music system on full blast! I thought you'd died or something! What were you thinking of?”