3

There is no moment more silent and serene than sunrise being watched after a night spent awake. It is a cold, slightly floating feeling, that makes him think of stale coffee, of burning eyes, of white light and the roofs of a still comatose city. It is an ageless, indifferent, drained feeling. It is infinitely beautiful.

And he does not even see the sun. He only sees her light, first a diffuse, grey creep, gradually winning over the velvet darkness, then a definite area of light, white light, stripes of white light on the wall facing the single small window. In the beginning , they are high up the wall, near the wooden ceiling, then they slowly travel downwards.

Sunrise has sounds, too. First of all, the silence. The silence that is not an absence of sound, but a sound itself. Then, a singing voice, high, smoky, sad. Underlined with metallic, distorted music, very low, very faded. No birds here. Even the wind rests for a short moment.

Sunrise, the fusion of loneliness and the feeling of loosing one's identity.

This is not what Bernhard thinks, in these moments. He feels like this, but he doesn't think it. His thoughts have been twisted and broken, have be conditioned and formed like little men from mud. But his feelings, these ugly, sad, lonely feelings, they are all his own. As long as he doesn't consciously think about them. As soon as he does that – click! – 'I don't want to be lonely. Being alone is no good. No, no I don't want to be alone. I don't want to be lonely. Being alone is no good. No, no...'

Good people avoid being alone. Being alone is bad, is dangerous, is disgusting, is scary. Being alone is obscene.

Bernhard turns again. He does not want to see the sun rise. He does not want to see her light. He closes his eyes. He does not want to see her light...

Lying in bed never brought any good. A good Alpha rises at eight in the morning, washes, eats, goes to work. Everyone does. It is quite silly to believe that you could break that routine by staying in bed. Because that routine is inside you.

+++

Helmholtz was not used to walking very long to get anywhere, in London there had always been helicopters and electric cars to avoid walking. He had a vague idea now, why that was so: few things made you think like a long, quiet walk outside does. How terrible would that be for all those whose greatest fear was a thought, a real thought!

He woke up early in the morning, like always, and as Bernhard was nowhere to be seen, he had decided to visit the 'village'. He wondered quietly why there little hut was so far away from everything else. The road was old and marred by many cracks. He shivered in the biting arctic wind. They would have to get other clothes! Hopefully Bernhard had not caught a cold the day before. Bernhard was a riddle to him, still. He always tried to understand him, but you could not understand Bernhard. He was not a logical person. That was the only thing, Helmholtz understood.

He knew the man for almost six years now, since he had been 23 and Bernhard 24. They had both just started their jobs, back then. And they had both incidentally known the same girl: a Justine or Kristine... yes, Kristine had been her name, a tall blonde and freckled Beta plus, nice enough but not the brightest in his opinion. But in those days that had not yet mattered very much to him. He had just started his job as Emotional Engineer. He had been in the feelies department for a while and by then had just written his first sleep conditioning phrases, a huge success. He was content, felt that writing was making him happy, that the world was alright. He was so naive then, believing that he could write whatever he wanted.

He had had a date with Kristine that day, an afternoon of obstacle golf. But he nearly skipped the date. That morning an article he had written for one of the Alpha newspapers had been refused for the first time. 'It is not bad, Mr Watson, not bad, I'm afraid though, that we cannot print that. It is... is kind of disturbing. Those... lines. Those thingies. The song I mean. You'll have to leave them out," his boss had said, sweat on his upper lip.

Those thingies had been a poem. Only a short, harmless poem, a praise even, to something harmless and ordinary. A girl maybe. Oh, had he been naive.

He was crushed. Speechless. Like he had suddenly realised that there was no ground under his feet.

But he had not thought about the date until it was too late and he had to go there. When he arrived at the helicopter platform, to his surprise there was another man with Kristine. His first impression was: a Beta, maybe even a Gamma plus. So short! And those dark, gloomy, distrusting eyes. That was his first impression of Bernhard. He did not like him, from the start. In the end he learned from the flushed and giggling Kristine that she had accidentally dated both of them and did not want to disappoint either man, so she had decided to go playing with both instead! Wasn't that ever so lovely. Oh, he could have run away. Ever so lovely.

It was one of these obnoxiously bright days, a publicity blue sky, toothpaste smiles, birds. Better than a movie. Kristine was so enthusiastic about the game that she did not realise how both men fell behind more and more. After a while they gave up chasing after her and sat down on the white plastic seats from where you could watch the fields and the hundreds of players. They where all so happy, so alike, they seemed to be identical twins in their common bliss.

Only Helmholtz, stunned, nervous, suddenly confused, and Bernhard, jealous, angry and at the same time intimidated by the tall and handsome Alpha plus by his side. They sat in broody silence next to each other. Helmholtz had already totally forgotten the man.

"How I hate this sport," Bernhard suddenly, involuntarily spat. He surely wouldn't have dared it but had no control over himself. He blushed and looked away.

"Oh, is that so. You like Bumble puppy better?" Helmholtz asked politely but disinterestedly. But Bernhard visibly crumbled, bit his lip and stared on the ground.

"No," he mumbled. Helmholtz raised a brow. What a strange man, really. What had been his name again? Marx?

"I'm not particularly fond of sports either," he shrugged. Now it was Bernhard's turn to raise a brow, but in a more ironical way.

"Really. You don't look like it." Helmholtz knew nothing to say.

"I rather stay at home and write," he said instead. They said nothing more that day. But it was strange. Normally neither Bernhard nor him would have admitted these things. Why did they do it? Because it had been a bad day for both of them? Or did they instinctively realise that there was a person who felt the same?

+++

He shivered and started to walk faster. The wind blew trough his trousers like they weren't there at all. Little ice crystals got caught in his hair and on his lashes. The sea appeared behind a hill, a dirty quicksilver turmoil. Wouldn't he reach the village soon?

The second time he had met Bernhard, he was on a date with Kristine, too. It was their last date, he remembered, but he had forgotten why. Probably they had been dating too long. It was on the tennis courts, they had been watching a game. He had had a strange feeling that day, like they were being watched. When Kristine went away to get them something, soda or some ice-cream, he had scanned the seats around them. A cheery crowd of upper cast people. Suddenly he caught a pair of dark, almost frightened eyes. Bernhard stared at him like a rabbit at the snake. He blushed and suddenly jumped from his seat, earning frowns from the other people. Then he was away.

"I saw your friend Bernhard," he told Kristine when she returned. Raspberry milkshakes. That had been what she was getting, he remembered now. The tip of rosy white on her upper lip. She frowned with her thin, sandy eyebrows.

"Bernhard Marx? How awful," she exclaimed and sucked at her straw.

"I thought you liked him?"

"Until I heard those rumours! People say that there has been something wrong with his blood surrogate when he was still in his bottle!" The crowd cheered at the jumping players. "Isn't that just terrible? Alcohol in his blood! Just like an Epsilon! Of course, he is so short...," her voice was drowned by the noise.

Helmholtz stared at his drink. A lower caste, that had been his first impression about Bernhard, too. But those rumours were silly, it was one of the most common urban legend of their time, talk about something wrong when someone had still be bottled. He didn't know why, but something in his mind refused to believe that.

"...and how strange he is! He is always ashamed! He doesn't want to kiss in front of people. He says it embarrasses him, can you imagine that?" Helmholtz could not, but still.

"And now he's following me around! He scares me. How awful." She stared sullenly at the game. Then, suddenly, she took her handbag. "Soma?" she asked with e smile.

After that, he didn't see Bernhard for almost three months and had already forgotten about the whole thing. He did not meet Kristine anymore, so it did not matter to him. He had his own problems. Repeatedly, his works had been refused. And then, one day, his boss had looked very strange at him and given him a small, baby blue envelope. It had been an summons to the world controllers office.

That could not mean anything good. But he did not ask. He did not talk about it to anyone. That alone was an arch-sin. Secrets are asocial , the whispering voice of sleep school rang in his ears.

It rained that day, and the office smelled of wet leaves and lavender. A lift filled with the sounds of a rushing mountain brook brought him to a room filled with black leather surrogate seats, and wide windows showing the cascading rain over London. It was perfectly silent, and he needed a second glance to notice the shrunken form of a man in a seat in the corner. He had buried his hands in his short dark hair. Never had Helmholtz seen a man so sad, or desperate. The names for these feeling nearly didn't find their way into his mind.

"Marx?" he asked, incredulously. Bernhard looked up, startled and scared. When he recognised him, a dark look crossed his face. Still, Helmholtz sat down next to him.

"What are you doing here?" he asked curiously. Maybe he would learn something about what it meant to be summoned here.

"I'm... visiting someone," Bernhard lied. He raised a brow. For someone lying so much, Bernhard always had been a bloody bad liar.

"The world controller?" The man looked away, to the rain-streaked window. Blurred light played on his face. The shadows of the rain almost looked like tears.

"They're going to send me away," he whispered. "This time they're doing it!"

"What did you do?" Helmholtz asked. He had always been curious and straightforward, maybe a little too curious.

"Our friend Kristine," Bernhard said bitterly. He looked at him with burning eyes. In that moment Helmholtz knew why he didn't believe the rumours. He had never seen a Gamma, Delta or Epsilon look like that. Never.

"She told it a friend and he must have talked to the controller."

"But what?"

"That I followed her around."

"Why did you do it?"

"I didn't!" Bernhard exclaimed, but then he sunk back into his seat. "I wanted to see her."

"But why..."

"But she didn't to see me. She says I disgust her! She went with other men, every day. I only wanted to..." It was the first time that he felt like that about Bernhard, but the feeling would never cease. Fascinated, astonished, a little amused, sympathetic. Pitiful. He could not quite understand the other man's problems, but he felt the injustice.

The door opposite to the door he had entered the room through opened. A tall woman in a grey suit came through it. She had very short, dark hair and bright, almost colourless grey eyes. She was not what people would call pretty, not very pneumatic, looking more like a man than a woman. But something about her attracted him. Something that was so very different from the soft, sweet, effeminate beauty he was used to. The world controller.

"Mr Marx?" she asked. They both got up and Bernhard nodded curtly. Helmholtz could see his legs shaking.

"I am Elisa Armstrong, world controller. Please come with me." He followed her to her office like it would be his last walk. Impulsively Helmholtz came with them. The woman raised her dark arched eyebrows.

"Mr Watson, I guess? I'll talk to you later," she said politely. There was something in her voice he could not quite discern. Nothing hostile. He had not been very familiar with the concept of irony, back then. "Or do you have something to say about Mr Marx' case?"

"In fact I have," he said without think about it. she sent him a short, scrutinising look, but then closed the door behind them. The office had looked different that time from what he had seen when they had visited world controller Mond, only the big black book of Ford on her desk was the same. She sat down and studied them for a moment. There was something about her, a feeling like she was constantly holding back something, some strange dangerous energy behind her light eyes.

"Well, Mr Marx. There have been several reports about your unorthodox behaviour. I'm sure you know about what I am talking?" Bernhard said nothing, staring down on his cramped hands.

"Do you have anything to say about it? Any explanation? You know that this will not be passed unnoticed!" Bernhard shivered. Helmholtz almost couldn't take it. Why didn't say anything? Why didn't he defend himself?

"We can not tolerate your antisocial behaviour."

"Mrs Armstrong?"

"Yes Mr Watson?"

"You are talking about the incident where Mrs Kristine Freud accidentally believed Mr Marx was following her around?"

"Yes I am. So?"

"May I explain?" He smiled at her apologetically. "He was not following her, but me. We were meeting... that day." She looked at Bernhard. Bernhard stared at his hands, his eyes wide. But he nodded.

"See," Helmholtz said jovially. He almost couldn't believe himself. Why was he lying to a world controller? Why was he helping this man when he knew the accusations were true?

"You know each other?"

"Yes, a passing acquaintance."

"And what did you want to do that day?"

"Why, playing obstacle golf, of course!"

+++

His own talk with the world controller was a little different, once Marx had got away.

"I have read your articles, Mr Watson," she began. "You are very talented. Wonderful gift for rhymes."

"Thank you. But why were they refused?"

"So you don't know," she said thoughtfully and rose from her seat. She went to her window, looking out. Helicopters were passing by like silent bumblebees, their sound muted by the strong windows.

"When I was a young as you are now, I was very much alike you. I thought that I would write the most wonderful things. Songs, essays, that would touch the minds and hearts of my fellows in a way no one had reached yet. The aim of every writer. But I had to learn, Watson." She turned around, bent over the desk and looked directly into his eyes.

"True art is dangerous, Watson. You may touch their hearts – but never change them!"

+++

He left the building as a different man. He had, for the first time, felt his restraints. And they were not the kind, gentle restraints of conditioning.

Rain was still pouring down on the pavement. Bernhard stood their, unmoving, his hair plastered to his dripping head, rivulets of rain running down his face, into his collar, over his hands and to the ground. He stared at him, unbelieving still.

+++

"Dreams of you carry me higher

than soma haze will ever do,

and still I cannot reach you,

and still I cannot reach you..."

Helmholtz whispered the lines while he walked down the last hill to the village. He remembered it vividly, a silly, naive poem to someone who did not exist. One might take it for a love poem, but it was not. He also remembered how Bernhard had laughed when he had first read it to him. It was the first thing he ever read to him, that day after the talk with the world controller. He had taken Bernhard to his flat, they had dried and drunk caffeine surrogate in silence, then he had explained to Bernhard why he had been there.

Bernhard had not been able to imagine that world would be forbidden. Then Helmholtz had recited the lines, naive little words. And Bernhard had laughed.

"What?" he asked irritably.

"And you really thought they would print that?" Bernhard shook his head. "'Dreams of you carry me higher than soma haze will ever do...' my, Watson, to even imagine there might be something higher than soma!"

He had blinked then, struck by his words. Of course. He hadn't noticed before. He had unconsciously written what he had felt all his life: that there was something higher...

Yes, that had been the moment when he first got a glimpse of Bernhard's brilliance. From then on he always showed his writing to Bernhard before he submitted it to anyone else. Bernhard would sort out the lines that were 'dangerous' with a scary precision. He knew exactly what society wanted, because he himself was like those lines: dangerous, different.

A risky game started. He would put all his energy into writing pieces that seemed on the surface harmless, but would come as close to forbidden as possible. Very often he would not dare to submit them, Bernhard staying his one and only audience. But sometimes he did and they were accepted. He had reached a frail balance with society.

That was over now, he thought as he walked between the houses of the main village, aiming for the outstanding building of the ADMINISTRATION CENTRE.