White Matter

Free?

Tokyo, July 25

I come slowly awake to the sound of distant music. Nestled in warm sheets, content in a semi-conscious languor and in no hurry to enter the daylight. I let the song come to me in intermittent snatches; it is a whistling tone like wind in the rooftops, with a melody too faint to catch. Only when I open my eyes and draw a breath do I realize it is no more than the sound of the air in my own nasal passages. It was all in my head.

As full consciousness returns, so too do recent memories. I lever myself up in bed and look about, relieved that the world around me is looking as solid and real as ever I have seen it. The bed, though, is unfamiliar; so too the surroundings. On the far side of the room a man I have never seen before is looking up from his tablet PC, reacting, I assume, to the sound of my movement. He smiles a smile that is neither threatening nor forced.

"Er... Um," I say.

"Just take it easy, mate. You've been in the wars." He is Caucasian in appearance and his English fluent, though the accent is hard to place.

I shuffle myself into a comfortable sitting position. Still a little fuzzy from sleep, but feeling fit and well-rested.

"Where am I? And who are you?"

He walks over and takes the seat next to the bed. "Kyle's the name. Pleased to meet you." He holds out a hand, and I shake it.

"I'm not one of the boffins. They just asked me to keep an eye on you in case you woke up."

"But what happened?" I remember something about a pursuit. What went before it is still a little vague.

"You had a nasty bump on the head. They had you over at the university, as I understand it, getting you patched up. From what I heard, you're a lucky guy. They had to put you in their machines and use some new-fangled technique to put you back together again. They had some X-rays – something like that – of your head from before the injury. Apparently if it hadn't been for those records, things mightn't have gone nearly so well. Instead, they tell me you'll make a full recovery."

"I feel fine."

"Good for you. They brought you over here to recuperate, so I volunteered to keep an eye on you. It's like I said, though. I'm just a friend of a friend, helping out with a bit of unskilled labour. I gotta say, but, you guys are making history here and I'm real proud to be a part of it." Nothing in his face contradicts his words. Recollections of my captivity and subsequent escape are leaking back into my awareness, and yet I feel no sense of danger here.

"But ..." I start to speak, then tail off, unsure how to continue.

"You are feeling okay then? I'd understand if you're still a bit disoriented."

"Thanks, but no, I really am fine. Just very hungry."

"Course you are. Listen, if you're feeling okay I'm told there's a friend of yours waiting to talk to you. Apparently he can fill you in on the details while I go and get you some brekkie. How's that sound?"

"A friend? You mean Graeme?"

"No not him, he'll be along later. Someone else. It's all a bit hush, hush, see, ... and apparently I don't need to know. They said to tell you it's someone you've never met before, though you'll recognize him as soon as you see him."

He's grinning at me with a cheerful energy, as if his superior knowledge of our shared ignorance should be a reason for complicity between us. Taking a pair of data goggles from the bedside cabinet, he hands them to me.

"Here you go. Put these on and he'll tell you what's been happening while you were away."

He hands me the goggles, winks, and then leaves the room.