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Reality Checkpoint
Cambridge, 2384
“John Milton,” said the ambassador, rocking backwards and forwards, heel-to-toe, heel-to-toe, “was of the Devil’s party without knowing it.”
He was staring at a portrait hanging on the wall of their hotel room. John Milton, presumably, Parmak thought, coming to stand beside the ambassador and contemplating a long-faced man in black who did not look like he would be much fun. The ambassador too was wearing black tonight, but he was mostly fun, except when he categorically wasn’t.
“Do you know who said that, Kelas?”
“Of course not,” said Parmak. “What does it mean, anyway?”
“It means that, in writing Satan, Milton created a villain so nuanced, so charismatic, that whatever he thought his text was saying, his sympathies unconsciously lay with the Devil.”
“I can see how that might happen.”
“And since you asked,” said the ambassador, “it was said by William Blake.”
These days, Parmak simply made a mental note as and when the names dropped and checked the references later. Sometimes his researches revealed another as-yet-unexplored-and-deeply-fascinating chamber of the ambassador’s mind. Sometimes he was left with one more enigma to put on the pile. Sometimes he suspected his leg was being thoroughly pulled. Occasionally it contrived to be all three at once.
“I’m none the wiser, really,” said Parmak. This ongoing crash course in human literature could easily consume his waking hours, if he let it. Which he didn’t, although he had taken the time to discover who the Devil was, given that the name popped up so frequently. The character reminded him of Tesekh, the trickster figure from one of the western desert stories, but Hell had come as a shock. Who would have thought the generous and hospitable people of Earth had such a notion in them? Oh well, at least they hadn’t literally constructed such places in their recent history, which was more than could be said for home. Better imagined, perhaps, than actualized. “Go on then, tell me – who was William Blake?”
“Ah! Blake… Radical. Anarchist.” The ambassador sniffed. “Revolutionary.”
“That kind of thing happens more often than you’d think,” said Parmak. “The most unlikely people end up overthrowing their government.”
The ambassador gave him a very narrow look. “Shall we go and win a debate?”
“Why not.” Parmak placed his hand against the ambassador’s lower back and steered him towards the door, past the other pictures and further opportunities to show off. Over the last hour the ambassador had been deploying a variety of delaying tactics and they were in danger of running late.
It had been agreed that this evening was Parmak’s fault. Cambridge was home to one of the best teaching hospitals in the quadrant, and Parmak was spending a couple of weeks there shadowing Federation colleagues. He was returning each evening to Paris and, when asked about this arrangement, had let slip that he knew the ambassador. Word must have got around, since a day or two later Parmak was approached by a young and earnest undergraduate issuing an invitation for the ambassador to come and speak at the student debating society.
The ambassador, who couldn’t find a diplomatic way to say, “I’d rather die,” was forced to accept, but made it known to the bearer of the message that he was not happy. A second round of recriminations followed when the subject for the debate was revealed. The motion was, “This house believes there should be no limits on freedom of speech.” Somehow, the ambassador had found himself arguing in favour. No limits on freedom of speech. Parmak would have bought tickets, if he hadn’t received an invitation. He was enjoying the unfolding saga immensely.
They walked through the dark city. The college buildings were mysterious, their treasures hidden behind huge wooden gates. Lights glowed invitingly behind little leaded windows. There was a timelessness to the place that Parmak found deeply beguiling. The streets were paved and closed to traffic, although enough space had been left for the ubiquitous bicycles, which further added to the sense of somehow being out of time. The ambassador had taken an instant dislike to the bicycles; he seemed to believe they were in league against him.
“I like it here,” said Parmak, and not just to provoke. He’d spent much of his life around U of U, where both his mother and his father had held posts. Places like this felt like home.
“You would,” muttered the ambassador.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing, nothing…”
“Anyone would think you didn’t like to see young people being happy.”
“I don’t mind as long they’re being young and happy away from me.”
Parmak did not dignify that with a reply. They cut through a small marketplace, passed a religious building, and came out onto a street opposite one of the most iconic places on the planet, a triumph of late Perpendicular Gothic architecture the mere sight of which had been known to bring people to tears. The ambassador took one look at it, rolled his eyes, and walked on.
A few days prior to setting out for this short sabbatical on Earth, Parmak caught up with two of his oldest friends. He’d known Arani since they were both medical students; Relet, her husband, had been a public nestor. Relet was ambitious, but more free-thinking than was wise for a man in his position. Two years before the Obsidian Order collapsed, they fled the Union, finding sanctuary amongst the expat community in Mathenite space. It was certainly the right place to be during the Fire. Afterwards, they returned home to help with the reconstruction. Entirely to their credit, Parmak thought; not everyone had come back straight away. Life had been perfectly comfortable for that particular set of exiles.
The evening had been pleasant, as sociable and easy as ever, with old stories told and old friends remembered. Near the bottom of the bottle of kanar, however, Relet and Arani shared a look, Relet nudged his wife, and Arani cleared her throat. Oh, thought Parmak, here it comes…
“How long did you say you were on Earth?”
“Nine weeks.”
“And… who will you be seeing while you’re there? Anyone we know?”
“I shouldn’t think so. Federation colleagues, mostly, people working in similar fields. It’s going to be very interesting.”
“I’m sure it will. Anyone else?”
Enough of this, thought Parmak. “Arani, why do I get the feeling you’re trying to ask me something specific?”
“Well,” said his oldest surviving friend. “You know…”
“I’m honestly not following you. What do I know?”
“Who you’re seeing out there. I mean, it’s common knowledge—”
“Common knowledge?”
He watched her panic slightly. “Well, not common, but among your friends—”
“My friends?”
Relet stepped in at this point. “Come on, Kelas. You know exactly what she’s talking about. Who she’s talking about.”
“Do I?”
There was a pause. They looked at each other again. Arani said, “This isn’t like you, you know.”
“How so?”
“Slippery. You were never slippery. Quite the opposite.”
“Thank you,” said Parmak. “I think.”
“You do know who he is, don’t you? What he was?”
Parmak thought, More than you realize. “Well,” he said, “we live in a different world now, don’t we?”
They didn’t look happy with that answer. Not happy at all. Arani sighed. “I suppose you’re old enough to know your own mind.”
That’s right, thought Parmak.
“But, please – be careful.”
“I’m going to Earth,” said Parmak. “I’m not going to Romulus. What could possibly happen to me on Earth?”
The conversation ended in this inconclusive fashion. Nothing specific stated; nobody specific named. Later, reviewing what he’d said, Parmak realised how he’d met most of their questions with a question of his own. Now where could he have picked up a trick like that?
Arriving on Earth, Parmak was immediately subjected to a meticulously planned and dedicated charm offensive the like of which he had never experienced. People had a tendency to overlook him, he knew, and so it was in many ways doubly flattering. The message of all the attention, views of many different parts of this world, insights into the ambassador’s working day was quite clearly: This is what life here is like; do you think you could possibly bear it? Parmak could see where this was heading, but since he was having a very nice time, he left the ambassador to work to his own schedule. Still, he was proving uncharacteristically risk-averse and, deep into week two, Parmak thought probably one of them ought to broach the topic. So, late one evening, back in the apartment overlooking the Seine, he said, “Do you like your job?”
The ambassador, who was sitting beside him on the sofa with his head against Parmak’s shoulder, said, “Why would I not like my job?”
“Answer the question, Elim.”
“Well, I’m very good at it, aren’t I?”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
“Then… I certainly don’t dislike my job.”
Close enough. “What would it take to bring you home?” said Parmak.
The ambassador shifted his weight so that he was no longer leaning on Parmak but, instead, on the arm of the sofa. His head was turned away, looking out across the room. “Why would I think about coming home?” he said. “When, as we’ve just established, I have a job here that I don’t dislike and at which I excel?”
“You tell me,” said Parmak.
The ambassador looked back at him. His eyes were sad. “I’d come home in an instant,” he said. “If there was something, anything, that I could do.”
“There are many, many different things that you could do,” said Parmak, firmly. “You are a man of considerable talents and experience.”
“Don’t be obtuse,” said the ambassador. He spoke without rancour, almost fondly. “You know exactly what I mean.”
And since their days together were never long enough, and the question had perhaps been unfair – they left it there. For the time being.
The debating chamber was a large hall that comfortably held a few hundred people. There was a wide aisle at the centre; this led down to a big wooden table, on either end of which was a wooden stand for speakers’ notes. Behind this table, raised up on a dais, was a huge bright red leather chair for whoever was directing the proceedings. Parmak, who was being held entirely to blame for this whole calamity, had been tasked to provide the briefing for the evening. Most of what he’d learned had been judged irrelevant, but the ambassador had stopped to listen when Parmak mentioned that this chamber had, in the distant past, served as a training ground for those individuals who went on to be the politicians and diplomats of the old nation state in which this building was situated. For some reason, this was of interest.
Seating was provided by ranks of big dark-red and well-padded leather seats, set out in rows on either side of the aisle. A gallery ran round the room, overlooking the hall. The layout was old-fashioned: those speaking for the motion sat on one side; those speaking against opposite, an adversarial arrangement of which the ambassador wholly approved. The chamber of the old Detapa Council had been laid out in this fashion; the seats in the new Assembly hall were, conversely, in a circle to encourage a more consensus-seeking style of debate. The ambassador complained bitterly about this every time he watched proceedings from the Assembly, which was more often than Parmak remembered to watch.
The seats on both sides were packed. The gallery too was packed. Everyone looked very young. “Well,” muttered the ambassador. “Here we are.” His expression, now that he was in public, had shifted from irritated to amiable. When two young people bounded forwards to introduce themselves as committee members, he even managed to switch on a smile.
Parmak, taking the seat reserved for him a couple of rows back, watched as the ambassador was introduced to the other speakers. There was some brief interaction which seemed to involve an explanation of how the evening would unfold. At some point during this, the ambassador began rubbing the thumb of his right hand against the palm of his left. Parmak leaned forward and paid attention. This usually meant that the ambassador was stressed or anxious. Surely not? He’d spoken to gatherings like this hundreds of times in his role, and to audiences considerably more eminent.
Still, though, you had to bear in mind that he didn’t like universities. Most likely that was the issue. He took his seat, sipped some water, and sat tapping his thumb against his lips. Whatever the problem, it disappeared the second his name was called and he was asked to make his contribution. He stood up, went lightly and quickly over to the lectern, dispensed with his notes, and – with all the tricks of his trade as a professional persuader, plus a few well-received references to John Milton – delivered a defence of freedom of speech that would have put his father in the grave, were the old monster not already there. The opposition was demolished and the motion easily carried. Afterwards, they were taken out for dinner by the debating society committee, where the ambassador – through swift sharp wit, extensive eye contact, and the occasional allusion to his dark and mysterious past – charmed half-a-dozen young people who would, very soon, be joining the ranks of the Federation’s diplomatic corps.
Back at the hotel, Parmak studied the portrait on the wall. The devil’s party, he thought, without knowing it… The ambassador, who was looking very pleased with himself, poured them drinks. They took these out onto the terrace and stood side-by-side looking out across a dark expanse of parkland. Four paths cut through the space, corner to corner, diagonal lines that met at the centre. At the point where they crossed stood a tall iron-cast lamp-post from which four lights hung. As well as providing illumination so that bikes didn’t hit each other at the intersection, it seemed to be an informal meeting place. A group of five students was standing there, talking. One of them leaned against the lamp-post, and the whole construction flickered. One moment it was there, the next it was gone.
“What is that?” said the ambassador, lifting up his glass and gesturing towards it.
Parmak, who had been out onto the terrace earlier and guessed this might come up, said, “It’s called Reality Checkpoint.”
“Excuse me?”
“When the city was smaller, the colleges were some distance from the town. They didn’t really connect or meet. This was the point where it was generally accepted that the boundaries of the university ended, and the real world began.”
“The real world?”
“It’s a joke. The university was historically very insular. There were rivalries between the townspeople and the students. Town and gown, they called it. I think the idea was that when you crossed this point, you were no longer within the bubble and you’d come back to reality.”
“Some things never change,” said the ambassador. “I’m assuming it wasn’t always a hologram?”
“No, it was just an ordinary lamp-post. Some students wrote ‘reality checkpoint’ on it—”
“How droll.”
“—and when that faded, someone else would come by and write it in again. That went on for decades.”
“Graffiti is a criminal offence. Or should be.”
“I’m sure the local constabulary had better things to worry about.”
“Letting the little things slide only encourages greater error.”
“I think it’s funny,” said Parmak.
The ambassador gave a sigh that more than easily communicated, “You would.” Then he put his glass down on the wall, turned to face Parmak, and said, “Can I make a confession?”
Parmak thought, Oh no, what now… With all due trepidation, he said, “Go on.”
“I… thought I was arguing against the motion.”
“What?”
“I completely misread the invitation. I thought I was arguing the other way.”
“You thought you were arguing against free speech?”
“Well, of course. Who invites me to speak in favour of free speech?”
“I thought you’d changed your mind on that score—”
“Well, no, obviously I don’t mean complete oversight. But there are limits.”
As the opposing side had ably but unsuccessfully argued earlier that evening. Parmak watched the lamp-post wink in and out of existence. “When exactly did you find out your mistake?”
“When do you think?”
Parmak thought of that moment’s unease he’d observed, right before the debate started. “You made that all up on the spot?”
“Not the hardest task I’ve ever set myself.”
Parmak couldn’t help himself. He burst out laughing. You were wasted in the Order, he thought, but didn’t say, because saying that would make the other man sad, and right now he was happy.
“You’re impossible—”
“I know.”
“Really. Almost intolerable—”
“Yes, I know.” And then the ambassador reached out and took his hand. “Stay,” he said. “Please. Stay here with me, on Earth. It’s so much better when you’re here. Think of the life we could have together, here. Think of the fun we’d have.”
Oh, and he was tempted, so very tempted; he was a breath away from saying ‘yes’. Because they did have fun, didn’t they? Thinking about that and what a lifetime of it might mean, Parmak came the closest he ever did to capitulating. But this man had demolished his world once already. He couldn’t let that happen again.
“No,” he said. “I don’t think so. But you could come home with me. You could come home.”
Parmak thought about this conversation some months later, when he happened to be listening to a newscast and thus learned that the ambassador’s skimmer had exploded. Sitting with his head in his hands, almost overthrown by grief, he thought, If I’d agreed to stay, would he still be alive now? The comm in his pocket buzzed. He lifted it out and saw a message from Arani.
Are you all right? To which Parmak replied, No.
Two days later, the dust from the latest attempt on the ambassador’s life was starting to settle. The newly resurrected, recently announced candidate for the Union’s highest office lay face down on Parmak’s couch, fast asleep, hidden away from the rest of the world and absolutely exhausted. A tiring business, bringing down the government. Parmak, watching him, thought, So you’ve come home…
Parmak’s comm chimed softly. The ambassador stirred, but did not wake up. It was another message from Arani.
Is he all right? To which Parmak replied, Yes.
19th-21st April 2026