Zero History

The Neo rang, from a different pocket. He brought it out. It looked even uglier than
usual.
“Yes?”
“Just checking your phone,” Sleight said, unconvincingly. “We’re having trouble with
the whole system.” Sleight had always spoken of the Neos as a system, but Milgrim had
met no one else, other than Sleight, who had one.
“Seems to be working,” Milgrim said.
“How are things?”
Sleight had never made it a secret that he was able to track Milgrim with the Neo, but
only referred to it obliquely, if at all. The subtext, now, being that he knew Milgrim was
in Paris. Knew that Milgrim was in this courtyard of this building, perhaps, given that
extra overlay of Russian GPS.
When their relationship had begun, Milgrim had been unwilling to question anything.
Sleight had set the terms, in every way, and so it had been.
“It’s raining,” said Milgrim, looking up at blue sky, bright clouds.
A silence lengthened.
He was trying to force Sleight to admit to knowing his location, but he didn’t know
why. It was something to do with the anger he’d felt, was probably still feeling. Was that
a good thing?
“How’s New York?” Milgrim asked, losing his nerve.
“Toronto,” said Sleight, “getting hot. See you.” He was gone.
Milgrim looked at the Neo. Something was unfolding within him. Like a brochure, he
thought, rather than the butterfly he imagined to be the more common image. An
unpleasant brochure, the sort that lays out symptoms all too clearly.
Why had Sleight actually called? Had he really needed to check Milgrim’s phone? Did a
brief moment of live voice provide Sleight with the opportunity to manipulate the Neo in
some way that he couldn’t, otherwise?
If Milgrim spoke now, he wondered for the very first time, would Sleight hear him?
It suddenly seemed entirely likely to him that Sleight could.
He sat back in his white-enameled aluminum chair, aware again of that emotion he
supposed was anger. He could feel the Faraday pouch, containing his passport, slung on
its cord, under his shirt. Blocking radio waves. Preventing the RFID in his U.S. passport
from being read.
He looked at the Neo.
Without consciously making any decision, he undid the top button of his shirt, fished
the pouch out, opened it, and slid the Neo in with his passport. He tucked it back into his
shirt and buttoned up.
The pouch was bulkier now, visible under his shirt.
He finished his espresso, which had cooled, and was bitter, and left some coins on the
small square receipt. He stood up, buttoned his jacket over the slight bulge of the pouch,