The Living (17 page)

If the children are lucky and installation goes well, the
socio
service sends them to ordinary boarding houses. But quite often they are not lucky. There’s nothing surprising about this: in the roboslums, with the overcrowding and the
residents
’ poor health, they die and mate practically constantly; the whole place is like a hideous parody of the Festival for Assisting Nature… Thus the robots are reborn as robots and remain in the slums. If the children can hold first layer, they visit the natural development group. Like the one I visited. And Mark too.

Our teacher said that the group is a chance to break out of the slums and become a fully fledged part of the Living. She said: if you can hold first layer, you can take up a useful and necessary profession. For instance, you could become a toilet cleaner or a bin man, or go to work at the filling station or take dung from the farm or skin the corpses. Mark wanted to work at the farm….

Only very few manage to break out of the slums. The slums drag you down. And first layer becomes a pale memory.

That said, Mark can hold first layer pretty well.

‘…Pwease! Don’ take ’er! Iss, iss, iss her birfday today, mummy is stiw young! She don’ need to go to festival!’

I wonder whether I should turn off the recording function on my chatterbox, but no, that would arouse the suspicion of the SPO. I didn’t record anything for an hour already back in the zoo. So I ask strictly:

‘How old is she?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Her name?’

‘I don’ remember.’ Mark shakes his head. ‘I don’ remember. She don’t remember either.’

I go through the database of today’s compulsories in this area. There are five of them, of which three are women, but none of them is Mark’s biological mother.

‘Not today,’ I state. ‘It is not her turn today.’

Mark smiles, revealing his dirty teeth, and starts jerking his head strangely – either trying to bow to me, or trying to
create
something in his pathetic second layer. I turn around and walk off.

I’ve got fairly far by the time Mark calls to me.

‘What is she called?’ he cries. ‘What is my mummy called? Maak wants to remember!’

I look in the database. It’s all I can do for him now. In the next three hours a team from the Psychological Service is going to come and pay him a visit.

‘Your mother is called Rosa,’ I say. ‘A beautiful name.’

I keep going, trying not to think about Mark, about what I have just done to him.

Right in the very centre of the slums a naked robot, aged about forty, with a peaceful face and, strange as this may seem, showing no signs of degeneration, is sitting in the middle of the road in the lotus position. He is thin and all angular like a mantis. His eyes are wide open. For some reason I am reminded of Cracker.

To my own surprise I lean over him and clap loudly a couple of centimetres from his face. He doesn’t blink. Not even the slightest movement of his facial muscles…

…They say that, in addition to the robots, the slums are also home to ‘drowners’. They are divers,
socio
geniuses, who have reached the deepest, twelfth layer and have remained in the depths, either willingly or because they are unable to withstand the pressure. They say that when this happens all the drowner’s surface layers are destroyed. So there is no way of telling the difference between a drowner and an ordinary robot… So they say. But those are just rumours. A legend which is impossible to verify. No one knows if twelfth layer exists or if drowners even exist. Because only they can get so deep.

Well, except the members of the Council of Eight.

And, maybe, Cracker.

My friend Cracker, the best diver in the world.

The second time it was the entomologist.

Half a year had passed since Fox had led me to the Special Unit to see Cracker’s motionless body and then nearly done himself in. Back then I had had to go up to the guard and ask him to call a doctor; they only just managed to resuscitate him. When he came to he could not explain how and why he had ended up on the Blacklisters’ level. He stared at me in surprise and licked his dirty lips spitefully. The cameras didn’t help either: there was a spontaneous recording malfunction. The only witness, the guard, confirmed that Fox had come of his own will and had even insisted on visiting his ‘sick friend’. They diagnosed it as ‘over-exhaustion’. His song became a hit on FreakTube.

His health soon improved, and only once, a few months after the incident in the Special Unit, did Foxcub have another small attack. He was found unconscious on the Available Terrace.

And on that same day I found something else there on the terrace. In the box with the paper rubbish: I was asking
everyone
to throw any unwanted cellulose in there – envelopes, used tissues, sweet wrappers or unwanted draft letters for
Renaissance
, so they could be used as feed for my termite… On that evening, when Foxcub collapsed in a faint, I fished out of the box a piece of paper folded over three times, with two skewed, uneven diagrams full of uncertain, shaky lines. Under one of them something was written in pencil in the trembling
handwriting
of someone without Happy Fingers installed: ‘plan for getting cerebron from chatterbox’. Under the second there was: ‘plan for installing cerebron on zero’.

I was scared. I was angry at Cracker. I hated him. A crazy risk. Putting me in danger. Putting Foxcub in danger. I was drenched in warm sweat, thick like rancid oil, which smelled
so strong that I thought: they’ll catch me, they’ll unmask me and they’ll put me in the Special Unit, even without figuring out what’s going on. Just because of this smell of curiosity and fear.

I decided that I should feed the drawings to my termite immediately, right that minute. But instead I tucked the
drawings
under my clothes. Then put them back in the box.

Using the paper feed box as a hidey-hole was typical of Cracker: ‘hide in plain sight’. It was dangerous but much less dangerous than carrying the drawings round with me.

They didn’t catch me. Either the camera had another ‘malfunction’ that day or Fox’s scrawl didn’t look suspicious to whoever processed the data.

…Half a year had passed since Fox had taken me to see motionless Cracker. In that half a year Fox had not
remembered
anything. In that half a year I didn’t go to the Special Unit to visit Cracker once. In that half a year I had memorized the tiniest details of the two wiggly diagrams and fed the drawings to my termite.

Half a year had passed, and the entomologist came up to me:

‘No death. Friend. Need to talk. Follow him. In silence.’

The entomologist proved to be a much more durable medium than Foxcub, and more gifted: he gave voice to Cracker’s words for a whole hour, occasionally even with expressions and gestures, and he didn’t faint – all he did was go slightly pale and try to yawn – and he left the Blacklisters’ level of his own accord. True, he didn’t turn out to be as obedient as Fox. In the middle of the ‘séance’ he even found a way of throwing Cracker out, but not for long: he just had time to ask ‘What’s going on…?’ and then collapsed back into unconsciousness.

‘His cell is resisting,’ the entomologist said through gritted teeth, jabbing his forehead. ‘Good defence system. But it is still nice to work with him. He has more functions than that
cretin Foxcub. Lots of layers. Lots of possibilities. I will make him help you.’

As if not agreeing with what he was saying, the entomologist twisted his lips. There was boredom in his eyes. He opened his mouth wide and crooked and tried to yawn, but couldn’t.

The Butcher’s Son stared unhappily at us from his chamber. He wasn’t sucking a dummy anymore, not falling over, not squinting into the light and not crying. He was watching. His face was smooth with chubby cheeks and his eyes looked very old.

This time, under the correcting light, under the fixed gaze of the Son, my friend Cracker laid out his plan to me via the entomologist’s bloodless lips and twisted mouth.

The plan for my escape.

This time, when I had heard him out, I said:

‘Cracker. You are completely insane.’

‘I am a genius,’ the entomologist replied and was overcome with yawning. ‘I will work this miracle.’

He started laughing, a little gruffly, but overall realistically.

‘They will see fire.’

…She, of course, is not to blame. They forced her. They made her like this. But it’s still a betrayal.
Dog
was created to love me, to entertain me and to be devoted to me. And not to spy on me. And certainly not so hypocritically. So deviously.

I force myself to look at her – and she immediately switches to
play
mode. She finds a ball and chases it around the room, but only for show. She doesn’t even look at the ball. Only at me. With such devoted eyes. Following me.

I send her the command
heel
and at that moment she charges towards my legs. She sits and cheerily cocks one ear. And waits for encouragement. The dog-owner window which pops up suggests that I choose a
reward
: ‘bone’, ‘squeaky toy’, ‘cheese’ or ‘sausage’. I cancel the reward. I go into the
punishment
menu. And I choose
hit the dog
.

I hit her again

and again.

Dog
goes back to her place dejectedly and closes her eyes.

I start to regret hitting
dog
almost immediately. It’s not about the points. She isn’t to blame. Ef is to blame, that obstinate dick in the mask. ‘Unhappy with her work’. ‘Criminal character’. For the sake of all that’s living, what crime can he see here?!

Yes, I
don’t agree
. You could put it that way. I don’t agree with the fact that freaks like him, limited, faceless, devoid of fantasy, people like him can decide to humiliate a DISTINGUISHED scientist and smear him with mud for the only serious mistake he has made in his whole career. That guys like him can rob me of my vocation – that is definitely not the will of the Living.

Yes, I am a scientist. Yes, yes, yes, science is what I do. It has always been that way. I have dozens of discoveries, hundreds of articles, thousands of laboratory investigations to my name! How can I be anything else if my box in Renaissance is full of reports, formulae, illustrations of the cross-sections of mice, dubious hypotheses and brilliant theories, notes in the margin, bits of advice and hints, questions and answers, and all those little notes – ‘do not forget’, ‘consider’, ‘try to understand’, ‘check in case’, ‘be careful’, ‘continue’. What else can I be, if for hundreds of years I have been preparing myself for this…?

I know, I have known for a long time now: there’s something dodgy about our experiment. About the results.

It’s strange. So many months of preparation. Two brilliant specialists. Successful experiments with the
Heterotermes
indicola
termite: consecutive immersion to a depth of
twenty-six
reproductions! And what do we get from it – nada? One failure and that’s it? Something seems strange to me… OK then. Let’s just say. OK. The experiment failed. But why is
it ‘harmful’? Why is repetition ‘forbidden’ if there was no result…? Surely it would make more sense to continue research in this field?

It’s dodgy. We probably saw something. Something… bad. So bad that the designs for the experiment were completely destroyed.

…So bad that Lot and I evidently destroyed everything ourselves.

…So bad that the Leo-Lot ray has been banned by a decree from the Council of Eight (which means we did manage to send our results ‘upstairs’ and there, upstairs, someone thought they were dangerous).

…So bad that almost immediately after the experiment my colleague Lot was confined to a Nervous Disorders Clinic in first layer and became friends-only on
socio
.

…So bad, that a day after the experiment I temporarily ceased to exist for reasons mysteriously listed in the pathologist’s report as ‘poisoning’; with what substance, in what circumstances – not a word about that (an unfortunate accident, or, more likely, murder?).

…So bad that they
strongly recommend
that I should not continue my scientific activity in my new reproduction.

So what was it that was
so
bad
?

No posts, a completely uncharacteristic, ridiculous, rushed pause; always pedantic, logical and careful I suddenly dive into the Darkness not leaving behind for posterity a single hint, lead or clue about what happened… I emerge in complete ignorance, and as a woman to boot. But, as a woman, I can say to hell with logic for a bit and trust my intuition. Put the question a bit differently. Change ‘what’ to ‘which’.

Which
of the five of them in the experiment was hiding this thing that was
so bad
?

The answer is obvious. Zero. The man with no incode. We saw something when our little ray shed light on the pitch
darkness
.
Something which makes the Butcher’s Son’s worst crimes look like a harmless prank.

Something that I didn’t want to get involved in.

Something that robbed Lot of his senses and his memory.

Dog
looks at me, sad and troubled, from her
place
. I give her a double helping of
wet food
. There’s no point in starving her now. At the end of the day, it really isn’t her fault that she has a beetle. She probably doesn’t even know anything about it. She’s just interested in everything to do with me, which is completely natural for her, that’s the way she was born. She doesn’t know that she is betraying me with her curiosity…

…Or does she know?

I cancel the
wet
food
from her bowl and give her
dry
.

I remember how she whimpered and even growled that evening when I refused to take her with me to see Lot. Did she just not want to be left alone in my cell without me? Or was she annoyed that she couldn’t spy on me?

…That evening I spent several hours in a row knocking on his door without success. Lot let me in towards night, joking, ‘I’ve got my head together.’ He had been coming to me in the neutral
shade
setting, now he had chosen himself a userpic. He looked young and was dressed exactly like he was in the photo of me and him from thirty years ago (the one in which he’s got one squinting eye and I have a horrible thick beard). But his voice sounded the same as it had in the afternoon, dull and slack. Like that of a sixty-year-old. Which is what he was.

The cell’s
premises
were fitted out hastily, without
imagination
or harmony; just heaps of disordered programmes and
settings and open files and folders everywhere, like suitcases thrown open in a motel. His cell really did remind me of a messy hotel room that had a different guest every day, with each new guest bringing his own mess – all that remained was the bare walls; a null interface.

In the very centre of the cell there was an enormous chessboard – a heavy, pointless object taking up a lot of space and memory, which was nevertheless pretty much the only thing in the whole interior which hadn’t just been downloaded with the original basic features but had been modified somehow. Over the course of the day Lot had evidently kept changing the look of his
wonder-chess
until he had made it into a real battlefield with miniature woods, rivers, plains and foothills, all broken up into quadrants; the horses playing the knights had real foam in their mouths and their riders had capes and armour; there were charging soldiers, kings, kings’ wives, kings’ castles, kings’ gardens and kings’ courtiers…

When I came in, the horseman in the black cape on E5 shouted something in a gruff voice, drew his sword, spurred on his steed and charged onto G6, where a snow-white horse was idling, its head bent over the water. When she heard the sound of hooves, the snow-white horse shuddered and neighed abruptly and rolled her eyes wildly. The rider in the white cloak stroked her withers, leant down to her trembling ear and started whispering tender, calming words in some ancient language, full of sibilants and sadness. The horse shut her frightened eyes obediently and the black horseman plunged his sword into her white breast. The blood spurted from the wound in a huge, clownish fountain, splattering the grass and the face of the killer in the black cloak. The white horse collapsed heavily into the murky quadrant of the river, pulling the white rider with him, who had put his hands together in prayer. A window floated up mournfully from the sludgy depths bearing the message:

‘What colour are you?’ I asked.

Lot fell silent absent-mindedly, distracted by what was happening on the
field
. There a squat man in a white uniform was butchering an enemy soldier, only a young boy, with his
bayonet with sadistic enthusiasm. Time after time he plunged the bayonet into his stomach – but every time he did not run him through and every time he stabbed him not in the same place, but just next to the previous stab. The little soldier writhed and after every jab whispered hoarsely: ‘Finish me off, finish me off…’ Lot probably wasn’t sure if he had chosen the right move, and that’s why he was taking his time.

He finally finished off the black pawn-soldier. In place of the corpse a huge grave mound rose up bearing the legend ‘gxh5’ and at that moment a window popped up blocking out half the
field:

Lot refused to retake the move.

Lot gave up.

The dead horses, horsemen and foot soldiers rose from the dead and, quietly jangling their weapons, wandered back to their original positions. The turrets that had been destroyed sprung back into place. All the gaps in the fortress walls were covered over.

The pieces disappeared. All that was left was the fields, hills and quiet backwaters…

Lot looked at me with carefree eyes that were squinting at a sun that hadn’t existed for thirty years.