Eden

EDEN -
Contrary to common belief life in 216 is not the cushy number the
greater mass of society make themselves believe. It's hard. If you fuck
up, once, you're out.
Out.
My parents named me Gabriel, after the Angel. It would be ironic with
a name such as mine to be one of the unfortunate souls who don't make
the grade every moment of their waking life.
Out.
Do you know where Out is? Back on the Street. But from the lofty
height of 216 going back to the Street would be like a fleshly fall
from grace. For me, it would be like a Angel kicked out of
Heaven.
It would be a tragedy.
216 is beautiful if you belong. Not as beautiful as it is for the
Occupants and like I said, it is hard - but it beats the Street.
God it beats the Street.
Hmm, I smile back at my reflection in the surface of polished brass
that hangs in my apartment/office. I fiddle with the knot of my
necktie. The mirror is brass because I passed the exams to become a
SMC. The grades of technocrats below me suffer baser metals, and the
cramped environments of shared living space. Passing the exams has
flung me onto a fast track to promotion: with a spacious room I share
with no one and a balcony view of the fringes of 216. On a quiet night
I can stand on that balcony with a glass of wine and savour the mild
evening air which has been freshly scrubbed by the filters in the dome,
and during the quiet hours you can almost hear the resonant hum of the
Machine in the very fabric of the city.
I glance from the mirror to the open balcony to check on the weather.
Beyond the dome, the Street bakes under a chemical sunset. Mental note:
don't forget to take smog mask.
Facing myself in the mirror again I continue to adjust the knot of my
necktie, pulling it out to make it larger, less constrictive,
subliminal indications of an open and full character.
I have to look good for this. Accepting the role of an SMC is a fast
track to success but is commonly acknowledged as a slippery pole to
climb. Many technocrats of 216 have landed on back on the Street after
seeing their project fail.
I do not intend to let that happen to me. Although it is going to
require some keen negotiating, a test of my skill to warp the will of
another human being through the power of argument and reason.
Explanation: my role is a SMC. The woman in my charge is about to back
out of a deal that would see me promoted fifteen degrees. If she
retracts her part of the bargain, I fail. I am out.
I crouch a little lower to bring my head into the mirror's view: the
creases in the gunmetal silk shirt melts away as the nanoagents work to
force to the cloth back to its original shape. I check my hair:
perfect. Top length slicked back, close cropped around the sides like
every other of my kind, so the bar coded Social Identity Number
stencilled across the left temple is clearly visible. In 216 you have
to be proud of your identity. One of those little rules. Hair or no
hair it makes no difference to the scans. It's the personal statement
that counts. It all gets noted down, somewhere, in a place where they
take notice. The same place where they see when you've fucked up - real
time.
I like the cut though, it looks good, adds an aggressive edge to my
face which I find pleasing. Those scans keep check on the terrorists
that try to bring 216 down. Equality for all they say. Reality hackers
they call themselves. The simple, harsh, inescapable reality is there
are not enough resources to share. It's them, and us, the anointed,
like me, one of the privileged point zero zero one percent.
I had potential from the moment I was born. Someone spotted it early.
Someone got a promotion for that. I was recruited as a child, had my
DNA modified. Here I am, dressed in a sharp suit, ready to go out and
save my Job, save my Life.
&;#8224;
The overhang was about five cubits above him; a blunt shelf of rock
blocking his ascent. Zebulon had climbed too far to turn back now. He
had to reach the summit before his strength faded. He glanced below
him. Thick creamy cloud cover obscured any sight of the ground. All he
could see was the shaft of the craggy rock stack he had spent the day
climbing.
His arm muscles began to ache. Zebulon tested his feet against the
footholds, then let his weight rest on his legs. He regulated his
breathing and visualized the pain leaving his body with every
controlled exhalation. He guessed he was about three kilocubits up, and
the air here was divine: cool enough to dry the sweat from his muscular
torso, free of any scents from the earth below. The summit was probably
only another hundred cubits above the overhang. It had been his desire
for weeks to reach that distant peak and lie beneath the stars for a
night, to contemplate the mysteries of the geometrix so much closer to
the weird and fantastic showers of colour that regularly swept across
the nightly skies of New Englon.
On the peripheral of his mind he became aware of the realization he
might fail. A sort of panic response kicked in and his whole body began
trembling.
"Damn, no... no damn it!"
In the hope of forcing the physical reaction to abate, Zebulon
returned his weight to his arms and began to pull his body upwards,
toward the overhang.
His fingers were long, strong and sensual. They foraged ahead, grazing
the coarse grey rock, seeking a hold for them to dig into. His left
hand found a weathered crevice in the rock but his right hand could
find nothing. He took a risk, determined to push and drag himself to
the very zenith of the stack; locking the fingers of his left hand in
the crevice, he used his left arm to haul his whole body up whilst at
the same time his right hand eagerly searched for something to grab
onto.
But there was only rock.
He could feel his left arm losing its strength. It was no good, he
would have to stay at this level and work his way round until the
ascent was clear of obtrusions. Quickly dropping his right arm he
reached for the hold he had a moment earlier, at the same time his feet
began testing their new footholds and his weight began shifting back to
his legs.
His right foot slipped and flew out into space. With all his weight on
his left leg his body dropped down and ripped the grip of his left hand
from the crevice. With a nauseating tug from gravity he felt his whole
body toppling backover. His right hand frantically fumbled for the hold
but his fingers just clawed the hard rock, then raked thin air as he
tumbled away from the stack, pivoting on the left leg which was his
only limb now connected with it.
His mind exploded with a swollen surge of adrenaline as it
comprehended what was actually happening.
Then he was falling, his body twisted violently as he reeled out of
control through the air. His ears were filled with the sound of roaring
wind and his eyes stung with the ferocious velocity of his sudden
descent. He opened his mouth to scream but the wind rushed in and
choked any noise he could make.
He plunged through the clouds in three seconds. The earth was two
kilocubits below him. A landscape of green hills, dark gorges, rivers
and bridges and a kaleidoscopic quiltwork of flowers hurtling to greet
him with terrifying speed.
Zebulon closed his watering eyes, forced the panic from his brain,
focussed, focussed, poured the entirety of his will into a single
thought.
Fly.
And he did.
Zebulon opened his eyes and found himself sweeping out of the dead
dive in a graceful arc. Perhaps falling was not so bad after all! He
let out a howl of pure exhilaration, stretched his arms behind his back
as far as they would go, tensed every fibre of his musculature into a
solid whole, an ungiving, unwavering missile of flesh blood and
bone.
The summit of a high hill passed beneath him. There was a stone cairn
at the top. Something caught his eye there.
Zebulon threw his arms out to either side and brought his body into an
upright position, speed dropping rapidly as he gracefully descended to
the long grass beside the cairn.
A large black cat sat on a wide flat stone, watching him with
intelligent eyes.
"Bubastis!" Zebulon exclaimed warmly, out of breath.
The cat flicked its thick tail and lifted its head with a disregarding
aspect, then said, "If the geometrix had wanted you to be a bird it
would have born you with feathers."
Zebulon laughed, slapping his thighs, "And look at you, a talking cat!
I would say there are strange things afoot in Eden. Acts of sorcery and
the hypernatural." He wiped a bare forearm across his brow, wiping away
the sweat which was layering his body in the warmer air. With serious
tone he said, "If one of the Order of Khufu should see you, they would
drive a stake through you and burn in flames of sanctity."
The cat purred, a throaty sound which could be felt rather than heard,
"They would have to catch me first. Besides, if they did see me, and if
they saw me with you, then you would suffer the same fate. The owner of
a hypernatural familiar. You would be executed as a sorcerer."
"I would deny any knowledge of your existence. Everybody knows I do
not own a cat."
"Then I'll follow you into town and strike a conversation with one of
the priests!"
"You would as well you treacherous apparition. What is it you want
this time and why do you keep stalking me?"
"Your father has an important visitor. It might be useful if you
sneaked up to your house and overheard their conversation."
Zebulon stepped back from the cat and regarded it with admiration and
suspicion, "How do you know these things Bubastis?"
"I know many secrets."
"You surely are a strange creature. You remind me of the Sphinx I have
read about at the Pyramids in Egyptus."
"The mythical riddler." The cat said, "Yes, but I do not tease you
with obtuse puzzles Zebulon. It is not what I want."
"No, you don't." Zebulon agreed, thoughtful, "And what do you
want?"
"We shall come to that, in time. Now go see your father and be sure to
listen, carefully."
&;#8224;
The smell was making her sick. A hot greasy current of stinking air
that was coming from the fry-shop beneath her flat.
Mary moved carefully across the bare floorboards, cradling the
swelling of her stomach, avoiding the areas where the dry rot had eaten
holes through to the spider infested gap between the flat and the shop.
At night she could hear things scuttling around in that gap, the sound
of shiny black chitinous shells clicking against hard surfaces. It was
enough to drive her mad, but now she had hope, a ray of light in the
industrial darkness of the city.
She reached a wall where there was still some of the damp, mould
covered paper clinging to the cracked plasterwork. Cautiously she
reached up, took hold of one curled corner, put her other hand across
her nose and mouth and peeled the slimy length of paper away from the
wall and let it slip to the floor. She stepped away, keeping her hand
over her face, trying not to breath for a while in case the mould
spores got into her lungs and damaged the baby.
Mary was pregnant.
From below came a burst of loud conversation followed by laughter. She
could hear the blood surging through the oxygen starved veins in her
head. She felt dizzy and sick. She had to breathe.
Mary took her hand away and sucked in a breath of foul smelling air.
The coughing fit nearly threw her to her knees. It left her standing
there, sobbing, tears streaming from her eyes and the feeling of fire
in her throat.
The baby stirred, kicking inside of her.
Mary stroked the swelling of her stomach and made shushing noises
until the baby became still.
She returned to the crumpled heap of damp paper; tore away a long
length and squashed it up between her fingers. The sodden lump left her
skin soiled with a sticky white paste and the dark spots of mould. Over
the course of time she had been living there, she had gone about the
hopeless task of finding every crack letting the oily stench slip in
from the shop below.
This time she moved over to the grimy window. She stooped low over the
rotting still and began sniffing. Her nose caught drafts of cold air
from outside, but, yes, there was a definite trace of stench here. She
looked closer and saw a crack between the brickwork and the wood of the
sill. She jammed the squidgy ball of paper into the crack.
Through the window she saw Gabriel out on the muddy road below,
climbing out from a glossy yellow taxi from 216 his jaw clasped by a
black rubberized smog mask. The slabs from the pavement had been stolen
along time ago. She watched Gabriel step cautiously across the filthy
ground, avoiding the sink holes filled with collected rainwater and the
detritus of an overflowing and failing sewage system.
Mary looked at her hands: they were disgusting, coated in the sticky
white paste from the wallpaper. She moved quickly across the one room
of her flat to the washbasin on the table beside her bed. The water was
a subtle brown. She washed her hands quickly but thoroughly, made sure
there was no dirt under her nails.
She did not possess a mirror but she knew she was beautiful. It was
one of the reasons Gabriel selected her to be a Mother. She knew she
was beautiful because the men in the fry-shop always tried to get her
drunk. They did once, making her drink a clear liquid that burned her
throat and made the darkened alley spin. They had put their hands on
her skin. She remembered the texture of those hands, caked in a grease
which they never washed off. Then one of them had put his mouth near
hers and she had smelled the horrible stink of the oil they used and
the meat of whatever they found in the streets to cook. They left her
alone when she didn't stop vomiting.
She heard Gabriel's footsteps on the staircase. Mary wiped her hands
on her grey rag dress and smoothed the material over the swelling of
her belly and whispered to the baby, "Gabriel's here."
She loved her baby. She didn't want to give it away now. That was why
Gabriel had come down to the city to see her. He was going to try and
persuade her not to keep it. She knew why.
She knew a lot of things.
She wondered about the life she could live with the money he would pay
her for the child. A life in the Old Quarter of 216, a privileged
enclave within the city of technocrats, men and women like Gabriel, but
in the Old Quarter life did not follow the strict corporate regime that
predominated 216.
Life in the Old Quarter was comfortable.
Life in the Old Quarter was freedom.
Gabriel knocked once on the door and walked in. Mary stood where she
was beside the bed, watching him, her fingers absently fiddling with
the frayed hem of her dress. She saw his eyes smile at her above the
rim of the smog mask.
"Can I get you a drink?" she asked.
Gabriel unclipped the mask from his face; the smooth flesh of his
cheeks was reddened and chaffed from the tight grip. He shook his head,
declining her offer, just as he always did. It was polite to ask, she
believed, but knew he rarely consumed anything whilst in the city. A
typical behaviorism of the 216 technocrats.
"No thank you, Mary." he folded the mask up on invisible hinges until
it was small enough to slip into the breast pocket of his suit. The
suit was dull grey, like her dress she thought fleetingly, and made him
look very impressive.
He was tense. Mary sensed it, an edginess beneath the calm, pleasant
exterior.
He wanted her child.
Gabriel was a Senior Mother Consultant. The baby was not technically
his, but he chose her out of all the other applicants, he placed the
seed within her. In some way he was a father.
He was gazing out of the window, a good impression of far-away thought
but she knew he was waiting for her to open the conversation.
At least he was not angry. She had heard of Consultants who beat and
tortured Mothers that tried to keep their baby. By law, the Mother had
every right to do this. A small but merciful act of grace in this world
of faceless oppression.
"I can't give you my decision. Not yet." she said quietly.
Gabriel turned away from the window to face her. A perfect countenance
of compassion. "I understand Mary. The child is yours. It is your flesh
and blood. I would find it hard, myself."
What did a man know about bearing a child, she scorned inwardly.
Gabriel gazed at her and she could feel his eyes tracing the shapely
curves of her body; she knew he remembered, that he had probably stored
the sight in his head to replay in lonely moments when there was
nothing to restrict his hands. She sensed what he was thinking and
opened herself to the idea.
"Why don't you stay the night." she asked. She saw the words strike
him weak; his gaze dropped to the floor.
"You know I can't do that Mary."
"Don't you find me attractive?"
"Union with a Mother is a crime against the state."
"I would call it a crime of passion, but not against the state." she
argued.
"Please, Mary... " his words faltered. He let out a small breath of
exasperation, changed track, "I can understand your desire to keep this
child, but this child has a better future than you or I could dream of.
And the money.... the money would help you to build a life where you
could have as many children as you want, where you could be comfortable
and not have to live like... to live like this."
Mary laughed coldly, "And if the state cares so much for it's chosen
children, why does it let the Mothers continue to live in squalor? Why
do we have to give away our babies to be given a life where we can be
comfortable." She was crying.
Gabriel stepped forward, as if he wanted to hold her, then stopped.
His handsome features hardened with the act of self control. "The state
has conducted extensive experimentation. You were chosen because of
your DNA. Because of who you are. Who you are is a product of your
environment. The child could be effected by any dramatic change."
Mary walked over to a cupboard and opened it to reveal a few jars of
food paste and a bright green apple.
"Then go. Come back tomorrow night, after dark, and I will give you my
decision." She said.
"After dark, why?" Suspicion.
"Because I say so and because I want you to do what I say."
Gabriel nodded, as if pretending to convey an aspect understanding.
Mary took the apple and gave it to him.
"Another apple. And so delicious. Where do you get these from?"
"We all have ways to survive here."
Gabriel nodded and bit into the apple. She could see he enjoyed it.
"Very well." he said, "Tomorrow night."
&;#8224;
The house was low and wide, staggered levels of wood and glass
stretched out along the base of the mountain, above steep foothills and
dark green forests. Broad balconies thrust out above dizzying
drops.
Zebulon heard his father's voice above the steady rumble of the
waterfall that thundered past one side of the structure. Zebulon moved
quietly through the house, entered the music room, crept over to the
window where he could glimpse his father's visitor.
His father was standing by the of a balcony. A frenzy of white water
cascaded down the mountainside less than ten cubits further. With him
was a Priest of Spheres, a tall man with long dark hair tied back in a
top knot, dressed in long flowing white robes marked with the herald of
the Sphere. The highest order of the faith.
Zebulon rightly concluded that the priest had come to bring news of
his brother. When two people desired to rear a son or daughter, those
two people went to a Lodge of the Hexagram, a six angled building where
they make their pact of procreation. If it is deemed valid and right, a
priest of the Spheres appears to ordain the pact.
His parents made a pact of procreation thirteen months ago. A son. A
brother for Zebulon.
He listened to what the priest had to say but was not pleased by what
he heard. The priest was explaining there were problems with the
procreation. The angles were out of alignment and delays were expected.
Maybe another year.
Zebulon's father was upset by the news. He asked the priest if he was
being punished yet again for his association with Baptiste. The priest
assured him this was not so.
Baptiste. Zebulon knew the name. A sorcerer who was executed by the
Order of Khufu for dialogue with a hypernatural demon. Baptiste had
been well known for his illusions and conjurations of strange things.
The Order of Khufu, their symbol a dimensional triangle, had always
tolerated this to some degree. But apparently Baptiste had gone too
far, and actually summoned an entity of fearful intellect with
knowledge of the secrets of the geometrix. Baptiste had tried to learn
the language of Nature.
Zebulon's father had been Baptiste's friend.
Guilt by association in many eyes.
Was this what Bubastis wanted him to overhear. If so, why? The very
appearance of a creature like Bubastis was in some way similar to the
appearance of the hypernatural demon. The official transcript of
Baptiste's trial had stated the demon wore the guise of men and had
said many blasphemous things, things which Baptiste repeated at the
trial in the form of questions. Questions which the official transcript
blocked out.
Despite the differing appearance Zebulon became certain Bubastis was
of the same origin as Baptiste's demon. He felt a fire light within
him. A fire for knowledge. He wanted to know the secrets Bubastis
possessed.
&;#8224;
Status Report:
The anomaly 216 first noticed three days ago continues to exist. 216
believes it may be the work of Reality Hackers. 216 suspects a possible
long term intrusion is taking place.
I open my eyes and remove the interface cable from the surgically
drilled socket in my skull. Another perk of 216: subsidized
enhancements and the quality of the surgery is always above
exceptional.
My eyes are tired from the sensory bombardment, even though no light
penetrated their tightly shut lids.
The Reality Hackers are up to something but I am confused by my
disinterest. I do not see how they could destroy what 216 is, merely
change it. Which, as a buried thought, I do not consider a terrible
thing. Somewhere my brain is telling me my conditioning is not perfect:
it is warning me that I am a potential threat to 216, that I should
turn myself in. But that is failure. A sharp drop to the Street.
I push myself away from the console, the chair gliding on a silent
current of ions. The chair drifts across the firm floor matting to the
open balcony. The sun is setting. Beyond the dome I can see the blocks
of the Street, row after row of decaying tenements. Already the dark is
seeping into the lower sections. Mary is expecting me.
A tremor of anticipation makes me swallow for no reason; I cross my
arms and hug my chest. I cannot deny the desire but I must
resist.
I must resist.
&;#8224;
She lit the rest of the candles when she heard Gabriel's taxi land. The
room became almost homely in the ambient light. The wretched stench
from the fry-shop was masked by the dreamy scent of incense. Something
she wished she could afford all the time, but in truth she could not
even afford this. Shelly paid for all of it.
She heard Gabriel's footsteps on the staircase. The sound caused her
thighs to tighten with expectation. She gave the room a final cursory
glance to make sure nothing had been left out: the make-up kit and the
small hand-mirror were safely hidden behind the cupboard. More gifts
from Shelly.
Gabriel knocked once and stepped through the door. This time he had
already removed the smog mask. She watched his reaction as the heady
scent of the incense reached him, surprise, bafflement, pleasure, and
then when his eyes adjusted to the candlelight and caught sight of her
altered appearance.
Desire.
"Mary." The utterance was a question and request.
She crossed the room and stood close to him. She saw the veins
throbbing in his neck; his eyes were wide open and dilated. She took
his hand and opened his palm. Without looking away from his enthralled
gaze she stroked the palm with her fingers, then she turned his hand
over and pressed it against the swelling around her stomach.
Gabriel's eyes stuttered closed then blinked open. He shook his head
slowly, as if to wake himself from a dream. He swayed in front of her,
intoxicated by his own emotions. He lifted a hand to his brow and
fingered the shaved expanse of his temple, ran a finger across the bar
coded SIN.
"Come." she said softly, leading him across the room toward the bed,
"Lie with me."
He did not hesitate. He did not resist. For these moments he belonged
to her.
They made gentle love and Mary sensed that for the first time in his
life, Gabriel was himself.
Afterwards, they lay on their backs, side by side, gazing at shadows
playing across the ceiling. Mary stroked her naked form and felt more
beautiful than at any other moment in her life. She reached out and
found Gabriel's hand, placed it on her belly.
"We can keep this baby." she said.
Gabriel did not answer for a long time. When he did, she heard the
frustration in his voice. "How, when you live like this?"
"We can keep this baby, and use another."
"What?" His voice low but serious.
"Nobody will know. The money will give me a life in the Old Quarter.
Will give us a life."
"Mary-"
"I love you Gabriel. I love you and I want you in my life. Please, I
want to keep this baby."
Gabriel rolled over onto his side; he put his strong arms across her
and held her close. Sympathetic, he told her, "The DNA won't
match."
"Yes, and I know someone who can help. He can plant the other's DNA
sample in 216."
"How?" Incredulous.
"216 isn't infallible. There are ways in, ways to alter things."
Gabriel seemed to go into shock. It was if somebody had told him the
world was flat and then shown him the statement was true.
"Do you feel like you have committed a crime by sleeping with me?" she
asked.
"No." his voice dull.
"Then you know that not everything about 216 is right. Some things
need to be changed."
"Who is the other child?"
"I can't tell you."
"Then how can I...." he stopped, confused.
"You don't need to do anything. You just need to say yes. Then it
happens."
He held her tightly.
"Trust me Gabriel."
&;#8224;
The cat flicked its tail absently, sitting on the with its paws
stretched out in front of it.
Just like the Sphinx, Zebulon thought with wonder.
"I did not think it would be so easy to convince you." said the
cat.
"Why? We are causing no harm, and the priest said the angles were out
of alignment, maybe another year, my brother has not taken form yet."
Zebulon chatted enthusiastically, kicked his legs playfully back and
forth where they dangled over the edge of the cliff. He adored high
places. There was another waterfall here. But rather than cascading
down a mountain face, this fell as a solid column of angry white water
to the lake five hundred cubits below.
"And you accept that I will replace your brother in the vessel of his
body."
"He'll be born to someone else. At least with you I know I will enjoy
the company of a brother, because it will be you."
"A fine argument."
&;#8224;
I can't believe I agreed to this. I must have taken leave of my senses
but now I am in too far to turn back. I have already committed crimes
against the state. A drop from 216 to the street may not be the end of
my punishment.
A public trial. An execution. An example to others who even dare to
think the things I have done.
I have the address of the child to replace Mary's. The name is Shelly.
I have been told the DNA profiles have already been swapped. I can
barely comprehend how this can happen. I thought 216 was God.
It seems even God can be lied to.
The surgical team are with me. We climb the stone staircase of a large
gothic mansion converted into one room flats. Holes have been smashed
through the solid masonry and modern doors installed. The size and age
of the place is vaguely impressive but saddening in some aspect of
decay; its cold and draughty, it is still the Street.
The door has been left unlocked. I knock once, push it open and step
into a world of urban shock. The walls are crammed with shelves
buckling under the weight of the junk stacked on each one. It looks
like a lifetime's worth of objects accumulated from the Street. Behind
the shelves the walls are plastered with posters from a century of
films. Then I notice that not all of the junk is junk. Some of it is
computer hardware, homebuilt but advanced, strung together with bundles
of fibre-optic.
I suddenly feel transported by the tangible power of the person who
put this room together. I no longer know where or when I am. I want to
stay here, wherever here is and spend time studying every item on every
shelf, I want to fathom the reason behind selection of every object, I
want to know what this collector felt and experienced, what led them to
bring a particular thing back with them to this place.
I feel emotions long suppressed by conditioning welling up inside of
me. I feel like crying and uttering words of awe.
Then I become aware of the surgical team behind me. The three men are
restless. They don't like this place, I can tell instinctively, no
trace of logic in the impression. They just want to get on with the
Job. Members of 216 they fear delay, fear failure.
A curious smile curves my lips, as though I am sharing a joke nobody
has yet heard.
I am not even surprised by what moves into view from the corner of the
room. I had simply assumed the replacement for Mary's child would be
another baby, but in front of me is an invalid in a wheelchair,
trailing a long interface cable between a wall socket and the socket in
his skull, a man who's limbs have been withered from the knees and
elbows by some ravaging disease. At that second I am struck by an
implicit understanding of everything that surrounds me; the room
representing this man's life up to the point when illness threatened to
take it away from him, and now his aspiration for freedom from the
damaged mortal coil. The surgical team are standing ready, they know
nothing but the instructions they have been given by 216 and that I am
in charge.
"Shelly?" I ask.
The man nods, wary but then he sees the understanding in my eyes and
he smiles.
"Everything is going to be okay." I say and the surgical team step
past me to do their Job.
I step back and stare at the most prominent object on the wall. A
picture in a frame. It is hard to tell if it is computer generated or
an actual photograph or perhaps even drawn by the hand of some gifted
artist. The picture is of a large black cat with intelligent
eyes.
&;#8224;
She kissed his neck and let him hold her. He did not sense the anguish
in her heart. But this had to be done. It was the only way they would
ever be safe.
"I couldn't believe it." Gabriel said.
"What's that my love." she said, stroking his hair. They stood by the
doorway. It would be the last time either of them saw this room. In a
few minutes a taxi would arrive to fly her to a new life in the Old
Quarter.
"It went like clockwork. Click-click-click, not a single thing went
wrong. It was perfect."
"Shelly would never let anything happen that he hadn't made plans
for." Gabriel went quiet. She pushed him gently away, "I have something
for you."
He smiled as she backstepped to the cupboard and took out another
apple. When she returned she said, "This is the last one to mean
anything. Don't eat it just yet."
He took the apple and put it inside the pocket of his jacket. "I had
better go check on the new Occupant."
"Okay." She didn't hug him again. "I won't see you out."
He nodded and left, too engrossed in the act he had just played to
notice everything was different between them.
Mary watched as he strolled down the road. She bit her knuckle to stop
the pain in her heart because in some way she did love him; she placed
a hand across the swelling of her belly to remind herself what she had
done was necessary.
&;#8224;
Zebulon stood on the edge of the cliff with his head bowed, gazing into
the solid column of angry white water dropping to the lake half a
kilocubit below.
Bubastis was gone and would never be back. Not as the cat anyway. The
priest of spheres had returned that morning at the head of a birth
procession.
His baby brother had been born.
A conspiratorial smile lit Zebulon's face. Now he could learn the
secrets of Nature and all that Bubastis had known.
Eden would never be the same again.
Zebulon rocked back on one heel then launched himself forward. Power
dive and an exhilarating explosion into deep green water.
Anything seemed possible here.
&;#8224;
The taxi carries me high above the Street. The people who live down
there call it a city but what do they know, they are animals where
angels like Mary have to suffer and hide.
I do not look down. There is no interest in a place I will never
return to. My role as SMC has ended. Thirteen months of worry and
anxiety finally through. I have been given the promotion I wanted but I
think I will probably hand in my resignation and join Mary in the Old
Quarter with the pay-off I will receive. 216 looks after you if you
have done well.
I wrestle with the notion I have cheated fate. I avoid feelings of
guilt by telling myself 216 is not always right. Yes, I should retire
now because I hold treachery in my mind.
It all went like clockwork. I do not worry what I have done will be
found out.
Strange when I think back a few hours. I have always known what 216
embodied but I have never been responsible for installing a new
Occupant before. I have jacked in a million times in the persona of a
religious figure, but until today I had never seen the behind the
scenes organic nature of the virtual haven of the world's elite.
The surgical team removed Shelly's brain, nervous system, several
organs and his testes. The testes are saved for the time when an
Occupant, living by the rules of the virtual world of Eden wish to have
a child. In their theology, which is all most Occupants know, to have a
child requires the permission of a priest of Spheres.
Some priest I made. I slept with a Mother. In reality, when a request
for a child is made, a technocrat is given the role of SMC and goes out
onto the Street to select a woman to bear the organic child. The testes
are used to artificially inseminate the chosen Mother.
I watched as Shelly's brain was placed inside the hermetically sealed
chamber within the guts of 216. The chamber is a chromed and polished
life-support system, purpose built for every new Occupant, the true
privalleged of this world. Privallaged because they can live in another
world away from this one. Beside him was the long-time sealed chamber
of another Occupant, called Zebulon.
I wonder what I will think now, on those quiet nights when I stand on
my balcony with a glass of wine, savouring the mild evening air which
has been freshly scrubbed by the filters in the dome. When I hear the
resonant hum of the Machine in the very fabric of the city, will I
think of Shelly and the thousands of other brains? Removed from thier
flesh and sealed in the chambers. Connected in a computer generated
virtual world called Eden where physical pain is only an artificially
induced sensation, where Shelly's withered limbs mean nothing, where
they don't even influence the quality of his life.
But where does that leave the technocrats of 216? As machine tickling
aphids fighting over the right to stand at the top of the pile. I feel
disgusted by the real illusion, that my life was worthwhile. At least
now I have love.
I feel the bulge in my pocket and remember the apple she gave
me.
I reach into my jacket and take it out. Green and bursting with juice.
I take a bite.
It is so delicious. I still can't work out where Mary got them
from.
I frown, puzzled by the abrupt tightness in my chest. I shift my
posture, feeling the constriction growing, affecting my
breathing.
A sweat breaks out across my brow. I feel like I am burning up! I lean
forward, try to stretch the collar of my shirt but the neck is already
unbuttoned.
The spasm hits me like a fall from a tower to the earth. Every muscle
tightens until the pain has sends me screaming, clawing the door of the
taxi even though there is nowhere for me to go.
I can't breathe.
I can't breathe.
I can't breathe.
The words travel with me into the empty darkness of death.
&;#8224;
The darkness snapped into broad bands of grey static.
Game Over.
Steve ripped the goggles from his face and blinked in the harsh light
of his bedroom.
"Shit! I died!"
He sat for a moment, perfectly still, in stunned silence.
The apple. She poisoned the apple.
He slapped his thigh and shook his head. "That was a cheap trick." he
said to no-one in particular.
Steve reached forward and switched off the game console, pulled out
the cartridge and put it back into the box.
He caught a glimpse of movement on the peripheral of his vision.
Ignored it. He lived alone. Put it down to an after effect of total
immersion in a superrealistic world. Or a world within world. Eden
seemed like a cool place. Better than New York city and the jagged
twenty four house noise of Broadway beyond his window.
He saw the movement again, something black darted quickly along the
base of one wall. Steve froze, caught in the grip the fear that comes
when you realise you are not alone.
Slowly he twisted neck to see what was sitting on the sofa behind
him.
His mouth dropped open and all he could say was, "What the
fuck."
A black cat sat watching him, with really intelligent eyes.

- END -