But Thomas Aiken Is Dead - Part I (3 page)

The Interlokutor:

Why not just contact modern ningens outside of the Cadence and confirm your hypothesis that way? They are still in full eksist, are they not?

Atia:

Tsun Uri had already thought of that. He did some preliminary surveyance of Erde-Physical with mekanikals. The surviving ningens have modified themselves too radically. There aren’t any left – that we could find at least, resembling original ningens. Also, there’s a strong possibility that they’ve long forgotten about the Cadence anyway.

The Interlokutor:

Were you surprised at this?

Atia:

Not particularly. I was more taken aback at how they’ve organised themselves now. Most kommunities have returned to a primal mode of living. They band together in small groups of fifty or a hundred. Some have devolved themselves, others evolved. There’s huge variety across the biosphere. A number of kommunities are barely even biological, more machine than flesh.

The Interlokutor:

Very well. Outline your subsequent research.

Atia:

I focused on the cusp period.

The Interlokutor:

Why?

Atia:

There were a number of ningen thinkers already concerned with mergerment, despite the Cadence not yet being in eksist. I suspected they might have something to offer.

The Interlokutor:

And this is how you came across the writings of Thomas Aiken?

Atia:

That is not a subject I’m willing to discuss.

The Interlokutor:

It is a requirement of this interview that you do.

Atia:

Then I exercise my right to decline.

The Interlokutor:

Such is your right, but be aware that it will be noted against you. A selfsense surgeon is already devising an original procedure to have your more volatile eccentricities corrected.

Atia:

That sounds like a threat.

The Interlokutor:

Merely a statement of plain fact. Was this, or was this not, how you came across the writings of Thomas Aiken?

Atia:

This is becoming absurd. I’m not dealing with two half-constructs. Find me a denizen to talk to. Find me a denizen or I won’t cooperate.

The Interlokutor:

Your cooperation isn’t essential. We are conducting this investigation for your benefit, to best ascertain how to remedy you. We will instruct the selfsense surgeon to expunge your memories of Aiken’s life, as well as your infant’s life, in the event of noncompliance. Now, is this, or is this not, how you came across the writings of Thomas Aiken?

Atia:

There’ll be an outcry.

The Interlokutor:

Your crime is already notorious among the denizens and you are far from popular because of it. The public will condone any action we suggest, so long as it seems a fair answer to the severity of your transgression. Given how they have reacted so far, it is likely that they would even sanction full termination in this instance. I will ask one last time then. Is this, or is this not, how you -

Atia:

Yes. It is.

Fran,

You never tie your hair up if you can help it. I think you’ve always been like that, an unruly little child. Five years old, trying ice cream for the first time, your face splattered in chocolate and sugar. One, useless, crying out at ungodly times in the night, letting up only for an hour or two. Twenty two, elegant, leaving for a graduation dinner or something in that red dress. I want to keep you away from the lecherous boys and their lechery but there is nothing I can do now. You are, as your actions ever remind me, your own woman. And today, twenty eight. Vanished. So now I will write you a letter.

I assume for the first forty eight hours that there will be some email I have missed detailing one of your jaunts to some exotic country or an answerphone message that has not saved itself properly. After four days it becomes clear this is not the case. Your boyfriend – Salah, is missing also. I drive over to your place in the hills. Your little blue car is still waiting on the pavement. Inside, everything is pristine. No, not pristine. Sterile. Every cup and plate is stacked as though a royal might visit. The fridge is empty. The plugs have been removed from their sockets. I spend the rest of the day calling your friends, any I can think of, all the way back to primary school. Some remember you, some don’t. You haven’t contacted any of them in years except for a girl called Rebecca and while she is pleased to talk to me, she hasn’t the faintest idea where you are. I call Salah’s friends too and introduce myself. They’re also useless.

I visit your mother. Industrious woman, she has filed a police report already. You get your furious efficacy from her side, I think. We sit and drink wine for a little while but I can see she wants to be alone. The moment I close the door I know she will break down into floods of tears, quiet behind-the-scenes crying, both hands over her mouth and her eyes clamped closed like manhole covers. A few more days pass. Nothing of any interest, no contact from you whatsoever. I would consider kidnap or murder a possibility had you not cleaned your apartment so thoroughly. Your savings jar was left right there on the dinner table after all. Besides, what would a crime syndicate want with you anyway? The most dubious thing I can remember you doing is smoking dope with whatever-his-name was and even then you never really enjoyed it, you said.

The police turn up. When did I last speak to you? A week ago, I suppose. You sounded fine. Did you have any suicidal tendencies? Not that I know of. How was our relationship? Fine, I think. Had work been going well? As far as I know. You and Salah had already made enough money to buy your own place. Did I have any idea where you’d gone whatsoever? None at all. Had you disappeared unexpectedly before? Not without at least a few days warning, and even then it had only been a trip up the country or something. So you would say that this is not in line with Miss Aiken’s usual behaviour? No. It certainly is not.

You are not dead. I would know. That is something all parents in this situation say, I’m well aware, but I am sure of it. The weather would do something abnormal or I would have woken one morning with a sense of dread so palpable it had me rendered bedridden for the day. Look at me now, coming out with Deepak Chopra nonsense like that. I don’t like it anymore than you do but still, you are not dead. I would know.

This is your area, isn’t it? Crystals and incense and dubious premises. Paternal intuition. Yes.

Salisbury. You are six, hair in fat blonde plaits. You beg me to take you into the cathedral. Inside, a vicar or someone is really going for it, Leviticus, Corinthians, the whole works. Then he gesticulates as though he’s conducting an orchestra and says, ‘Everyone who lives in me and believes in me will never die,’ and you frown for a moment and pull at my hand.

In a whisper:
Never
die?

‘That’s what Christians think,’ I say.

In a louder whisper: But
never ever
die?

‘Who knows?’

A pause, another frown, then: And Samantha?

I only smile and shrug. Samantha Weir at the end of our street. Meningitis. She was much too young to believe in the Holy Father and so she was probably turned around at the glimmering entrance gates with the Muslims and Jews.

Another tug at my hand: Samantha will live forever and ever then?

‘Yes, I say. ‘Forever and ever.’

How often that comes up in the next five years. At funerals, at the sight of roadkill, at the veterinarian’s table when they put Oscar down. Forever and ever then? Yes. Forever and ever. Nothing ceases to be inside of your naïve little model, and I have no right to tell you otherwise.

Precocious eleven year old, you make it your personal mission to challenge every convention. Our parenting first. If you love each other, why did you divorce? If you can drink alcohol, why can’t I drink alcohol? Then, a little metaphysical: If pets don’t go to heaven, where do they end up? No where. Gone. That’s silly, god must have a plan. Not for pets, I say.

Nor practicing homosexuals either, you learn. Or those that take the lord’s name in vain. But that’s silly, you say again. And slowly, though not that slowly, your mother and I become acquainted with Older Fran who isn’t much of a stickler for Saturday morning television anymore, but prefers boys and spiteful sarcasm. Soon enough you’ll be an indignant young woman.

I go through your affects. Sorry, you would have done the same for me. Save for a few old love letters you’ve kept, it’s pretty banal. Womenly things; underwear, cosmetics, old artwork, the Mickey Mouse watch I gave you when you were little. You’re more sentimental than I realised. Salah’s affects are just as dull. Shaving foam, condoms – that’s a relief, a little schedule booklet of all things. I flick through. Architectural stuff, birthdays, dental appointments, and something called “The Receiving” every Friday evening. You never could visit on Fridays; perhaps that’s what you were busy with. I make a note of it and ransack the rest of the house. Every item is in its cranny. This is not like you at all.

There’s a letter from your newspaper officialising a termination due to
neglecting essential professional duties
, whatever that means. Have you ever held down a single job in your life? Not that I can remember. Aside from tardiness and romantic comedies, you have also always hated authority figures. For the most part anyway. You made special exceptions for Christ, the Buddha, and Carlos Castaneda however.

I phone the newspaper. They tell me whatever it was you did is sensitive and they can’t talk about it. I am her father, I say. That doesn’t seem to make any difference. I read a few of your old articles in the Tribune. One about an embezzling mayor, another following up on the feminist protest last month. No hints there then. A lead, I decide. That is a strong possibility. You have chanced on something momentous, something dangerous perhaps, and gone after it. It will put Salah in danger too and so the both of you have had to disappear for a while. That has to be it, surely.

Recently, I like to watch the bathwater as it drains. Slow at first, the remaining bubbles wander closer and closer towards the plughole, receding from each other or joining together in a dance. It’s easy to believe they create their own motion but they don’t. They’re driven hopelessly by the water current, and the current is driven hopelessly by the suction of the plughole. I like to watch the bubbles as they flurry about in a panic, breaking off from each other, finding other continents to join, and imagine them as lovers, or families, or friends. We think ourselves so potent. If my life prevails as a great success then I think it
my
success. If luck has me meeting the love of my life in a hospital thirty years ago then I think it
my
luck. But we no more control it than hopeless draining bathwater, I think. It sobers me to keep that in mind. Perhaps you have been taken by some invisible current too.

Strange. You are half me. I know this for sure, I was there when you were made, and when you plumped up in your mother’s belly, and when you arrived. BF, before Fran, and AF. All parents must measure their lives in this way. A single day which blows you open, forces you into a sort of pleasant submission. It’s good to live for something that you know will outlive you. Now, you’ll forgive me if the thought of outliving you instead forces me to tie this little letter up here.

Yours, Papa.

Internment Transcription – Ersatz-Ningen Denizen – Blue Tier
Present Subjects: Saahl (Cadence Denizen), The Breacher (Cadence Official), Ersatz-Ningen Subject (Perpetrator)

Atia:

No Interlokutor today?

Saahl:

They said you wanted to speak to a denizen.

Atia:

I didn’t think they’d take me seriously.

Saahl:

It’s in their interest that you freely provide information about the investigation. They’re not as intransigent as you think.

Atia:

Good to know. Why is the Breacher still here?