The Living (29 page)

And the thumping too. The uneven, exhausting thumping of his raging blood.

‘Not now,’ the Servant of Order put the capsule back in his pocket. ‘But if you are a good little boy, and repeat after me everything that you have to say, then in half an hour you will get your black bakugan. Just remember, deep breaths, not too fast… And the main thing is: remember that you are protecting the interests of the Living, even if you are under a little bit of pressure from us… You see, we, Wise One, know what we are doing. Some day you will realise that we are right.’

Letter to Self
4th September 471 A.V.

Gopz, my friend! Sorry about that, but I did make you

You are now eight, so you probably already know that you should have been a member of the Council. And that you didn’t get to be one.

You are not Second.

When you grow up, you will be, well, a
socio
worker… Yes, that’s what we are going to do. So why don’t I just go right ahead and sort everything out for ‘me’…

…So that’s it. Congratulations on your new job. They were all, of course, a little flabbergasted when I told them.

‘A
socio
worker?!’ Third even flapped his wings. ‘And what exactly do you have your eye on?’

‘Well, being a sysadmin, for instance,’ I say.

‘What?’ he says. ‘What – a sysadmin? Don’t you want a decent job?’

So I go to him, grandly: ‘And what exactly do you think is not “decent” about being a sysadmin?’ And then I sort of soften up a bit and say: ‘Well, maybe you’re right at the end of the day. Being a sysadmin would be boring. I’d be better off with something creative… I’ll do
socio
art. Pictures, you
know, souvenirs, all those little bits and bobs for cell
interiors
… Or I’ll develop the models for new presents:
socio
cakes and birthday bouquets… Or not. I’d be better off as a
socio
-gunsmith
, that’s it. Development and supply of weapons for shoot ’em ups and no deathers…’

‘Maybe you’d like to create your own game?’

‘Oh no,’ I say. ‘Why do my own? Too much responsibility. I’m tired, my friends, of responsibility…’

At first I was thinking of making myself the Servant of Order. Sort of like a reshuffle… But then I realised: no. Even an
ordinary
planetman – no. No positions of responsibility in first layer. No power. Otherwise, anything could happen, you
probably
have ambitions, you’ve been insulted, your sense of honour has been slighted… Why risk it? You’ll still, probably, cause all sorts of hassle. So you’re better off sitting in
socio
drawing handguns. I don’t see any sense in risking my son’s welfare for the sake of your pleasure. At the end of the day, I couldn’t care less about you.

Yep, I couldn’t care less. For me you just don’t exist. You’re surprised, right?

After all, you are me, my direct continuation. It’s just five seconds of darkness and I’m alive again, bla bla bla… Tell me, matey, do you remember anything about me? Because tomorrow I’m going to pull all my previous letters to self out of Renaissance (I’m not going to leave behind all those state secrets for you to find
), and I’ll leave only one, this one… Do you remember anything?

Maybe you remember how wisely I ruled in the Council of Eight? Or what I liked to have for lunch?

Or how my long-term woman smelled, my slum witch, when she was young? You don’t remember, do you? I’ll tell you: she smelled of fish and ginger… And later, how did she smell later, before the pause, do you remember? No, of course not. Because it wasn’t you, it wasn’t you but me who was there breathing
in that sweet, boggy smell of decay which she breathed out in her groans…

Or maybe you remember the first time my son smiled? Or you remember how my grandchildren used to like to tug at my beard?

You don’t remember anything. And without these crucial memories, are you really me?!

I couldn’t care less about you. Just like my inc-predecessor couldn’t care less about me. And just as you can’t remember me, I couldn’t remember him. I didn’t know him and I couldn’t feel him. His Darlings were completely alien to me. As an eight-year-old boy – just like you are now – I threw them, his women, his kids and his grandkids, out of the Residence. And, to be honest, I didn’t care how and where they lived after that…

That’s what everyone does. All the members of the Council, once they are renewed, throw ‘their own’ Darlings out of the Residence. Some harshly, with a kick up the behind, some politely, with respect. Some do it with no explanation, some with plausible excuses like ‘repairs to the façade of the main building’.

And you’d do the exact same, right, mate?

You’d throw them all out, you, a snotty-nosed eight-year-old kid – my women, old and young, my son and my
grandchildren
… Everyone who is dear to me.

I am, you might say, a familial… What, have you pissed yourself? So then, off you go and make a complaint against ‘yourself’ to the SPO. A voluntary confession will reduce the punishment, they reckon… But nevertheless, I don’t recommend it, my friend. We sentence guys like you to a Shameful Pause immediately… And a Shameful Pause – do you know what that is, my friend? It’s a bit early for you to find out, but I’ll tell you anyway. It’s when they put you in solitary in the Special Unit – it’s this sort of hermetically sealed, transparent chamber, like
a terrarium, with twenty-four-hour video-surveillance – and in second layer they show all the livings how you slowly die from dehydration and starvation. They show you crapping where you sleep. They show you going mad and banging your head against the walls. And calling for your mummy. And writhing around in your own excrement…

So you’d be better off not telling anyone about me.
Quid licet Iovi, non licet bovi
… It’s one rule for the powerful, and another for you animals. I can be a familial, but you have to live by the law and not go shooting your mouth off. And, perhaps, it’ll work out, because the Living is all-merciful.

…You shouldn’t think that I have always found the courage to call myself a familial. For a really, really long time I tried to believe in ‘the life eternal’. I read my letters to self and
struggled
and struggled and tried to get into the role, to feel that I am
him
. I even sent his relatives some
socio
cash every month, seeking forgiveness for my sin…

And then I realised – I was already well past sixty then, other people don’t live that long – I realised: it’s all lies. Even before the Malfunctions, even before Fourth, I just knew it in my sick old stomach. I am me, the sum of my memories from birth until pause. Everyone who came before, everyone who will come after, is not me. And it doesn’t matter if we happen to have numbers that match.

There are others who feel this in their belly too: to hell with inc-successors, your continuation is in your children… I destroy those bright sparks with absolutely no pity. The head and the arse can’t live in the same conditions…

To my son, and my son’s son, and his grandsons, that’s who I want to pass down a quiet and obedient Living to.
Manageable
. Arranged by the Book…

‘…I’m going to puke,’ Second said and shivered in a silent cough to make the point clearer. ‘With a hopeful smile,
walking
into the sunset, the cry of a new-born, the mirrored mask elegantly clings to his wilful balls…’ Second gave a wheezing cackle, and First and Third followed his example.

Fifth’s honoured deputy, assiduously goggling his eyes in the live broadcast window, also wrinkled his expressionless little globaloid face in obsequious cackling.

‘I don’t know what you’re so happy about.’ Second cut off their laughter abruptly. ‘Your screenplay is no good. What is all this lovey-dovey crap you’ve put in? Why does the
planetman
try and talk the violator round, explaining and
wriggling
about like an earthworm? Why does the planetman even talk to him at all? A dissident is an enemy, it only needs a short chat. A dissident is a lost cause, there’s no point having some soul-saving conversation with him. What you’ve got to do to a dissident…’ Second’s face twisted, either from pain or from genuine hatred. ‘…is this…’ Second clenched his
trembling
hand into a fist. ‘Crush the rat. Teach the others a lesson.’

‘So then… if… if I have permission to speak…’ jabbered Fifth’s deputy, ‘what adjustments would the members of the Council recommend…?’

‘Make the conflict tougher,’ First said didactically. ‘Put the emphasis in the right places…’

‘Who have you chosen to play the old-living?’ Second asked seriously.

‘Talk out loud!’ roared Second. ‘This conference is being held in first layer. You are showing disrespect to the Wise One!’

‘The photograph is in your inbox, Second,’ the deputy murmured.

‘It’s Prince G, a professional actor, he’s been in all the shows… A familiar face…’ the deputy fixed his gaze on Second’s features as they darkened in rage and then played his trump card: ‘Fifth’s favourite actor.’

‘A familiar face,’ Second bleated, mimicking the deputy. ‘His favourite actor… Idiot! The face of a traitor shouldn’t be familiar, it shouldn’t be someone’s favourite! Plus, Prince is forty-five and this is about an old-living!’

‘We’ll give him makeup…’

‘Silence!’ Second cawed, ‘Everything has to be realistic. When it’s about an old-living the viewer has to see old age. Real, stinking, terrifying, rotten old age.’ Second coughed wetly. ‘The sort of age that when any cretin sees it he realises that it is poisoning the body of the Living!’

In their first-layer windows the members of the Council lowered their eyes in shame. The dark and wrinkled face of
Second
, covered in perspiration, fitted those criteria to perfection.

‘A little radical for my tastes,’ Sixth remarked. ‘Why arouse negative emotions in the viewer? Viewers shouldn’t have to feel disgusted when they see an advert.’

‘Not when they see an advert, but when they see a
criminal
,’ Second snapped back. ‘We are, by the way, in a state of
emergency, in case you had forgotten. Playtime is over.’ Second flashed his eyes from beneath his swollen eyelids. ‘This is what I think. We’ve got to do a documentary. Real violators. Real extracts from interrogations. Real punishments.
Shameful
Pauses broadcast on
socio
.’

‘That’s not possible,’ Third intervened. ‘Showing violence is banned on
socio
.’

‘Who’s talking about violence?’ Second replied in a bored voice. ‘No one’s talking about violence… Wise One, what’s your take on this issue?’

The Wise One nodded.

‘“I like Second’s proposal…”’ whispered the Servant of Order.

‘I like Second’s proposal.’

‘“There’s a lot of common sense in it.”’

‘There’s a lot of common sense in it.’

‘“And seeing as the emergence of the Dissidents is partly my fault…”’

The Wise One inhaled deeply and held his breath. It helped slow his pulse, if only a little. The Servant said that if the second meeting goes smoothly then next time we’ll manage without any venom…

‘…And seeing as the emergence of the Dissidents is part…’

‘Fofs,’ Second suddenly sighed gruffly, and Zero stopped halfway through a word.

‘Carry on,’ mouthed the Serva nt.

‘…ly my fault…’

Second gave out a short, sharp laugh.
I’m saying something wrong,
Zero thought in panic and immediately felt his pulse quicken.
What’s he laughing at?

The blood started splashing in his head, unbearably,
deafeningly
loud, striking his ear drums in taut streams, swathing first layer in sparkling tatters… Through this knocking, through the warm, sombre splashing he heard the old man’s laughter –
he-hee, such a hideous laugh, unnatural, like in one of the dramas – and the voice of the Autosecretary (‘Technical pause in conference’) and the voice of the Servant again:

‘…Can I trust you, Wise One? Can I trust you…?’

As if under a layer of water, blindly and slowly, not
understanding
anything, the Wise One nodded. And that moment he felt a slippery little lump bite into his wrist.

‘I’ve given you the anti-venom,’ whispered the Servant,
somewhere
there, beneath the water. ‘After the break you can
continue
the speech yourself.’

‘He-hee!’ Second wailed.

what is he laughing at?

Sleep, sleep… Dozy and slow like a greasy bubble, silence stretched out in his head. And it dragged him, lulling him to sleep, somewhere downstream…

‘Don’t sleep, Wise One!’

…He so wanted to float away… With great effort Zero
unstuck
his swollen eyelids and sat up. It was quiet and sleepy in the conference hall and the old man was not giggling anymore, but had also fallen asleep, his grey beard sticking ridiculously into one of the hollows in the sofa. The Servant of Order was sitting next to his father and stroking his back.

‘What was he laughing at?’ Zero asked, suppressing a yawn.

‘He wasn’t laughing, he was dying.’

Zero looked into the old man’s motionless grey face.

‘So then,’ – the Servant of Order examined himself in the dark screen of the Crystal like it was a mirror – ‘will you manage without a prompt, Wise One?’

The Crystal blinked on with a dry crackle and split into eight squares. All for the convenience of the Wise One. So that at the conference he could see all the faces of the members of the Council…

The swarthy, tense features of the Servant appeared in square 2. He paused and then said:

‘Second, moderator of the tranquillity of the Living in all layers, welcomes the members of the Council. Fifteen minutes ago, at the age of eighty-two, my father temporarily ceased. We would like to wish him a happy reproduction…!’

The members of the Council hummed in approval from the screen of the Crystal.

‘…And I am, in hope and trepidation, taking over the reins. Dear friends! I am prepared to continue the conference and I maintain my previous position in regard to
socio
advertising. The Wise One will now tell us in detail about his vision…’