Read The Love Machine & Other Contraptions Online
Authors: Nir Yaniv
The Love Machine & Other Contraptions (4 page)
I’m Not as Old as I Used to Be
I am no longer old, and will never be young. I’m... different. Once, you might have said “augmented.” It’s an ugly word, “augmented,” but ugliness, I must admit, is a large part of what is happening to me. A large part of what I am. Soon it will blow through me, pass by me, pass me by, and only I will remain, and I will be him, and he me.
~
It is said that there are moments when a man can feel his life changing. I last felt that way over seventy years ago, and I still remember it. I remember almost nothing, actually—but that day, a little before sunset, she ran into me in the street and we both stopped and looked at each other and smiled. Two total strangers. I would have liked to remember what she wore. We were married for many years, after that. I would have liked to remember her name.
There was no point to my life without her, before her and after.
I would have liked to remember her smile.
~
I am no longer sick, and will never be healthy. I feel my brain moving to and fro while its different parts, from within and without, fight against each other, complete with each other, merge one into the other. I understand this with a clarity that hasn’t been my lot in recent years. I feel it like an intense light shining through the grayness in which have I spent all of my days until now. In one respect, after years of dimness all understanding is a blessing, after years of dullness every sensation is a world in itself. As short-lived as they may be, as terrible as they may be, I take pleasure in them.
~
I had a full life, I think. Few memories make it though the barriers, the rest are blocked by the parts of my mind that still stand on barricades. I had a job I liked, I had a woman I loved. There were... there were other people I loved. I remember love, if not its subjects. I remember that I did great things, but nothing beyond that. And maybe they were not so great, but only seemed so to me? I do not know, and in a short while I will know nothing more.
~
I do something I haven’t done in years. I open my eyes.
~
A blinding light. Everything is a blur. A white figure leans over me. Someone speaks, but I do not understand. It’s been years since I’ve listened. The figure returns to its place by the bed on which I lie. Tubes and wires, wires and tubes. I let go, tell my eyes to rest, but they remain open. They look to and fro—and it is not me who directs them. The picture sharpens. The figure smiles at me. Its face wakes in me a kind of sleeping memory. Inside me another barricade falls, quietly, comfortably. In the corner of my eye I see a row of trees, reflected at me through the window. I would have liked to look straight at them, but I can’t.
~
A radio plays in the background—maybe in one of the adjacent rooms—a cheerful backdrop to the grating sounds rising in my brain. It’s been playing for many years, but only now do I notice.
Adjacent rooms.
I remember where I am.
“Soon,” the figure says. “Soon, Grandpa.”
And I remember the conversations that took place beside my bed. The medical issue, the moral issue, the monetary issue... the money was paid, I know now, out of my grandson’s small savings. My grandson who stands here now, smiling, by the bed, and waits for me to return from the world of the dead, brave and new.
“It’s working!” he says. “It’s really working!”
Of course it’s working. I feel the invading swarm settling in my brain, expanding blood vessels, changing neural pathways, improving performance, removing barriers. I feel it, or know about it from those conversations which I didn’t hear but which suddenly emerge from the depths of my memory, and the feeling and the knowledge are the same. I feel it, and I know that it is the last thing I’ll ever feel.
I remember the injection that, only a few hours ago, I refused to be aware of. I remember the cold of the liquid swimming in my blood. I remember who I am, and know that soon I will cease to be, because this new, improved, augmented mind will not be mine. Soon I will pass some sort of threshold, and then I will know. Or know no more. And the thousands of others, those who received the same treatment before me, they too are no more—but no one knows this, and will never know. My grandson paid for it and he is a good boy, I remember that now, and he deserves a whole and healthy grandfather. I hope that’s what he will get, but I don’t know. The change is sharp. Too sharp.
~
It is said that there are moments when a man can feel his life changing.
I feel my mind change. I don’t fight it. I have lived my life. As if speeding toward a final destination, the memories rush in: I am suffused by the smell of the street where we met, by the last rays of sunlight on white hair, by a hospital different from this one, by the cry of a newborn, by despair, by joy, by meaning.
My brain says, it’s closing time.
And in its swan song, in mine, I remember her smile.
Contraption: Fear Machine
Fear is contraction, the shrinking of hope, the sucking in of light and life and joy and everything that is good, and everything that is bad but may one day give rise to some good.
Fear is generated by fear machines, planted throughout the universe by some long-dead, long-forgotten civilization. Or maybe they’re just a natural phenomenon—assuming that there is such a thing as “natural” in this obviously artificial universe of ours.
Your scientists have already discovered some of these fear machines but, naturally, they can observe them only from a great, great distance. They see only the plain physicality, never guessing the machines’ true function. They have given those machines a proper name, however. They call them Black Holes.
A Painter, a Sheep and a Boa Constrictor
“Please, draw me a sheep,” he said—he looked just like you—and I thought
Oh my
,
the kid makes demands
. I would have liked to be in the desert, beside the broken remains of my airplane, or anywhere else for that matter. But no—we were both in the space port, I who was thrown like a discarded tool from the bowels of a trading ship, and he, who seemed to have arrived from nowhere.
“I don’t know how to draw,” I said.
He handed me a box. For a moment I thought he was asking for a donation.
“I don’t have any money, kid.”
He didn’t answer. I looked at the box again and saw that it was sealed. And then I understood. And was amazed.
“Dear God, where did you get a Maker machine?”
That’s what they called Creators at that time, and they were expensive. Not the kind of toy you would expect to find in the hands of a six year old kid; one like you, for instance.
It gave the request a different, new meaning.
“Please,” he said and put the box in my lap, “Draw me a sheep.”
“I don’t know how to use this thing,” I lied. “Where are your parents?”
He looked at me with a sad, tender look in his eyes. I wanted to help him. Maybe, I said to myself, I’m getting softer with age. Weird kid. In some strange way he looked like he had never had parents. I look that way too, and indeed I never had any. That’s why you don’t have a Granddad and a Grandma, kid.
At that time, programming a Maker machine wasn’t such a simple process. Certainly not when attempting to create a living thing. Only a very few were both able and allowed to do it by themselves—while for me and my kind, as if in response to the very evidence of our ability, it was forbidden. The punishment: death.
Even touching the box could put me at risk, but in the service corridor where I lived there were no security Eyes. That’s why I chose it.
The kid continued to look at me.
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go find your parents.”
I began to walk away but he didn’t move. I didn’t want to leave him there, and if I got caught using force on a child...
“Do you want me to buy you a toy? Or something to eat?”
“Draw me a sheep.”
He was too strange, and I was too tired. And without security Eyes, without witnesses, I began to draw—to create. But not a sheep. I wanted to scare him. I’m not scaring you, am I?
The snake crawled slowly out of the box. Its head was gigantic, out of proportion to its thick black body. It hissed.
The kid smiled.
You like snakes, right?
Yeah, even then no one was scared of Boa Constrictors any more.
The kid’s smile didn’t change when the snake twisted and began to die loudly, the result of my hurried, messy drawing. It might have been an indication of what was to follow. I pointed the Creator and erased the snake, separating it into a pile of ash on the floor.
“A sheep,” the kid said. “Please.”
Too strange, too tired. Too kind. I began to draw. Not a real sheep, but the ideal of a sheep. A sheep from legend. A creature soft and woolly and gentle. And there she was, white curls of silky wool, and a quiet
baa
, and a light hint of musk.
The child’s smile grew, and he turned his head away from me. One movement, a fraction of a second, but I, still absorbed in the act of creation, noticed the movement of the muscles, the slight bump under the skin, the exact tint of the eyes, and knew.
I knew he was no different from me. That he had no parents. And I knew that he didn’t find me by accident. That bump is a transmitter, and those eyes... and the punishment for unauthorized creation, for me and mine, is death.
There are many who would claim that me and mine deserve death, and who would be happy to settle the claim with no accusations of murder. How can you catch someone like me, if not by
using
someone like me? A Drone? Drawn?
I would have liked to ask the child what he thought but time was of the essence, and in any case I was unsure he could have replied. It’s easier to manufacture them that way. Maybe I will ask you, one day. Time was pressing, and I pointed the box at him. Erase.
His body sank in silence while the sheep looked on. Soon only a pile of ash remained.
After a while I erased the sheep, too. I cleaned the floor, collected the ash into the box.
And then, alone, I sat down on the floor and drew you.
Shall I draw you a sheep?
Cinderers
They say you should always start with a little thing. Burn a tree, perhaps; a parked car, some road signs, a traffic light. Not us. We, for starters, burned Mr. Kalmanson’s flat—including two fine leather chairs, forks and knives (two dozen pairs), a life-sized (ugly) wooden horse, and Kalmanson himself, of course.
“Oy,” said Huey, “add a little six kilohertz, I can’t hear the bedroom.” I heard the bedroom just fine, and also the kitchen, the living-room and the toilets. Mikes and earphones of the highest quality, and an SLR camera, black and white real film, as it should be. Louie gave it more six K, and just then Kalmanson’s stupid wife chose to take her leave of this world with a deafening cry.
“Shit!” roared Huey and tore away the earphones.
“I thought she’d scream higher,” said Louie. “It sounded like, I don’t know, B Flat?”
“About a K and a half, with annoying overtones. I hope we can take it out in the editing.”
“We’ll see,” said Louie, and Huey put on the earphones again. In the flat, the shuddering bodies fell still, as did one of the mikes in the kitchen, burned to a crisp despite its thermal casing. Annoying, but what can you do. The fire began to die as the gas filling the house was consumed. One kilometer to the north I saw the lights of the fire-engine whirling in desperation. Nails on the road. The firemen are our brothers, but the siren would ruin our recording.
Later, equipped with backpacks, sleeping-bags, a grenade-launcher and much good will, we lay in wait under cover of a giant Sony billboard by the highway announcing that “This Is Not Television – This Is Reality.”
It was like a school math problem: Drexler’s tanker leaves Ashdod at one hundred kilometers per hour towards Haifa. Half an hour later Schwartz’s truck exits Chedera towards Tel Aviv at ninety kilometers per hour. Drexler carries cooking gas, and Schwartz – detergents. When and where will they meet? And how?
Boom.
Huey didn’t let me film in 8mm. Noise. In my opinion there is nothing like the grainy look of real film, but sometimes you have to make allowances. I used an 8K professional vidcam, and Dewey had to take care of the sound equipment by himself. A clean recording, aside from the part where the burning Schwartz, flying out of the truck’s window, landed on one of the mikes and smashed it. Well, nobody’s perfect.
~
Louie disappeared in the middle of dinner. One moment he was there, absent-mindedly playing with his broccoli while examining the flame-thrower for tomorrow’s job—and the next his plate was orphaned.
“Do you think he’d mind if I ate it?” asked Dewey.
“Eat,” I said. “It’s good for you.” I never understood those vegetarians. I passed him the plate.
“Say,” said Dewey with his mouth full. “Doesn’t it strike you as odd...”
“What?”
“That he, like, disappeared?”
“Who?”
“What do you mean
who
? Where’s your brain?”
“Listen,” I said, “Let’s not play games. If you want to ask me something, be specific.”
Dewey knows me and knows there is no point arguing.
“Louie. He disappeared. Don’t you think something here doesn’t add up?”
I thought about it. “No,” I said. “He probably took a break. He’ll be back soon.”
“Look,” said Dewey. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he had disappeared at any other time, but in the middle of dinner?”
You can say that much for Dewey—occasionally there is something to his twisted logic.
“There is something to your twisted logic,” I said, “But I don’t think we can do anything about it, anyway.”
“He’s not right,” said Dewey.
“Don’t exaggerate,” I said. “He did a nice job with the trucks today. Doing is everything, the rest is nothing.”
“No—yes—that is... sure. But that’s not what I meant.”
“Don’t be a pain,” I said. “Why don’t you finish here instead?”
And I went away.
~
When I came back, I found Louie leaning over building plans and writing comments in a little notebook. Huey was looking over his shoulder.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“The elevator shaft for tomorrow. I’m just working out how much Eve we need.”
“Eve?”
“Extreme Velocity Explosives,” said Huey.
“That’s right,” said Louie. “E.V.E.”
“Oh,” I said, and looked around. Huey wasn’t there. “Hey,” I said, “Doesn’t it strike you as odd...”
“What?”
“That he, like, disappeared?”
“Listen,” said a voice.
“Who?” said Louie.
“What do you mean
who
? Where’s your brain?”
“Listen,” said Louie, “Let’s not play games. If you want to ask me something, be specific.”
I know him, and I know there is no point arguing.
“Huey. He disappeared. Don’t you think something here doesn’t add up?”
He thought about it. “No,” he said. “He probably took a break. He’ll be back soon.”
“You’re ignoring me,” said someone.
“Look,” I said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if he had disappeared at any other time...”
“There’s something to your twisted logic,” said Huey, “But I don’t think we can do anything about it, anyway.”
“He’s not right,” I said.
“Don’t exaggerate,” said Louie. “He did a very nice job on Kalmanson’s flat today. Doing is everything, the rest is nothing.”
“No—yes—that is... sure. But that’s not what I meant.”
“Hello? Do you hear me?”
“Don’t be a pain,” said Louie. “Let me finish here.”
And he went away.
~
“You have to stop,” said the voice. Its owner, a small, red-haired, bespectacled demon, gave me a warning look over his plate of asparagus.
“I’m only helping them,” I said, mixing the pasta. The red-and-white checkered tablecloth caught my eye. I wondered what sound it would make when burning. Maybe if we turned on a big enough fan, we could blow away all of the tablecloths in the restaurant and then send out a jet of gas...
“Who, exactly?” inquired the demon and tapped his golden monocle. “The world? Israel? The eleven people you killed?”
“Huey and Dewey,” I said. “They’re artists. They—
we—
will have an exhibition. Besides, nobody was killed.”
“Ha, ha,” said the blond demon, adjusting his sunglasses slightly. “I’m sure the families would love to hear that.”
~
An elevator rises from its shaft, wrapped in flames, and takes off into the city’s skies like a metallic phoenix, clumsy and burning, an orange glow gathering over the roofs and water tanks of the towering city of Tel Aviv, the metal cables singing as they drag behind, caught in a sodium fire, a tail of steel sparks marking a trail in the evening’s heavens.
“Beautiful,” said Louie, hunched under his earphones. He didn’t bother to look. The wireless mike inside the elevator caught the cries of the passengers as well as the thunder of the flames. A light westerly wind blew.
“I think,” said Dewey from behind camera No. 2, “that it’s going to land somewhere in Florentine.”
“Maybe,” I said, distracted, awed by the view. The trail of smoke described an almost perfect parabola, and the ball of fire, which until a few moments ago had been an entirely ordinary and unglamorous component of a nondescript office block, fell with dignity somewhere in the south of the city, beside a lighted billboard reading “Phillips: The Real Experience.” A passenger plane circled above, like a bird wondering if it was a relative who had fallen, or perhaps its eternal, mythological enemy, the fire eagle, the steel hawk... perhaps that was the thing lying there burning, never to return to haunt the bird’s dreams.
~
We changed clothes and went to a party.
Some genius of a designer had decided to build a light-organ of fire and smoke, one that shot out colored flames in tune with the music. For the safety of all present, a giant wire cage had been built around the contraption. Fire can’t pass through a wire mesh, but our Louie dealt with that in advance, replaced the cage with a soft plastic replica and improved the mechanism a bit. Anything for a good party.
“Excellent!” The party-goers were impressed when the DJ’s stand began to smoke.
“They really put some serious money into their parties!” said a reporter into a television camera filming the event, and immediately a tongue of green fire emerged and took hold of him. Multicolored flames grabbed now and then at some dancer or other, at the furniture, at the barman and the sponsorship signs (“McDonald’s – If You’re Not There, You’re Nowhere”), and everything went peacefully enough until Louie lost his patience. The flamethrower made an awful farting sound, and suddenly the whole place became a giant whirlpool of painted fire. When the cameras we had hidden inside burned out, we gathered up the equipment and went home to my place.
~
In the middle of the night I disappeared. One moment I was leaning, between Huey and Louie, over a topographic map of the Trade Fair Gardens, and the next I wasn’t.
“Pass me his plate,” said Huey, “I think he’s finished eating.”
“Listen, both of you,” said someone.
“Say,” said Louie, “doesn’t it strike you as odd...”
“What?”
“That he, like, disappeared?”
“Who?”
“What do you mean
who
? Where’s your brain?”
“Listen,” said Huey, “Let’s not play games.”
Louie knows Huey and knows there is no point arguing.
“Dewey. He disappeared. Don’t you think something here doesn’t add up?”
“Of course it doesn’t,” said a voice. “If you would only listen to me for a moment...”
Huey thought about it. “No,” he said. “He probably went for a break. He’ll be back soon.”
“Look,” said Louie, “I wouldn’t be surprised if he had disappeared at any other time, but in the middle of topography?”
“Topography?” said the voice suspiciously. “What are you going to do now?”
“There is something to your twisted logic,” said Huey, “but there you go...”
“He’s not right,” said Louie.
“Don’t exaggerate,” said Huey. “He did a very nice job on the elevator today. Doing is everything.”
“That’s right, don’t exaggerate,” said the voice. “We have sixty-five dead and almost a hundred wounded. Very nice. Can’t you bloody listen for a moment?”
“No—yes—I mean... sure. But that’s not what I meant.”
“Don’t be a pain,” said Huey. “Let me finish here.”
Louie went away.
~
The next day clouds covered the sun, but the Ferris wheel in the Luna Park shone a strong sunflower-yellow—it and the scores of soft, shining children sitting in its lap. Phosphorus. Huey took pastoral pictures, Dewey recorded a symphony of screams and cries. The image of a child floating peacefully through the air, as radiant as an angel, with the billboard background of “To Be Or Not To Be – Mitsubishi” was followed immediately by the recording of the soft sound of impact as he hit the ground. After a few happy minutes, when all eyes in the park were turned upwards, the two activated the acid spray. Then the volume of sound rose by a magnitude of decibels, but after several minutes of vocal joy the mikes were burned through and it was over.
~
“Ha, ha,” said the dark-haired demon, and slid his bifocals down his nose. “I’m sure the families would be happy to hear.”
“Hear about what?”
“The eighty-six people you didn’t kill.”
“Eighty-six? What are you talking about?”
“Two in that flat in Tel Aviv, eight on the highway, five in the elevator, forty-three in the club...”
“What about them?”
“Didn’t you kill them?”
“So?”
“Don’t you think,” said the demon and wiped his brow, “that something isn’t right here? Ever heard of ‘Thou Shalt Not Kill’?”
“Dear God!” I said. “You think we killed
human beings
?”
~
A wall made of recently-annealed glass, and inside it some darkening lumps. A strong smell of grilling and burning infuses the air. The lumps stopped convulsing long before the glass solidified, of course. And now we stand there, and the recording films run again, and Huey approaches the wall, a giant hammer in his hands.
~
On the way from here to there, all three of us disappeared. One moment we were busy with the exact tuning of the recorder, and in the next we weren’t.
For one moment, everything stopped.
“Pass me his plate,” someone said to somebody else. “I think he finished eating.”
“Say,” said someone. “Doesn’t it strike you as odd...”
“What?” said someone.
“That he, like, disappeared?”
“No,” said the demon, and blinked. He looked as if he needed glasses.
“Excuse me?” said someone.
“Not
someone
, sir,” said the demon. “
You
.”
“Me?” said someone.
“You. You know perfectly well who you are,” said the demon.
“That’s possible,” said Dewey, “but what is it to you?”
“Thinking in the third person isn’t going to help you.”
“Get off it,” I said.
“No,” said the demon. “You’ve gone way too far. You’re going to stop this moronic killing spree. Right now.”
“I think you have a small problem with your perception of reality.”
“I only have one problem,” said the demon, “and it’s
you
.”
“Leave me alone!”
“I can’t,” said the demon. “I’m a part of you.”
“Now I
know
you have a problem with your perception of reality.”
“I really don’t,” said the demon. “And not just that: you, along with me, are stuck in the loop.”
“There’s something to your twisted logic,” I said. “But there you go...”
“You’re not right,” said the demon.
“Don’t exaggerate,” I said. “I did a very nice job with the wall today. Doing is everything.”
“Wait!” said the demon. “There you go again! That’s not what I meant!”
“Don’t be a pain,” I said. “Let me finish off here.”
And I went away.
~
A skyscraper in napalm. Billboards burning in the wind. “What You See Is What You Get. Nokia.”
~
And was brought back.
“You’re not going anywhere,” said the demon. “You’re staying here with me, to the end.”
“The end?”
