GroundRuth was a humiliant; her cherished otherness was, at bottom, ersatz, compromised by the Berkeley compliance exerted by Paulie's psyche.
And what, he wondered, about BoxRuth? Was she not similarly contingent, having moulded herself, through love, to the contours of his, rather than her own, scheme of things? Paulie felt guilt at his selfish male reluctance to reciprocate, to give as well as taking. To love properly.
“The look on your face!” GroundRuth was amused, but also irritated, pissed-off with all this play-acting, could no longer keep it hidden. “Your expression. Anybody would think..."
“...I really believed what I'm saying?"
She was right; it didn't make sense. What kind of boxworld was this? Life wasn't unpleasant, here in Hilford Abbots, but it was scarcely Utopian. Ruth sold enough of her furniture to make ends meet, and baby Kali was healthy and thriving, while he himself spent half his time hooked up to his Dreambox, dreaming a world exactly like this one, in which he spent half his time hooked up to his Dreambox.
Where was his Heaven?
Where was the world in which, for instance, they would be regarded as the model partnership toward which every other couple aspired? A world in which they, Paulie Rayle and Ruth Deitch, faced no aesthetic, stylistic threat from any other pair of people on the planet. That narcissistic Eden infused with the elation Paulie had felt when, as a seven-year-old, he had won his first smile from the best-looking girl in the class. Where were all his petty vanities, those ridiculous aches inculcated by a culture of superficiality, of empty glamour, greed and excess? Or at the very least, why wasn't this the kind of dreamworld in which the wisest, strongest, most acute, and discerning of women were quite unable to take their liquid eyes off Paulie Rayle? A world, to be fair, in which men would look at Ruth, and they would envy Paulie Rayle, but in a gentlemanly fashion, with no trace of nastiness.
Where were his riches? Power? Fame?
So this was all he really, truly desired? The life he already lived? With just a better climate, more warm days, more sunshine? What was he, man or mushroom? Had he no urge to fight dragons?
GroundRuth got up. “Can you hear? She's awake again."
They went back inside. GroundRuth gave the baby a feed.
ON TOTE CH
It struck him like a slap in the face.
The tattoo on GroundRuth's shoulder. How come he had never before noticed that it was not in fact a purely abstract design, that a word could be discerned within the pattern?
Paulie Rayle felt, all at once, tremendous excitement.
ONTOTECH.
Seeing the word there on her, reading the word, the magic word, it had all come flooding back to him.
Ontotechnology.
He had forgotten, here, in this thirtieth, fortieth world. It was so easy to forget, to misplace things in your mind as you climbed, up and up, to each higher world in turn and stayed awhile, awaiting the incredible news. The news that had never yet broken. After a time, you forgot what it was you were waiting for. You waited and waited, disoriented, muzzy-headed, but still aware that you had a job of waiting to do. So many levels, all indistinguishable. Your mind, seduced by the boxworld's subrealitude, would relegate such knowledge as you arrived with to the status of mere passing notions. But a part of yourself would still know, would find ways of reminding you why you were there. Sometimes the message from your mind to itself would make no immediate sense, would take hours, days to get through. This time he had been lucky; the word had worked its magic straight away.
You were warned about all this in the Dreambox instruction manual, right at the beginning, in Section One: Dreambox Basics. After thanking you for purchasing your Shintube Dreambox, clean with a damp cloth, NOT furniture polish, and wishing you many, many years of trouble-free use, the manufacturers saw fit, on that very first page, to advise:
The attainment of your PERSONAL HEAVEN is a GRADUAL PROCESS. It is a characteristic of the human psyche that WE OFTEN DO NOT CONSCIOUSLY KNOW WHAT WE MOST DESIRE, and, furthermore, WE ARE, DEEP DOWN, EXTREMELY FEARFUL OF HAVING THESE INNERMOST DESIRES ACTUALLY GRATIFIED. Therefore, do not be surprised if your first, second, tenth, or possibly even hundredth attempt at gratification by means of your Shintube Dreambox results in a seemingly infinite regression of dreamworlds quite indistinguishable from the original Groundworld. (i.e. THIS, THE TRUE AND REAL AND ULTIMATE WORLD.) You must persevere! It may well take a good many levels and dreams-within-dreams-within-dreams, but, by degrees, your underlying fear of gratification WILL diminish, leaving you free to enjoy your very own PRE-IMAGINED UTOPIA—thenceforth, access will be INSTANTANEOUS.
As a defence against possible PROGRESSIVE MEMORY DETERIORATION associated with this initial induction process, you may find your mind sending itself small reminders, helpful signs to guide you on your way. Sadly, Shintube Corp. cannot guarantee that this assistance will be in every case forthcoming—each Dreambox user's psyche is unique.
The Dreambox was no crude feelgood machine. What it gave you was contingent upon the character of your mind. Part amplifying mirror, part virtscape generator, part Aladdin's lamp, it furnished you with the starting point of a fully interactive Groundworld simulacrum, its pseudoanimate populace rendered subliminally subordinate to your whims by the painfully abstruse workings of the quantum compliance effect named with a wry nod to the good Bishop. The Berkeley Effect had been predicted and then finally, three years ago, isolated and demonstrated by the physicist Erland Zeller at Stanford University. Commercial exploitation, lucrative licensing, had come hard on the heels of scientific discovery; Zeller, sponsored by one of the electronics giants, had been asked to deliver the ultimate gaming deck.
The computer-constructed boxworld, ‘real’ to all perceptual intents and purposes, served as the raw material for the user's psyche to shape to its taste, under the organizing supervision of what amounted to an additional cortical lobe generated by the Dreambox, a sympathetic, symbiotic ally in the task of selecting from a field of anything up to 1014 neural connections at a staggering theoretical maximum of 1027 operations per second at full microtubular efficiency—and all the while maintaining full quantum coherence in cytoskeletal activity, as the specifications opaquely informed you.
And yet, such is the human mind that, even with the additional influence exerted by dethanatizing agents, the ultimate result was never quite so controllable as the impressive figures cited in the manual would have you believe. It was said that no single human being, anywhere in Groundworld, had a comprehensive grasp of Dreambox mechanics. Not even Zeller himself.
“Ontotech,” Paulie said.
“What?"
“Ontotechnology."
GroundRuth shivered.
“What's wrong?” he asked her.
“I ... don't like the sound of that word."
“Why?"
“I don't know, I just don't. Something about it. What does it mean?"
“It's just a word,” he told her.
He saw that it had gone, now, had concealed itself again, could no longer be read in her tattoo.
Paulie picked up his Dreambox.
Forcing a smile, GroundRuth said, “Happy dreams."
* * * *
Ruth showed little Kali her Daddy, lying on the bed beside his Dreambox. If things went on like this, he'd be missing her first words, her first steps, everything. He would miss them just like Mum was missing them. This wasn't the kind of life they were meant to be living, with Paulie absent so much of the time like some city workaholic. They had come here to the craft village to get away from all of that.
The box was more a big black plastic pebble type thing, all smooth and roundy, than an actual box shape; it was a lovely design, the nicest-looking Dreambox they'd had in the shop. But she hadn't gone on looks alone in deciding to buy this one. You couldn't ask a neighbour for advice; if people found out you were buying a Dreambox you'd probably get kicked out of the village. So she had checked out the Which? magazine product reviews
. The Shintube box came out equal tops, along with the Sony and the Bengt & Anderssen. All three were really gentle at fetching out the user at the end of the boxtrip; a bad fetch, a really bad one, could bring on a heart attack. Ruth's research had revealed that, in lots of different ways, Dreamboxes could be dangerous; you heard of people getting strokes, going mental, even dying. And it wasn't good to be taking all those hair tablets and that much Vitamin C. But loads of people did, and things always got exaggerated by the media, and they were still allowing the boxes to be sold, so surely they couldn't really be that dangerous, any more than, say, jetbikes, or those noisy flying cars? And besides, Paulie wasn't an idiot.
While the Bengt & Anderssen Dreambox was a bit too expensive, the others, the Sony and the Shintube, were both the same price; however, Sony, in an attempt to start a design craze which Ruth hoped wouldn't catch on, had given their box a really macho, military-equipment kind of look—not Paulie at all.
Ruth stood and hugged Kali and looked at Paulie as he lay there with this box, off away in his dreamworld. If you went up close you could see movement under his eyelids, just like he was sleeping and dreaming; although she knew that being hooked up to the box wasn't quite the same as being asleep. Ruth wondered what he was dreaming about, what kind of adventures was he having? Or was it right to call them adventures; would it be more like work? For he wasn't just pissing about on there, he was conducting what might be called a scientific experiment. His explanations, the whys and wherefores, were difficult to follow, but Paulie had a brilliant mind, and—all right, so call her soppy, and yeah, it would probably make people throw up—but she loved him and trusted him and believed in him.
* * * *
Along with everyone else, Paulie Rayle heard the incredible news.
An end to suffering. Perfect justice for all. The absolute triumph of Goodness.
Every being that had ever existed, every organism, right down to amoebae, could now be revived ontotechnologically; come to that, even every potential organism that had lost out in the lottery of conception. Because absolutely anything was possible. Ontotechnology was on the point of providing humanity with the power to solve every conceivable problem. History could be modified without destroying the present, its darkest episodes ontodemoted, with the result that they only took place, as it were, at an academic level. The Holocaust? Still of sufficient realitude to stand as a terrible lesson, but no longer any more concrete than the Wandering Jew.
The most fundamental laws of existence could now be amended, even repealed. Gravity could be controlled, the speed of light surpassed, the laws of thermodynamics tweaked and tinkered with. Absolutely anything was possible. All contradictions were resolvable, all antinomies amenable to synthesis. And the question of whether or not Goodness was a mere human invention mattered not at all.
Humankind had suddenly found itself all-powerful.
And yet, everyone had voted to hold on to one problem, purely on account of the sheer enjoyment it generated: the problem of how to have the most fun in bringing about Utopia. They had decided that things should be done not instantly but by degrees, stage by stage. At nine o'clock tomorrow morning all the world's illness, mental and physical, would be promptly, immediately cured. The day would then be given over to celebrating universal health. And then, the day after that would be Resurrection Day. There would be room for all, the once-dead, the never-alive, with no deference to what had formerly been recognized as brute fact. All the necessary amendments to the scope of the feasible would have been made.
And, amid all these wonders, Paulie Rayle would take particular delight in witnessing Ruth's exultation on being reunited with her mother. Of all the myriad miracles, that one would mean the most to him, being there at that moment; even more than would meeting his own deceased parents again. For he knew that Ruth's mother, who had not lived to see her only child had, in Ruth's mind, become identified with the Goddess, The great Mother Of Us All. Ruth had confessed to him her fears that she too would die young and leave Kali motherless.
Ruth saw his welling tears and hugged and kissed him.
She said, “I'm trying to picture Mum's face when she sees Kali.” And there were tears in Ruth's eyes too, now. “I can't believe this,” she said. “I won't believe it till I see it."
They took a walk down by the river. The water sparkled. It was so nice, having time together like this, with someone else looking after Kali. Wasn't it wonderful that Kali would grow up now in the best of all possible worlds? No, not just possible worlds—impossible worlds, too.
The best of all worlds.
They came to their special, secret place under the willow, near the river. They might have made love, but they merely held hands. For what else was it but a return to their childhood?
“I shan't believe it till I see it,” Ruth repeated.
How could anyone believe it?
Paulie hugged her—how he loved her.
What, he wondered, what would happen when it came to the Ultimate Decision? Would the people vote in favour of ontosupplantation? Could they comfortably take it upon themselves to wrest ontoprecedence from a priori realitude, that thin grey Groundworld in which ontotechnology was nothing more than a figment of Paulie Rayle's imagination?
Imagination, Paulie thought. The only limitation is your own imagination.
And here they stood, at the limit of his.
He felt suddenly cold.
There was no coming Utopia.
This was Utopia.
This moment. Now. Today. Not tomorrow. This moment of triumph, held in perpetuity, replayed ad infinitum for his eternal delectation. Better to travel in hope than to arrive.
The insight blighted his joy. For this was it. This was as good as it got, the best his imagination could do.
Another level, Paulie thought desperately. There has to be another, higher level.
* * * *
Along with everyone else, Paulie Rayle heard the incredible news.
The absolute triumph of Goodness.
Every organism that had ever existed, right down to amoebae, could now be revived ontotechnologically, because absolutely anything was possible. Ontotechnology was on the point of providing humanity with the power to solve every conceivable problem. History could be modified without destroying the present, its darkest episodes ontologically demoted, with the result that they only took place, as it were, at an academic level. The most fundamental laws of existence could now be amended, even repealed. Absolutely anything was possible. Humankind had suddenly found itself all-powerful.
And so, everyone had voted to tear down, dismantle and erase, irrevocably, the omniverse in its entirety. Life, matter, energy, time—all would be no more. For what else was perfection but nonexistence, that state wherein the very concept of existence did not exist? That state of perfection which can only be hinted at, since even the word ‘nothing’ implies the existence, if only as a concept, of its opposite. And there would be no opposites, no logic, no illogic, no existence, no nonexistence.
Accordingly, the omniverse began to unstitch, until all that was left was the belly, taking him into itself. Only this time it wasn't soft or sweet or blissful. It was upset, dyspeptic, churning angrily. And the noise wasn't helping.
Noise. Noise. NOISE.
Whirring, whistling, resonating through his bones as he lay there panting on the bed, shivering, shuddering, sweating like a pig, his heart pounding. Engulfed in NOISE. NOISE. NOISE. NOISE. NOISE, and drenched in LIGHT, streaming in through the window. Someone at the window. Ruth at the window, standing looking out into the LIGHT, cradling the baby. Kali's little scrunged-up face, her crying drowned out by the NOISE. Something flashing on the periphery of his vision. The emergency FETCH light on the Dreambox. Ruth must, he thought vaguely, have fetched him out. Because of the noise. Not because of the boxmare. For what else had it been but a boxmare? The Crowning Glory and Vitamin C were supposed to protect him. What had gone wrong?
[Back to Table of Cont
ents]
* * *
Chapter 6
Sesha's stomach was not mollified by the pilot's bland assurances that the verticar would definitely not drop like a stone should the motor cut out at high altitude. So it was with intense relief that she at last felt solid earth beneath her feet again. She had spent the greater part of the flight up to Cambridgeshire with her eyes closed, curry-combing an imaginary thoroughbred. It was a moderately effective anti-stress tip she'd picked up from, of all people, Immy Nabisco, the controversial hermaph shitshow host she would tune in to whenever she fancied a fifty-minute wallow in her species’ asininity. Nor had it helped that the verticar seat was a lumbar torture device. She was not at all looking forward to the return trip. She tried her best to put it out of her mind.
It was windy, which would play a certain amount of hell with her hair, but at least it was not actually raining. The field was soggy, and were those things cowpats? If only her head would stop aching. There was a welcome freshness to the air, though, discernible despite her lingering metropolitan nasal congestion.
The pilot chose to stay put. He was having problems with his mobe, remonstrating with it in the crudest possible terms because, for some reason, it couldn't put him through to his wife.
Sesha climbed out of the verticar. A large animal—a donkey?—was watching her. And two dogs, barking. The cottage was tiny. The door was open. Someone stood there, silhouetted. Sesha kept to the grass. There was a path, but it was muddy. What a godforsaken place.
It was a woman in the doorway, holding a baby. The baby was crying: “Mwrraaaaa, Mwrraaaaa,” the tiny voice crackly and fragile, and Sesha was grateful for her maternosuppressors. She'd been on them nearly two years, now.
“What d'you want?” the woman shouted. “You woke my fucking baby with that racket of yours."
“I'm sorry,” Sesha shouted back.
Has no one told you? she thought. The new word is frucking, you cobweb. Sesha explained, “I'm looking for Paul Rayle."
Dreambox Junkies Page 4
