by Matt Haig
‘So, Iago . . . you like chess?’
Nothing. Just a slight twitch of an eyebrow.
‘You don’t go to school, do you? I mean, not even pod kind of school. The Echos teach you. How’s that working out?’
He looked at me with his dopey eyes. ‘Fine.’
‘Good. Great. I was Echo-taught too. Bit of Mum, bit of pod, then bit of Echo. Well, towards the . . . towards the end.’
I had a flashback to Alissa teaching me in the spare room, with her perfect, impassive face giving me nothing but information. My stomach felt like it was falling. But the neuropads still worked enough to suppress the memory.
Iago looked unhappy. He didn’t seem to want to talk to me. When he answered, it was a mumble that hardly required the movement of his lips.
‘What is your favourite subject?’
‘Business.’
‘That’s an unusual choice for a ten-year-old.’
He looked at me directly. With eyes full of hatred. ‘Don’t patronize me.’
‘I’m not. I wasn’t. I’m sorry it came across like that. I’m an unusual fifteen-year-old, to be honest. I liked philosophy and reading old books.’ I noticed I was using the past tense. I wondered if I would ever actively like anything again. The present wasn’t just a tense, I realized, but a decision. Something you had to decide to accept.
‘What’s philosophy?’ he asked dismissively, but I took it as a serious question.
‘It’s about why we are here.’
‘You mean religion.’
‘They overlap. The only difference is that religion has answers and philosophy mainly has questions. You know, like, is there a point to it all? What is good and what is evil? How should we live our lives? What does it mean to be a human?’
‘Sounds boring.’
‘It’s not really,’ I said. But I could no longer remember why it wasn’t. Maybe if I took the pads off, but I didn’t want to do that. It started to come back to me. ‘It’s pretty damn cool, actually. Because it’s just thinking. And that’s what makes us special, isn’t it, as humans. You know, compared to Echos. We think about stuff. We don’t just do stuff. That’s why books and paintings and stuff exists. To try and work ourselves out.’ My words had no impact so I came to the point. ‘Hey, do you like the Echos here?’
He shrugged. Or did the facial equivalent of a shrug. ‘Yeah. I suppose.’ There was a little pause. ‘Most of them.’
Most of them.
‘What do you mean by that?’
Iago yawned and didn’t cover his mouth.
‘The new Echo is a bit weird,’ he said.
‘Which is the new one?’ Though I already knew what he was going to say.
‘Daniel.’
‘The teenager?’ I said, playing dumb.
Iago laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant laugh. ‘Teenager? He’s only two months old.’
Of course, I knew that Echos were designed to look different ages, and to stay looking that age for as long as they were operational. But sometimes you couldn’t help but think of them as they looked.
Teenager. Old man. Thirty-year-old woman.
This was for two reasons. First, if all Echos looked the same, then you would never know which was which. Second, different Echos were often used for different jobs. So in the British Museum the tour guides are all elderly-looking Echos, to suggest wisdom; while in physical clothes shops and gene-therapy centres the Echos are always young and good-looking.
‘Why don’t you like him?’ I asked. ‘Because he beat you at chess?’
Another shrug. ‘He’s been weird from day one.’
‘Weird how?’
‘I dunno,’ he said. He had quite a deep voice for a ten-year-old. ‘He’s just weird. The day he first got here he didn’t speak. Dad asked him stuff and he didn’t say anything. Dad told him that if he didn’t speak soon, he’d have to take him back to be terminated. And then he spoke! Dad got cross ’cause Daniel was meant to be the best one we’ve ever had. He was meant to be the most advanced Echo ever made.’ Iago looked out of the window and smiled to himself. It was a strange smile, full of trouble. ‘But he’s an Echo, so he obeys orders, and that is fun sometimes. Or was fun until he got too clever. But he’s a freak.’
The most advanced Echo ever made.
I was going to ask him more, but he opened up the pod. ‘What do you do in there?’ I asked.
‘Kill things,’ he said, before disappearing inside.
19
That night I slept again, but there was another interruption.
Just after three in the morning I woke to hear a noise. A floorboard creaking outside my door. I sat up in bed.
‘Light,’ I said.
With the light on I saw that my door was slightly open. ‘Hello? Is anybody there?’
Actual fear was impossible as I was wearing the neuropads, but I still realized I should get out of bed to see what was going on. So I stood up, walked across the room, past the figures huddled together in the painting, looking scared as they listened to music.
But then, just before I opened the door, I heard someone shouting. It was Uncle Alex. ‘Get to your quarters!’ he bellowed. Then I opened the door just enough to see him on the landing. He was standing there in a black silk dressing gown, with the trees on the animated wallpaper swaying behind him, as if matching his anger. His face was red and there was a demonic fury in his eyes.
Then I opened the door fully and stepped out, just in time to see the back of a male fair-haired Echo head for the end of the landing and disappear downstairs.
Uncle Alex saw me, and his tanned face switched from utter fury to warm sorrow faster than I had imagined possible. ‘Audrey, I am so sorry about that.’
‘It was him again,’ I said. ‘Daniel. The chess player.’
‘Yes,’ he said, fiddling with his rings. ‘Yes. There are always a few issues with the most advanced ones. It’s nothing to worry about, Audrey. This is the safest place you could possibly be. Well, since the attempted break-in, anyway. I doubt you could find a more safe and secure house in the whole of London.’
‘Attempted break-in?’
Uncle Alex nodded. ‘Protestors. Anarchists. Thugs. Last October a group of them tried to scale the wall. They very nearly got over too, but one of the Echos saw them and raised the alarm, and – lucky for us – the police were on to these guys already. But it was a close call. Since then, I’ve stepped up the security. Because they’ll try again. They’re nothing if not persistent, I can tell you. But listen, there is really nothing to concern you now.’
‘OK,’ I said, which obviously I wouldn’t have said if I hadn’t been wearing reasonably new neuropads. But then a small sense of anxiety slowly began to break through.
‘You get back to bed, Audrey. I’m going too. I’ve got Paris tomorrow. There is nothing to worry about.’
‘I want to go with you to Paris.’
‘But I told you, I’m going to a place full of Echos. Hundreds of them. You said you didn’t want to come.’
I swallowed. ‘I know, but I think I might have changed my mind.’
I was close enough to see that Uncle Alex was wearing info-lenses. They were active. Tiny lights flashed across his eyes. Words he’d be able to read but which I couldn’t.
‘No,’ he said, closing his eyes, shaking his head. ‘It’s work, and I don’t think it would be good for you. It’s not Paris Paris. It’s just a warehouse full of assembly-line Echos. It’s out of town. It’s hardly, I don’t know, the Louvre. I don’t think it would be your cup of tea.’
He was correct, of course. It didn’t sound like my cup of tea. It sounded like my cup of nightmare, to be honest, but I was thinking two things. First thing: I did not want to stay in the house with Iago and Daniel and all the prototypes. Second thing: I wanted information. The neuropads had dulled that impulse for a while. But it had worked its way to the surface again. I wanted to find out what had happened to my parents. I wanted to find out why Alissa �
�� who was not a prototype, but a standard assembly-line Echo – had done what she did. And yes, true, she was a Sempura Echo and we were not going to a Sempura Echo factory, but I wouldn’t be able to get access to a Sempura factory.
‘I think it would help me. You know, Mrs Matsumoto said I should try and—’
His eyes opened. He looked at me with tired sympathy, but his answer was firmer. ‘No. I’m sorry, Audrey. It’s a no. There is no way you are coming with me tomorrow. That’s the end of the matter. Now, let’s get some sleep.’ And then he went back to bed.
So did I, only it took me a while to get to sleep again. I was just thinking that my uncle’s answer had been a little too firm. Then questions. What had he got to hide? What was in Paris that he didn’t want me to see?
Paranoia, I told myself. I mean, Cloudville . . . He had saved my life. And he had taken me in and let me live here, in probably the best house in London. He had been kind to me.
But still, the more determined he was that I shouldn’t go to Paris, the more determined I was to go there.
Eventually I fell asleep.
Another dream. This one not a nightmare. Not a complete one, anyway.
It was Daniel, and he was crying. An Echo crying tears! And I was holding him and he was trembling in my arms, his strong body rendered suddenly weak from emotion. And he was telling me something in a quiet voice.
‘Don’t worry about me. I am just an Echo . . .’
And I stroked his hair and kept on telling him, ‘It’s all right, it’s all right, it’s all right . . .’
Then I woke up again. And I had a thought. It was still the middle of the night, but I got out of bed and put in my info-lenses.
‘Night-vision mode,’ I said. And in less than a second, it was as though a light had been switched on. OK, so it was a light that turned everything green, but that was night vision for you.
As quietly as I could, I went along the hallway to Iago’s room. He slept with the door slightly open. To let the light in, I supposed. He may have been a hundred other things, but he was also still a young boy who was probably scared of the dark.
Anyway, I pushed the door open and snuck inside his room. I crept across his floor, which was a plush and soundless carpet. I was walking towards his wardrobe. I knew what I was after, and I knew that, if I found it, the journey back out of the room would be a lot safer than the journey in.
I carried on. I saw Iago asleep in his bed. He was curled up on top of the blankets with a thumb in his mouth. I thought of how much he would hate me seeing him like that. It made me smile, just for a moment, seeing the little boy lying there, but I gasped in horror when I turned and saw a soldier with a gun pointing straight at me. By the time I realized it was just a holo-sculpture, Iago was rolling over, borderline awake. I stayed still and didn’t breathe for about thirty seconds, and he seemed to fall asleep again.
The wardrobe was voice-activated, so I leaned into the panel and whispered, as quietly as possible: ‘Open.’
Nothing.
A little louder: ‘Open.’
Nothing.
Then in something close to normal volume: ‘Open.’
Iago didn’t wake up. Just gave a little snore.
The door rose open silently. And I was faced with Iago’s wardrobe. Given that every item was self-clean, he did seem to have a lot of clothes. Smocks, interactive T-shirts, air-suits, all hovering on their hangers, a row of nano-weave cans (he had a lot of spray-on skin-clingers), and tons of slippers and snuggos.
I pulled out one can at a time.
Winter Warmer.
Sport Skin.
Battle-gear Fight Garb (again, this made me smile, thinking of the thumb-sucking mini warrior lying on the bed).
24/7 Clingsuit.
And then I came to it. The can with the plainest, most unassuming writing, which was probably black though I saw it as green. Writing which said:
All-purpose Full Cover Projection-based Invisiwear (for every height and width) ×100 uses. Nano-weave: 15nm diameter. Cotton fibre equipped with nano-cameras and screens. For safety: Do not use in public settings.
‘Gotcha,’ I said, but not out loud. I thought about spraying it on right then, as that had been my initial plan, but the noise of the spray might have woken Iago. Plus, I was already wearing my night clothes. So I risked it. I turned and saw an alien with six arms and a giant head and a mouth with three sets of teeth. Another holo-sculpture. I didn’t gasp. And I made it out, and back to my room, placing the can under my bed.
20
‘Cruise rail,’ said Uncle Alex. ‘I’m early. And I’ve got thought-work to do.’
Nightmare. The car switched to a slow rail at the next possible turnoff. It was so slow and quiet he could dictate the speed even further.
‘Slower,’ Uncle Alex said. He sounded tetchy. He put on his mind-wire and closed his eyes. Thought deeply. Made silent commands. The blur outside the windows sharpened into visible things. Water. Stilt houses. Other magcars on other rails. Clouds. A sky market.
This was not good. The longer the journey, the greater the chance of Uncle Alex realizing I was there, right there, right behind him, trying to breathe in slow and soft and soundless breaths. At one point my nose did a little tickle-itch, like I was going to sneeze, but the moment passed.
‘No,’ he said out loud at one point. ‘Clean her up. I don’t want to see all that mess.’
I couldn’t believe that I was mentally urging us to be closer to a warehouse full of Echos.
There were Echo warehouses all over Europe, Uncle had explained that morning, when I had maybe asked him too much. Some were small specialist ones for prototypes, and some were for creating the copies that were to be rolled out on the general market. The Paris one was the latter kind.
His eyes sprang open. He turned and stared at the space I was occupying. I could see him – the hood was transparent from the inside. My heart was beating so hard I thought he must have been able to hear it. It wouldn’t have taken much. Just his hand, reaching back, and then he would have found me there.
And what would he have done? Tell me off? Be confused? Share my embarrassment? Surely nothing too severe. But my fear was there and it felt real.
The projection must have been good. The optical illusion of nothing but a back seat and a rear window must have been seamless, because he turned round again.
‘Holophone active,’ he commanded. Then he gave the code. ‘Valencia four seven asterisk triple three dash seven dash hashtag AAX.’
And then a woman appeared, flickering into life. She looked pretty cool and arty and boho, I suppose, but tired and worried. She had long hair that was a total mess, a pierced eyebrow and some kind of necklace or locket around her neck.
She said something in Spanish that I didn’t understand.
‘Shut up and speak in bloody English,’ said Uncle Alex, in a voice so cold and harsh I hardly recognized it.
She seemed to be in a state. She took a swig of a brown drink. ‘How is he? How is the prototype I gave for you?’
‘To you. You are drunk. Your English isn’t normally this sloppy. You gave it to me. And oh, my God, you were right. There’s something wrong with him. He’s not right. This is why he meant so much to you, isn’t it? What did you do? What?’
‘Where is he? How is he?’
‘I’ve half a mind to come to you right now. I’d beat it out of you if I had to.’
‘Si, si, si. Yeah. You? Or one of your Echo slaves?’
‘No. It’s really not worth it. I’ll leave you to your whisky. I have important things to do. Hasta luego . . .’ Then, to the car: ‘Call over.’
And the Spanish woman vanished, leaving me wondering about what had happened, and what Uncle Alex thought she was hiding.
For the rest of the journey he spoke in business jargon and mumbled into his mind-wire. I looked out of the window, trying to imagine I wasn’t there. I stared at the floating wind farms in the English Channel. And then at t
he vast wetlands of Northern France, which of course had been hit as badly as Yorkshire, Scotland and Cornwall from continual flooding. Thousands of stilt houses, not dissimilar to the one I’d lived in until two days ago, but smaller and packed together. There were swamps and marshes and cholera clinics, which had been set up a couple of years ago to deal with the latest strain. But then, towards Paris, the land got drier and the houses were bigger and more widely spaced, though the weather was just as grey and stormy and rain-whipped here.
I saw a large holo-ad for the Neo Maxis’ new audio capsule. It was called ‘Love and the Machine: Live from Neptune’. The ad was the four band members dressed in black moonsuits playing a concert to the small community of terraformers on Neptune. The capsule was going to be released tomorrow. I remembered looking forward to that so much. I had absolutely no feelings about it now, except that the idea of a concert on Neptune seemed like a bit of a gimmick. This made me sad, as I realized how much of the old me had died.
I silently urged the car to speed up, but Uncle Alex kept it on the slow rail.
The magrail passed right up close to a vast enclosed greenhouse. It must have been about eight kilometres long. Inside I saw an ocean of wheat, perfect in every way, shifting to and fro in the artificially induced breeze. There was another greenhouse of a similar size immediately after it. This one farmed livestock. About four hundred cows, all identical – literally indistinguishable from one another – completely oblivious to the pounding weather outside. I felt sad for them. They were born to die the most pointless of deaths, especially as synthetic meat was now probably better than the real thing. But some people always wanted the real thing, I supposed.
Finally my wish was granted.
‘Full speed,’ Uncle Alex said. ‘Fast rail.’ And we were there in seconds.
The warehouse was on dry land, deep in the eighteenth arrondissement. Far in the distance I saw the large glowing white hologram of the Eiffel Tower, which had been put there after French anti-Echo protestors had destroyed the first one back when I was a child.
I remembered the original metal one, which had seemed more beautiful, even though it had only been half the size of the hologram. As I did so, a thousand Parisian memories came back. All those Saturdays. From the car I could see the gigantic Centre Aquatique far away: two cubes, one fixed to the ground and one floating above. The top one had a picture of a dolphin inside a rubber ring. The children’s pool, where Mum and Dad always used to take me, was in there. I closed my eyes.
