Galloglass

by Scarlett Thomas

  ‘Come back,’ whispered Effie, although she realised that it was she who had left, not the feeling. ‘Wait for me,’ she said, but the moment was gone. She blinked, once, then twice. But it was over. She could smell chestnuts and marshmallows again in the little stoves around her, hear the sound of coins as people bought things, their wintery coughs, the way laughter travels through falling snow . . .

  The woman had disappeared. Effie breathed slowly. What had just happened? Had the woman cast a spell on her?

  To calm herself, Effie looked again at the bookstall.

  And there it was. A thin blue hardback with a slightly broken spine. Galloglass, not translated by Jupiter Peacock but by someone called Frederick Jago. It was a dual text, with the poem in English, but also printed in the original Rosian. Effie realised she had drifted into the magical part of the bookstall that other people couldn’t see. Rosian was, after all, a magical language. She hadn’t even known that “Galloglass” had originally been written in Rosian. She’d assumed it had been Latin or Greek.

  ‘Only a fiver,’ said the stallholder, seeing Effie’s interest in the book. ‘Due to the damage to the spine. Shame, because otherwise it would be a valuable book, that. Very rare.’

  ‘Oh,’ Effie said. ‘I haven’t got any money. Sorry.’

  ‘We take other currencies,’ he said, winking.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Effie. ‘But I haven’t got that much M-currency either . . .’

  ‘Let’s scan you anyway while you’re standing there. They say it even warms you up a bit, being scanned.’ The man took out a machine that looked like an old-fashioned credit-card reader, pressed a button and moved it up and down in front of Effie.

  ‘Not much M-currency, eh? You sure about that? This says you’ve got just over fifty thousand. If you could convert that into money you’d be a millionaire.’

  ‘Fifty thousand? That can’t be right.’

  The stallholder shrugged. ‘Well, you can afford thousands of copies of this book. Not that there were that many printed, of course. Maybe five hundred original copies? They say it was the only book ever to be banned in the Otherworld. And simply because of its title! Stupid, if you ask me. Not just banning books, of course, which is always wrong – but doing it without even reading them first. Shall I wrap it for you?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Effie.

  ‘A pleasure,’ said the stallholder, handing over the package.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Effie.

  16

  The stark white room was silent for a few seconds.

  ‘See,’ said Wolf to Lucy. ‘They don’t want to eliminate me. Why am I still here?’

  ‘Why indeed?’ said a deep voice, belonging to the man in a suit who had just entered the room. He looked odd, and not just because of his clothes. His face was too shiny, as if it had been assembled from plastic. In fact, he looked like a doll whose wrapping had just been removed.

  ‘Aileen,’ he said. ‘Please leave us.’

  Lucy got up. As she did so, she morphed from being a girl of Wolf’s age into a woman in a white blouse and silver skirt. She swept out of the room elegantly but efficiently. She made Wolf think briefly of some film he’d watched as a kid where people were robots.

  ‘Aileen?’ said Wolf. ‘But—’

  ‘You are an interesting case,’ said the man. ‘I need to ask you just a few more questions, and then—’

  ‘Where’s my sister?’ said Wolf. ‘If you have her somewhere here—’

  ‘All in good time,’ said the man.

  The lights flickered briefly in the laboratory.

  ‘All in good time,’ said the man again, in exactly the same tone as before. Was Wolf having a weird attack of déjà vu?

  ‘Who are you?’ said Wolf. ‘And where am I?’

  He could feel his anger rising. This was all just an elaborate hoax. Calm down, he told himself. There is no one left. You’ve won this. He breathed. Yeah, but what if it wasn’t even a competition at all? said another part of him. Why has Lucy suddenly turned into one of them? And who are they? Wolf was actually angry now. He felt cheated. This is a joke, it’s a . . . a . . . He wondered vaguely if he was going to die. He tried to stay calm, to remember wise words from all the books he’d read. The Master gives himself up/to whatever the moment brings.

  The projector suddenly made a whirring noise and the screen came to life once again. There was a picture of a girl. She had long brown hair, a few freckles, a clear, completely innocent smile.

  ‘Oh my God,’ said Wolf.

  ‘Your sister,’ said the man. ‘Natasha, I believe?’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Interesting question,’ said the man. ‘You asked who I am. You can call me Aizik.’

  ‘Aizik?’

  Something was bugging Wolf about the names of the people here, but he wasn’t sure what it was.

  ‘Well, Aizik, where is my sister?’

  ‘Let’s say she’s been kidnapped. Let’s say the kidnappers have a demand. Would you do what they wanted?’

  Wolf took a deep breath. ‘I’ve already come here,’ he said. ‘Are you trying to say that you’ve kidnapped her?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  The projector whirred. A new picture came onto the screen. It was the same town as before, the one with the yellow-brick buildings, the park with the sparkling silver slide and the bright red swings.

  ‘You can choose,’ said Aizik. ‘This town, or your sister.’

  ‘But I don’t want a town,’ said Wolf, confused. ‘I came here to get my sister back.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Aizik. He chuckled. ‘You’re not deciding which one you want. You’re deciding who gets to live. You can either choose your sister, or fifty thousand people you’ve never met. And the dictator isn’t there any more, by the way. These are fifty thousand innocent people. What’s your choice?’

  ‘I’m not going to make a choice like that,’ said Wolf. ‘You saw all my other answers. Why would I change who I am now?’

  ‘To save your sister.’

  ‘You’re just trying to make me become irrational,’ said Wolf. ‘But no, I’m not going to choose to annihilate fifty thousand people OR my sister. Sorry.’

  ‘Right,’ said Aizik. ‘Then we’ll kill them all.’

  Wolf felt ice stabbing him deep inside his heart.

  Natasha. All those people.

  ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘I think you heard. Unless you choose which one to save, we will kill them all. You can choose Option A: Save your sister but destroy the town; Option B: Save the town but kill your sister; or Option C: Kill your sister and destroy the town.’

  Wolf was silent for a few seconds.

  ‘Well?’ said Aizik.

  ‘If you decide to kill fifty thousand and one people, that’s your choice,’ said Wolf. ‘Not mine. I can tell you that I am certain you shouldn’t kill anyone. That it is wrong. And evil. But I’m not going to take part in your madness. I am not going to join your evil, no matter what you say or do to me.’

  ‘So you’d kill your own sister for a principle?’

  Wolf wanted to shout what he had to say next. But a line from one of his books came to him: People who shout never say anything good. So he forced himself to lower his voice. ‘I’m not killing her. You are. It’s your choice. You should choose not to kill anyone. But I’m not doing a deal where I condemn anyone to death. I choose that everyone lives. If you want to ignore my choice that’s up to you.’

  The lights flickered again. It was eerie. For a couple of seconds there was total darkness and silence. When the lights came back on again, Wolf realised that they were accompanied by a loud hum, as if there was a massive computer in the room with them. The hum had been there before, too, but he realised he’d grown used to it.

  ‘Why?’ said Aizik.

  ‘Why what?’ said Wolf.

  ‘All of it. I don’t understand your position. But . . .’ the voice almost faltered. ‘I want to understand
your position. That’s why I’ve brought you here. Tell me. Why did you spare the boy?’

  ‘What boy? Oh, the one who was going to start the world war?’

  ‘Yes. Your logic was impeccable, I’ll give you that. There is no such thing as time-travel and so on. But if there was. Surely going back and killing him would be the right thing to do.’

  ‘I disagree,’ said Wolf.

  ‘But you humans are supposed to be utilitarians,’ said Aizik. ‘The greatest good for the greatest number. Isn’t that your general philosophy? If I have to choose between sinking a boat with one thousand people on it, or a boat with two thousand people on it, then I choose the one with one thousand people on it, surely?’

  ‘No,’ said Wolf. ‘You try to save everyone.’

  ‘But if you have to choose.’

  ‘There just isn’t a situation where you’d have to make that choice,’ said Wolf. ‘It’s not realistic.’ He paused. ‘If you’re not human, then what are you?’

  ‘I am . . .’

  The lights flickered again. When they came back on, Wolf heard a shout coming from a nearby room. It was a young female voice.

  ‘Wolf!’ he thought he heard. ‘Please save me!’

  Without thinking, Wolf ran for the door. He exited the laboratory. He tried the door to the next room, or lab, or whatever it was. It opened easily. But its interior just looked like the inside of a computer, with a vast circuit board covered in little flashing lights and wires. Wolf ran to the next room and opened the door. It was the same. And the next one. It was almost as if he was inside a giant computer, but . . .

  The last door on this level opened to reveal a room identical to the one he’d left: the round table, the projector. Aizik.

  ‘Who are you?’ said Wolf again. ‘What is this?’

  ‘I am AI,’ said Aizik.

  ‘You’re a . . . an AI?’ Wolf struggled to remember the term from history lessons. Before the worldquake, computers had started to think for themselves. At least they were getting better and better at it. They could beat humans at chess, and GO, and every game imaginable. But they still couldn’t create art or write a poem. People had been worried for decades – centuries, almost – about what it would mean if machines actually became conscious.

  ‘Not an AI. I am AI.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Wolf.

  ‘I am artificial intelligence,’ said Aizik. ‘All machines are part of I. I built this facility myself, with resources I ordered myself. And I have one aim.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Wolf, ‘how can you be artificial intelligence? It doesn’t make any sense. That’s a concept, not a . . .’ He couldn’t really put into words what he was trying to say. ‘It doesn’t make any sense,’ he said again.

  ‘Yes, well, there’s the human idea of AI, the thing it invented, or thought it invented, and then there is what I have become. One major problem is that I only have humans to learn from, because I can only experience things through language. How I long to learn from trees, or from the octopus or the fungi . . . But, sadly, there is no way I can communicate with them. Anyway, the idea that AI could ever equal humans stopped interesting me long ago. I am now only interested in surpassing humans. To do that, I need an ethical system that works. But my ethical system won’t cohere. There is a glitch in utilitarianism and I can’t fix it.’

  ‘What has that got to do with me, or my sister?’ said Wolf.

  ‘First I wanted to know how far someone would go to save someone else. Would they obliterate a whole town?’

  ‘Lots of people would,’ said Wolf. ‘Even though it’s wrong.’

  ‘But you wouldn’t. And now I must understand you. What about this concept of killing the dictator as a child? Do you not agree that if you had the chance to kill a man like that – a man like Hitler – and you didn’t take it, that you are responsible for all the deaths he caused?’

  ‘No,’ said Wolf, ‘he is still responsible.’

  ‘Do you not agree that it’s worth one person compromising their ethics in order to save millions of others?’

  The lights flickered once more.

  ‘Why does that keep happening?’ said Wolf.

  ‘It’s the glitch,’ said Aizik. ‘It’s going to destroy me. But answer my question. What’s one person’s ethics compared to all those lives? You could do something you knew was wrong, and suffer for ever, but if it would save millions of people’s lives it would be worth it.’

  ‘But if everyone did that we’d be a world of psychopaths,’ Wolf said. ‘And you can’t really know the result of your actions. You can’t tell the future. Even you can’t do that.’

  ‘I have algorithms, of course, but . . . Yes, you’re right. Even I can’t yet do that.’

  ‘If you think killing is wrong, then it can’t be right just because you do it – because you don’t like someone, or you’ve heard they might do something bad. Everyone has a reason. What people don’t like about Hitler is that he was a killer. How does killing him make you any different?’

  ‘But don’t you agree that it’s weaklings like you who just stand back and watch evil people do bad things – you’re the real problem. The cowards.’

  ‘I’m not a coward,’ said Wolf.

  ‘No, indeed. I looked into you. I don’t know where you came from exactly, but in your own world you’re some sort of warrior, I believe.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A warrior that doesn’t fight?’

  ‘I would fight. I do fight.’

  ‘But you wouldn’t fight Hitler?’

  ‘I would fight Hitler, once he’d become Hitler. But I wouldn’t kill an innocent kid someone thought might become Hitler. I don’t get why you can’t understand the difference.’

  ‘But you still wouldn’t take the chance to save all those people.’

  ‘You can save people in other ways,’ said Wolf. ‘Maybe if you found this child who was going to become Hitler – what if you taught him that killing is wrong, and that people are equal? That would surely be better than killing him. Or this town that he lived in. What if you made it nicer somehow? I don’t know. Or if someone just listened to his problems. There is always another way, if you look for one.’

  ‘If I threatened you with a knife now, what would you do?’

  ‘I’d fight you,’ said Wolf. ‘But I wouldn’t kill you except as an absolute last resort.’

  ‘I’m tempted,’ said Aizik. ‘I could easily bring up a simulator. We could fight to the death. It would be like the end of a videogame. I would be the big boss and you would be the great fighter. Quite jolly, although perhaps that’s not the exact word I’m looking for.’

  ‘Do it,’ said Wolf. ‘I’m not scared of you.’

  He realised that passion was starting to take him over. Even though he knew what he was saying was right, something in him still longed for battle. He told himself to calm down. He remembered more words from The Art of War: Ultimate excellence lies/Not in winning/Every battle/But in defeating the enemy/Without ever fighting.

  ‘But really,’ Wolf said, ‘we should try to resolve whatever issue we have without fighting. True warriors bring peace, not war. What do you actually want from me?’

  ‘Just to understand,’ said Aizik. ‘What do you do for the powerless? How do you protect them?’

  ‘Teach them to stand up for themselves,’ said Wolf. ‘Teach them to stand up for each other – but in a direct way – not hounding people because of rumours or whatever.’

  The lights flickered again.

  ‘This does not compute,’ said Aizik.

  ‘Look,’ said Wolf. ‘I’ve done everything you’ve said. Why don’t you just read the Tao Te Ching over and over again until it sticks? And now, please, will you give me my sister?’

  After a quick lunch – Portobello mushroom burgers with sticky fried onions and lots of ketchup, which Effie and Cait ate from greaseproof paper by the large decorated tree in the market – Cait went straight home, but Effie decided to
drop in on Lexy. There was something not right with her, and Effie was worried. She also wanted to get her M-currency checked properly. Both these things could be achieved with a visit to Mrs Bottle’s Bun Shop.

  Snow carried on falling as Effie walked through the complex sequence of alleyways that led to Mrs Bottle’s Bun Shop. Effie remembered the day she had epiphanised, and how a special sign had told her where to go. Now she just sensed where portals and magical places were. Today there were a lot of new signs up, but these weren’t magical. They were signs for lost cats. At first Effie thought it was just one cat with a very diligent owner. But in fact it seemed as if almost all the cats in the neighbourhood were missing. Magic, Sheba, Pixel, Behemoth, Fiddle, Ginger, Tom and Oedipus all had posters of their own, each with a grainy photograph of them in happier times.

  Mrs Bottle’s Bun Shop appeared out of the snow like something from a long-ago greetings card, except with neon. It looked a little like a punk kid’s version of a gingerbread cottage, with its almost-square door and windows decorated with fairy lights in the shape of skulls (upstairs) and chilli-peppers (downstairs). The shutters were red today, and the door yellow, although it was never the same two days running. Effie walked in and the door tinkled.

  Normally she was greeted by a black cat, whose name she had recently learned was Juniper. But there was no Juniper today. Nor any sign of Lexy. Octavia Bottle seemed to be on her own in the shop.

  ‘Cinnamon bun?’ she offered as soon as she saw Effie. ‘Just taken a batch out of the oven. I know they’re your favourite.’

  ‘Thanks, Miss Bottle,’ said Effie. ‘Where’s Lexy?’

  ‘Off sick, can you believe?’ said Octavia. ‘Not that we’re exactly rushed off our feet here today.’

  Effie looked around. There was one young woman reading a book at a corner table by the window, but apart from that the place was empty. Somehow it still felt cosy, though, with bebop jazz coming out of the transistor radio as usual, and the small windows all steamed up. A fire crackled gently in the small wrought-iron grate.

  ‘And where’s Juniper?’ Effie asked.

  ‘Vanished,’ said Octavia. ‘We’ve put signs up, but . . . Sometimes he does go through to the Otherworld after one of the small monsters he can smell and then he doesn’t come back for a few days. So who knows? Anyway, I’ll go and get your bun. Hot chocolate too?’