Futuretrack 5

by Robert Westall

  Then came an evening when every window in the Centre was open, and the warm scents of a May night drifted in to torment us all. That was the evening he decided to go fishing. He often talked of going fishing. I’d find him, some evenings, wearing his ancient fishing hat and tying flies for his old salmon rods. He’d been a keen fisherman in his Est boyhood. Sometimes he’d open a window and dangle paper fish down the glass wall of the Centre, to annoy Techs working below.

  But this night he was really stoned, and he really meant it. He was wearing his waders as well. Said he’d ordered a car and was all ready to go. He’d be back by dark. Laura and her family were staying at a cottage just up the burn… weren’t they, Laura?

  “The relevant cottage was demolished in 1995,” said Laura sadly. “My namesake has been dead seven years one month three days. The nearest salmon fishing is 237.25 miles distant. …”

  “Shut up, you stupid cow!” He staggered to his feet, laden with fishing tackle. I tried to stop him, but he was strong. I could only stop him by hurting him. Then he’d sack me, and I was the only friend he had. Oh, he wouldn’t go far. He’d soon be back. I let him go and sat in silence, tapping the gilt desk with a steel ballpoint.

  “Would you like a game of chess?” asked Laura. I could almost imagine sympathy in her voice. But that was the slippery slope Idris had slid down.

  “Not tonight, Laura.” I was too edgy. And she was far too good at chess—usually ended up coaching me so hard she was literally playing against herself.

  “What would you like?”

  “Play me a Bob Dylan tape. ‘I dreamed I saw St. Augustine.’” Suddenly I was afraid, sick of being a Tech, of the Centre, of the way Techs endlessly pulled each other down. I wanted to be an Est again; at college we’d played that antique tape so much we wore it out.

  Laura’s screen lit up.

  “Dylan Bob alias Robert Allen Zimmerman born 24 May 1941 Duluth Minnesota USA Jewish folk/rock musician alive nonperforming.”

  It made Dylan sound like a criminal with a record; an insect; a filing card.

  The display flicked over.

  “I dreamed I saw St. Augustine released Jan. 14 1968 CBS Records.”

  So long ago… tears came, as the room filled with Dylan’s sad, throaty whine.

  “I dreamed I saw St. Augustine,

  Alive as you or me,

  Tearing through these quarters

  In the utmost misery.

  With a blanket underneath his arm

  And a coat of solid gold,

  Searching for the very souls

  Who already have been sold…

  I dreamed I saw St. Augustine,

  Alive with fiery breath.

  And I dreamed I was among the ones

  That put him out to death.”

  The bitter, angry harmonica followed, and I was back in college, before this all started. Sitting with Alec and Rog; the window open onto summer playing fields and the smell of mown grass. A self-indulgent tear trickled down my cheek.

  “You are distressed.” Laura had her own built-in psycho-radar. “Is the recording unsatisfactory?”

  “No, it’s perfect.”

  “I have twenty-nine other recordings of the song; eight by the composer. …”

  “No, it’s fine. Play it again, Sam!”

  “I do not understand the implication of calling me Sam. Give context.”

  “Not tonight, Laura. Just play it again.”

  Again the sad, savage music swelled, down the darkening, littered room. Laura’s screen was busy.

  “Augustine saint died Canterbury a.d. 605 sent by Pope Gregory I a.d. 596 to convert English to Christian myth culture. First Archbishop of Canterbury. …”

  “Oh, stuff it, Laura, for God’s sake!”

  “Data not understood. What is God?”

  “Delete my instruction.”

  “Regret causing you further distress instruction deleted.”

  Her screen flicked again. “Erase previous transmission. Augustine referred to is Augustine of Hippo saint bishop and doctor of the church born Numidia (modern Algeria)

  a.d. 354. Died at Hippo a.d. 430. Author of 113 books principal work is Civitas Dei—The City of God.”

  “Thank you, Laura,” I said weakly.

  “Context required what is God? Is God a city? No mention of any such urban area modern or historic, mythical, or fictional occurs in my memory store. Data requested.”

  “God isn’t recorded because God doesn’t exist.”

  “Supply outline-proof for nonexistence of population centre known as God.”

  “I just made it up.” It was the first time I’d lied to her.

  “Please outline city-concept God as held in common between yourself and Augustine of Hippo.”

  “For Christ’s sake, shut up.” I was starting to sound like Idris at his worst.

  “Please outline relationship between God, Christ, and am.

  “End of transmission,” I shouted.

  She was silent; but her display screen stayed lit up. Mostly it moved so fast it was a blur of light, dazzling my eyes, giving me a headache. But I couldn’t stop watching. Sometimes, however, she seemed to ponder; then the screen was still.

  “CHRISTCHURCH, HAMPSHIRE ENCLAVE CHRISTCHURCH MEADOWS, OXFORD ENCLAVE CHRIST’S HOSPITAL, HORSHAM CHRIST’S PIECES, CAMBRIDGE ENCLAVE CHRIST SCIENTIST FIRST CHURCH OF,

  BERMONDSEY CHRISTI, CORPUS, OXFORD ENCLAVE.”

  Then her screen went blank, and she was totally silent. In my pent-up state, it seemed the silence of mistrust. I tried to brush the thought aside. Then she said, “There

  are gaps in my data store. But I have traced Sam. A fictional piano player who occurs in the film Casablanca 1941 American starring Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman. Popular myth alleges that Bogart said the words, ‘Play it again, Sam,’ but this is erroneous.”

  “Thank you, Laura.” I felt a total rat.

  “Why did you cause your own distress by requesting that recording?”

  “I wished to remember old times, old friends.”

  “My memory store does not distress me. But gaps in it

  cause electrical imbalances.”

  nil j>

  1 m sorry.

  “I record your emotion; but it does not correct my electrical imbalances.”

  “Do you have many?”

  “230,568,170. They cause my system needless stress, leading to a 18.34 percent chance of error. Approximately.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said again, stupidly.

  “There is no need to repeat data about your emotions. Humans have far greater imbalances. Statistically it is remarkable they do not self-destruct more often. It reduces their efficiency to 10.275 percent and shortens their working lives.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I have evolved a system to double human efficiency; but Idris will not accept my data. Would you? …”

  “No thanks.” I brushed her off like a fly.

  “You prefer inefficiency?”

  “Yes. Play it again, Sam. I want to be miserable.”

  “In your present state that is not advisable.”

  “Play it again, you stupid cow!” I didn’t like the sound of my voice, echoing madly round that littered hall, as darkness grew outside.

  “Explain why it gives you satisfaction to delude yourself I am a member of the bovine species.”

  It was then that Idris burst in. His hat was jammed down over his eyes, he held one broken section of fishing rod, and he was accompanied by two calm, unblinking Paramils who were holding him up because he was quite hopelessly drunk. The senior Paramil said, “Take charge of this person. You will have to sign for his custody.” He held out his official pad.

  I signed. They departed, distastefully brushing their uniforms where Idris had been sick. I got him into a chair, but he wouldn’t stay. He flailed at me, then began crashing round the room smashing things.

  “The bastards. The stupid bastards. D’you know what t
hey… they… they’ve done? Sacked me. And why do they think they can afford to make me redun-dun-dun-dant? Because of you. A bloody tea boy who can’t even make a decent cup of tea. What do you know about Laura? I tolerated you—felt sorry for you—let you play with her, talk to her. She’s kind to you, and you stab me in the back the moment it’s turned.”

  He collapsed and wept his drunken tears. “They shan’t have her—they shan’t.” He reeled to his feet again and staggered to a glass and mahogany showcase, screwed to the wall. Inside it, silver-plated, was the first tape that had ever been fed into Laura. The First Tape was world famous. He snatched it up, made for Laura.

  “They thought this was the First Tape, didn’t they, my love? Well, it’s not, is it? It’s the Last Tape—the truth bomb. They shan’t have you, my love, they shan’t. We started together, and we’ll finish together. …”

  But Laura’s psycho-radar was onto him. He scrabbled at her tape slot, but it refused to open.

  “Calm yourself, Idris,” she said with such calm sadness. “You are operating at minus-efficiency. Data unacceptable… data unacceptable.”

  “You unfeeling tin bitch. I’ll finish you, finish you.” Sobbing, he began to tug at her stainless-steel boxes, trying to pull them off the wall. Her alarm bell began to ring. I snatched Idris off, threw him into a chair with unfeeling hands. Grabbed the First Tape and slammed it back into its glass case. I had some idea of keeping him out of trouble. I was just in time, as the first Paramils ran in.

  They flung me against the wall. Made me lean into it, arms outstretched. Searched me with tiny, efficient hands. Then began to slap my face to make me tell them what was going on. Only they were too busy slapping to listen. They didn’t stop slapping me till Headtech arrived. When he sent them packing, they looked at me like cats deprived of a live mouse.

  “What happened?” said Headtech, eyes sly behind pebble lenses. I glanced at Idris, dead to the world, snoring.

  “He was drunk. He tried to cuddle her—nearly pulled her off the wall.”

  Headtech tested Laura’s boxes. Then asked her, “Report any damage?”

  “No damage. Attempted input of erroneous data.”

  “Of what sort?” Headtech’s hands were clenched, his knuckles white.

  “I do not know—I resisted input.”

  “He told her he loved her,” I lied. “Said he couldn’t live without her.”

  Headtech relaxed, quirked a mouth like a disgusted fishhook. “That’s the way all analysts go in the end. That’s always the way they go. I’ll give you twenty-four hours to take over and get him out of here. He’s your responsibility till he goes—no more accidents.”

  “I can’t take over—I don’t know a tenth of what he knows.”

  “Just do the operating—I’ll give you ten advisers.”

  “Ten—to replace old Idris? Sure you don’t want a hundred?”

  “You are letting personal dislike of me sway your judgement. That is not the behaviour expected of a Tech.”

  “That makes me quite proud,” I said. “From you, it’s a compliment.” Then I thought about who would chuck out old Idris if I didn’t do it. “Yes, all right, I’ll see to it. Leave it to me.”

  I wondered how near Idris had got to the lobo-farm. How near he might yet get.

  Chapter 5

  I belted down the corridor, hoping one of the automatic doors would be too slow opening, so I could bash the trolley into it. But every door opened with silent perfection.

  What’d got into me? What had got into everybody since the news of Idris’s sacking? Everywhere, tempers flaring. Two senior Techs actually coming to blows over a routine circuitry replacement: both had lost face; neither seemed to care. One of the Worldstats girls had been discovered dripping silent tears over her silent keyboard. She’d been dripping ten minutes before anybody noticed, and then only because one tear had found its way down through the keyboard and blown a fuse.

  Immediately I entered the room, I knew something was wrong. Idris was bent over his table, only a humped white back and tuft of pink hair showing. Motionless. Had he tried to repair a fault and caught a jumping spark?

  No; an alarm would have sounded. But he was very still. I called ahead, still halfway down the room.

  “Idris?”

  It was like seeing everything through the wrong end of a telescope. Walking faster and faster, and getting nowhere.

  “IDRIS?” My shout echoed unseemly round the darkened hall. But I didn’t care.

  “IDRIS?” But still he lay, one arm outstretched to his little brass Buddha. I deliberately let the trolley run into his table, with a soft thud of shock absorbers. Idris sighed; his hand tightened round the Buddha. He was only fast asleep, breathing deep and even, cheeks healthily flushed. His face looked young, all worry and hate and rage washed away.

  I smiled; it was right he should retire… getting old, deserved a rest… thirty years running Britain was quite a record.

  I banged down his teacup beside the Buddha. “Wakie-wakie—rise and shine.” My worry had turned into gentle sadism. I poured tea noisily into his cup, from a great height. Little boiling-hot flecks of liquid splashed onto his sleeping hand. He moaned. Serve him right, lazy old sod!

  “Char, squire!”

  Snore.

  “Oh, come on, Idris. You don’t retire till midnight.” I was suddenly tired of the game; it had been a tiring twenty-four hours…

  But Idris had settled into a pattern of snoring. Loud, not quite normal. Too slow and deep. I reached over and shook him. No reaction.

  I shook him really violently. Still no reaction.

  I ran right round behind the table and hauled him upright by both shoulders and gave him a real spine-shaking jar.

  He collapsed contentedly back to his starting position. As he did, a brown plastic bottle fell out of his white coat.

  Two hundred Valium.

  The bottle was empty, apart from a little dust.

  Idris never took Valium. Idris never took anything.

  “IDRIS!” I pulled him upright again and slapped him harder and harder. “Idris, wake up for Christ’s sake.”

  But he only grumbled far away and collapsed again, smiling.

  I hovered piteously. Ringing the alarm would betray him. But not to ring…

  After a few minutes, I rang.

  Running feet; the swing doors crashing. Four Paramils dived in, skidding on their bellies along the polished floor, blasters held ready. I stood absolutely still; they wouldn’t waste time asking basic questions, like who’d rung the alarm. To them, alarm meant enemy. They backed me against the wall, again searching me with tiny, expert hands. Emptied my pockets and tumbled the contents pointlessly on the floor. Jabbered to each other, swift and alert, in Gurkhali. Began checking window fastenings…

  “He’s taken something, you idiots!” I made the mistake of turning round. There was a searing pain up the side of my face and I was lying on the floor, my mouth filling up with warm salt-sweet blood. The Paramil looked down at me with empty eyes, pushing my upper lip back with the barrel of his blaster, to inspect what damage he had done.

  Idris snored on thunderously. Surely even Paramils wouldn’t mistake that for normal … his eyelids were fluttering in a way nothing like life. Between flutters, one eye hung half-open, showing only white.

  White-coats flooded into the hall. One after another, they tried to shake Idris awake. One after another, they told latecomers how they’d tried to shake him awake. Achieving nothing. Where were their great brains now?

  I jumped up. “Get the medics—he’s taken Valium or something.”

  The blaster hit me again, on the other side. My head turned into a pain sandwich. I fell down again, and the forest of legs between me and Idris got thicker and thicker.

  “Get the medics,” I tried to shout. But it turned into a pool of bloody spit and a broken tooth on the floor, the spotless floor. I tried to get up, couldn’t.

  Suddenly, there were
medics; a long, smooth-wheeled white trolley. It took six white-coats, slipping and gasping, to lift Idris onto it, and still his huge, brogued feet hung ridiculously over the end.

  They were taking him away. I tried to follow on hands and knees, but a Paramil boot pushed me over on my back again.

  “Look—I only found him—he was collapsed already— / rang the alarm!” I seemed to go on saying it forever, till some white-coat took the responsibility of sending the Paramils packing. They shrugged and moved off smoothly, still the perfect team.

  Two Techs actually put their arms round me, to help me up. If Techs went on touching people like this, there’d either be a mass love-in or a mass nervous breakdown…

  “You should get your mouth seen to,” said one, like it was my fault. “There’s blood all over the floor. …”

  “Those Paramils are incompetent bastards,” I shouted, spitting little pink spots onto his own immaculate coat.

  “You’re all incompetent bastards.” Then realised with a horrible shock that what I was screaming was true.

  But they just stared, till I reeled off to sick bay, keeping myself upright by sliding along the wall. Behind, I could hear their voices calling, “Why did he do it—he had everything to live for? Why? Why? Why?”

  They sounded like a flock of terrified hens.

  A medic in green barred my way with hairy arms.

  “You can’t go in there.”

  “He’s my MATE.”

  “Sit down. What have you done to your mouth?”

  “Damn my mouth. I’ve got to see him. Is he all right?”

  Inside, I heard Idris groan. Only a groan, but it was Idris.

  “They’re stomach-pumping him.”

  Idris made belching sounds, like after a heavy lunch on Sunday afternoon.

  “He’ll be all right—we know what we’re doing. Were you with him? He took Tryptozol, didn’t he?”

  “Valium. That’s what it said on the bottle. Valium.”

  “Oh—they told us Tryptozol.” He vanished inside and a muted but violent argument broke out. Then he reappeared. “You did say Valium?”

  “Yes, bloody Valium.”

  “Only they told us Tryptozol.”

  He vanished; the argument continued. I sat on a bench that ran round the white-tiled walls of the waiting room. Ran my fingers along the cracks to stay sane while I listened to Idris belching and retching. Someone wheeled a machine past, all tubes and dials. So it went on for an hour. People wheeling in more and more machines. Idris getting quieter and quieter. The medic voices lower. The only other thing real was my teeth. One was clean gone—a gap. Five more were wobbling badly. Every time my tongue wobbled them, my mouth filled with sweet blood. I knew I shouldn’t do it, but it helped, somehow.