cleo: ??
‘Will someone help him get changed and leave the shower?’ he asks out loud.
Only now do I finally realise that there’s something not right about him.
FESTIVAL INFO: This evening’s pause has been successfully completed. All Pause Zone employees are free for the day.
‘Everything’s going to be alright,’ I say.
Then I turn off the light, switch off the audio and video recording, clamber out of the booth into the empty foyer and, my lips almost touching his lifeless mirror neck, I whisper: ‘They don’t leave the shower.’
Report
(Transcript of conversation with Staff Entomologist at House of Correction No. 3578, ‘Harmony’, conducted by SPO officer, dated 17.07.471 A.V.; extract)
Entomologist: …Like a pillar of fire, yes. He burned down to the ground, right in front of our eyes. And you know what I’ve got to say? I don’t care. I don’t feel sorry for him. He wasn’t a part of the Living, the Living would never have shown such cruelty to his little brothers. And I begged him, the creep…
SPO officer: I would ask you to choose your expressions carefully: this conversation is being recorded for the case file.
Entomologist: Sorry. I begged him not to set himself on fire by the pets! I even feel some responsibility for what happened. I didn’t protect them! I asked all the correctees to save the last minutes of the feed from the termite mound in their memories. It’s a very sad video. The way the soldiers stuck their heads out of the mound, trying to stop the fire getting in. The way the workers…
SPO officer: Thanks, I’ve heard that already. I am talking to you now not in your role as an entomologist, but as a witness. I’d like more details about when correctee Zero set himself on fire.
Entomologist: He was holding a wonder-sunshine…
SPO officer: Where did the correctee get hold of that device?
Entomologist: He stole it from the Special Unit. We use wonder-sunshines there in the fluorescent lights.
SPO officer: So, what, any correctee can just come along and take the wonder-sunshine out of the light?
Entomologist: No! Of course not. The lamps are put high up. Plus to unscrew the panel and get the wonder-sunshine out you need a special tool.
SPO officer: Then how, in your opinion, did correctee Zero get hold of the wonder-sunshine?
Entomologist: I have no idea. Maybe he had an accomplice. I don’t know. Why are you asking me and not the House security service? They can at least show you the footage from the cameras in the Special Unit.
SPO officer: We believe that we have good reason to ask you. We have already questioned the guards. And watched the footage from the cameras. Everything there checks out – if, of course, you don’t count the thirty minutes on the day before the fire when the cameras were turned off due to an unexplained technical error. By the way, how good are you with technology?
Entomologist: What are you implying? I am good at what I do. Insects.
SPO officer: Alright then, let’s go back to the fire. How exactly did the wonder-sunshine start burning?
Entomologist: I have no idea! Correctee Zero was holding the wonder-sunshine in his hand and then he just… went up in flames. I don’t know how it happened. Wonder-sunshines don’t explode just like that. It requires a really strong blow.
SPO officer: I am aware of that. And there was no blow?
Entomologist: No, there wasn’t.
SPO officer: Then how do you explain what happened?
Entomologist: I… don’t know. Maybe the Living performed a miracle. Destroyed that which was not a part of Him.
Cleo
The brilliant sand crunches under my feet. Unlike most people I like going on walks: walking in first layer helps keep you fit. At least I don’t weigh eighty kilos like the majority of women that come to the festival to shake their flabby bodies…
He follows me out of the festival complex. Golden Mean Square is empty – there is no one here but us and that stupid fist… I don’t like concrete art.
cleo: why did you need to meet in person?
ef: to ask you a personal question
cleo: you can ask me a personal question in a deep layer
ef: in a deep layer i won’t see your face
cleo: what do you want?!
He replies out loud, with the chatterbox switched off – when it’s not distorted by the device, his voice sounds unpleasantly animated:
‘I want to know how sincere your answer is.’
cleo: that’s crazy! what’s my face got to do with anything??
He says nothing. I can’t tell anything from his face, that’s for sure. I am so envious of his mask.
cleo: so then, what’s this question?
‘Do you know the formula for the injection? The one used in the experiment with the directed Leo-Lot ray?’
‘Is this an interrogation?’
‘No. You can see. The conversation device is switched off.’
‘Then gopz. Why do you think I’m going to answer your question?’
‘Because I have a couple of documents in my memory. And if I forward them to my bosses, then you’re going to be put under investigation.’
cleo: can i see what these documents are before i reply?
ef: of course
‘Only now I’ll put the question differently,’ he adds out loud.
cleo: ???
‘The formula for the injection?’
cleo: i told you i don’t know
ef: then why are we talking
He brings his mirrored face up to mine so that I see my reflection.
‘You have very expressive features, Cleo.’
He turns away and walks off through the square, the golden sand rustling under his feet.
hi, cleo!
you have a new message from a friend open message now?
yes no
from: ef
to: cleo
subject: none
text: none
attached files: Cleo.doc; Beetle.doc
Not turning back, he waves at me.
ef: sorry if i offended you at all
Ef
‘I’m cold,’ Ef says, ‘I shouldn’t sleep on the snow anymore.’
He doesn’t look good. Worse than two days ago. Back then it had even seemed to me like the swelling had started to go down slightly but I probably just didn’t notice it in the bad light: all I had was some smelly wax candles which I’d got from Megalopolis. Now that I’ve finally fixed a Nativity garland to the bars with tiny wonder-sunshines and the cage is awash with golden light, it’s horrible to even look at him.
His right eye has closed up almost entirely, the left is a bloodshot crack glinting in the folds of his livid eyelids, like the shell of a mollusc just opening in the heat. His hair is sticky with sweat, blood and pus and is standing up in a funny tuft, his lips have become dry and cracked. He hasn’t eaten and hasn’t drunk the vitacomplex that I left him: the white bottle and packet of dry food are untouched. The haematoma sprawls over his face in an uneven patch: it is like the juice of crushed blackberries has soaked through his skin. The wound itself – at the top of the forehead, right in the middle – doesn’t look so bad now and is kind of healing… But it’s giving off a bad smell. The smell of rotten cheese.
‘Let’s redo this wound,’ I say, opening the first aid kit.
‘No need. Just put a bit of snow on it.’
‘It’s summer now, Ef.’
His dry lips give a weak smile:
‘Who are you trying to fool, Cerberus? The whole place is covered in snow. You’re standing up to your knees in a snow drift.’
For the first couple of days he just whimpered in pain and kept losing consciousness, but the rest of the time he was able to think more or less clearly. Now he is almost permanently delirious. He thinks I am Cerberus. In his rare moments of insight he asks who I am and where we are, but he can’t concentrate on the reply.
‘Request t
o TSS, check my connection to socio… I can’t see my friend list…’
I inject him with something to reduce his fever. I pour a few thick mouthfuls of vitacomplex into his mouth. I look over the wound and change the bandage. Ef does not resist and doesn’t even groan, as if he isn’t in pain anymore.
‘Cold,’ he repeats.
I cover him with another rug. It’s twenty-five degrees outside and here in the cage it must be as high as thirty, but Ef really is shivering from the cold.
‘Did he really leave us here to freeze?’ I can hear despair and hurt in his voice.
‘Who is “he”?’ I am curious.
‘The Living, who else. It was him who sent us here to look for the antivirus… No connection to socio… But he is right. We are now infected and we are a threat. We should stay away until the pause… I can’t see my friend list… The crystalline structure of the snowflake is the source of infection. It’s no surprise that there is no antivirus yet. That’s what harmony is like: any snowman can become a traitor…’
I figure that there is more going on here than just the wound and the fever. He’s going mad because he’s got no connection. Like a warrior termite that’s been moved to a separate container.
Ef’s face is covered in a beaded film of sweat. The beads are slowly swelling… I touch his forehead with my hand – not so hot any more, the jab is starting to work – and look at my wet hand. The skin on his forehead is so purple that it’s amazing that something clear can ooze out of it.
‘Where am I?’ Ef asks me. I reply:
‘In the old zoo. You’re sitting in a cage which used to house a pair of orang-utans.’
This is the absolute truth. That’s what it says on the sign.
‘Who are you?’ Ef asks me.
I reply:
‘A friend.’
That’s a lie.
‘I can’t see my friend list,’ he says in despair. ‘Where’s my friend list gone? I can’t remember their names… who did you say used to live here…?’
‘Orang-utans.’
‘I don’t remember what orang-utans are…’
‘Tree-dwelling apes,’ I swiftly open Wikipedia in second layer. ‘Until the beginning of our era they lived in the rainforest of the islands of Borneo and Sumatra, in what is now region A3 6. The majority of the population was exterminated during the Great Reduction; the remainder died out as a result of migration into regions with an unsuitable climate…’
He listens to me so attentively, his mouth hanging open, that I feel ashamed. I shouldn’t have made fun of him.
‘And my praying mantis…?’
‘I’m feeding your mantis.’
‘You are Cerberus, right? There’s something up with my memory,’ he says. ‘I’ve got no access. I can’t get into my memory.’
So many times over these days while I have been keeping him here an almost irresistible desire has risen up inside me to give back to him that which I have taken from him and which I have no need for. His friends, his shows, his pleasures, his games, his circulars. The magic box containing his memory and his reason. But it’s too late. It’s all gone too far.
I’ve gone too far…
‘I understand,’ Ef looks me right in the eye with his murky, bloodshot eye. ‘Finish me off.’
His voice sounds calm, almost matter-of-fact, and for the first time for many days his face looks aware.
‘Just finish me off. One more blow to the head.’
A horrible feeling rises up inside me, as if someone is digging through my hair. And crawling up my back. At that moment the autodoctor bursts into my skull with helpful comments
perhaps your instincts are suggesting that there is some threat of danger: piloerection and adrenaline release detected.
Piloerection…? Wikipedia obediently pops up with a definition: a basic reflex, the contraction of the muscles of the hair follicles, resulting in the hair being raised. In response to danger raised fur makes animals seem larger and more frightening… Descriptive Illustration flashes up: some little animal looking like an angry ball of fur…
All this noise. All these flashes, bubbles, voices, windows, boxes. An endless party inside my head. A crowd of well-intentioned strangers, they reply and ask questions, talk and demonstrate, interrupt and cajole, they ask me out for a walk, they force me to be friends. Fofs, they’ve exhausted me! But there, sitting opposite me, is a man who cannot live without them… Danger? How can this castrated cripple be a threat to me: even if his mind has cleared for a moment…? So, no: my piloerection does not come from fear. Tell me, autodoctor, can you get piloerection from shame? From regret? From guilt and self-disgust?
autodoctor: in very rare cases
Well then, what we have here is a very rare case. Extremely rare. I would even say unique.
Ef looks up at me, tilting his head strangely, as if he was planning to charge at me and gore me.
‘I’m wounded,’ he states with inexplicable joy.
I suddenly realise what this look of concentration of his means: he’s not looking at me at all, he’s examining his reflection in my mirrored face. His bruise, his swollen eye and the bandage on his head…
He feels his wound through the bandage, presses it a few times with two fingers, somehow too roughly and sharply, and every time he gasps in amazement, as if he’s surprised that it might hurt.
‘…I’m wounded right in the socio slot. Did you do this to me?’
I look at his unavailable watering eye, I look for a long time, trying to figure out why there is this strange exhilaration in his voice again, but his eye doesn’t express anything except patient expectation of an answer and I reply, ‘Yes, Ef, I did that to you.’
What now? He will ask why, he will promise that I’ll be put on the Blacklist, he will go crazy, he will try to mutilate me in return, he will demand a connection, a doctor and details. I will say that it’s his own fault, I’ll say that I’m sorry, that I’m really sorry, but I had no other choice, I will say ‘forgive me’, and then, probably, I will do what he asks. I will finish him off. One more blow to the head. Or maybe two or three. I can’t keep him here forever.
Instead of that he says, ‘You’re awesome. You’re a total legend!’
He says:
‘This new game is just mind-blowing! “The Mean Streets of First Layer”, right? Isn’t that what it’s called? A proper no deather!’
He says, ‘I’ve got to send my thanks to the Association of Game Raters right away! Those guys have done a great job! At first I didn’t even realise that I’m in fifth layer… Total illusion of first! Visually, and with sensations of pain, and… Cerberus, have you given it a rating? The sensory stimulation is better than in luxury, no? And especially this whole thing with the broken socio slot,’ he pokes his fingers right into the wound again, wrinkling his forehead with pain and pleasure. ‘Smin, I was completely convinced that I had actually been disconnected from socio! I only guessed when I saw my reflection…’ He laughs and then is overcome with wheezy coughing. ‘…At this beaten meat in the place of my face and no mask, hardly realistic is it? And that’s when it hit me: if my socio slot has blacked out, why is the cerebron not backing it up…? And this snow… it’s also a sort of signal… of alarm… I’ve sort of… lost track… what was I just saying?’
He looks around embarrassed. Licks his dry lips. Gawps at me with his mollusc-eye, trustingly, waiting for a hint.
Who am I to take away his final consolation? To explain to the termite that he’s now in a separate container. The termite really wants to believe that he is still building the mound along with everyone else, like before. So I give him a hint.
‘You were saying that you like this game. “The Mean Streets of First Layer.” Everything’s really realistic.’
‘Right, exactly!’ He’s happy again. ‘The game. Well, I, basically, give up. One–nil to you. I can’t for the life of me figure out where the escape is here… Everything’s done so cleverly… So finish me o
ff. Looks like that’s the only way out of here.’
‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘There’s no other way out. Everything is done so cleverly.’
Zero
The first time it was Foxcub. A year before the fire. He came up to me on the Available Terrace and looked at me damply for a long time with eyes the colour of rotten potato. Until I realised that he was trying to talk to me in second layer and stopped giving him the cold shoulder:
‘It’s not going to work. I am completely asocial.’
I turned away from him and set off walking alongside the rows of pets, but for some reason Foxcub shambled after me. I changed direction a few times but he just meandered around after me, like a fly following a slop-bucket, so I turned round to face him again:
‘What do you want, Fox?’
His expression was so blank, even for him, that I had to grab him by the shoulder and shake him.
‘Hey, Fox! What are you after? Say it out loud!’
‘Hi. It. Is. Me,’ Foxcub announced slowly, with evident effort.
‘I know it’s you. Fox, are you sick or something?’
‘No. I. Am. Not. Fox.’
‘Wait, I’m going to call a warder…’
‘No. No. No. No.’
‘Hey, calm down…’
By the way, he seemed absolutely calm. Too calm even.
‘Just in silence. Follow him.’
‘Who?!’
‘Foxcub,’ said Foxcub.
‘Why are you talking about yourself in the third person?’
‘About myself,’ Foxcub whispered barely audibly and set off towards the exit from the Available Terrace.
His movements were slow and strangely fluid, as if he were walking underwater. It all looked so crazy that I followed him. In silence.
We floated unhurriedly down the corridor, went out into the yard, crossed it and entered the Special Unit. We were searched at the entrance; the guard took a gnawed pencil from somewhere under Foxcub’s clothes and shook it in front of his nose:
The Living Page 13
