CAPACITY a-2

by Tony Ballantyne

  “This is my son,” he said. “Can you tell me why I should risk his life by staying here?”

  A spasm of something almost like pain crossed Schummel’s face. “Look, I got the order to take off half an hour ago, and I refused. There were three fliers still not yet arrived here and, anyway, what was the hurry? The hypership isn’t due to depart for another six hours.”

  “Thank you for waiting,” Justinian said with just a hint of sarcasm. Nonetheless, he suddenly became fully aware of the group of fliers that formed a rough semicircle in front of the spoon-shaped nose of the shuttle. All of them were pulsing with colors that showed they still contained passengers. No one was boarding the shuttle yet.

  “And so the games began,” David Schummel said, following his gaze. He was looking in every direction but at the baby, Justinian realized. “I got another call about five minutes before your flier touched down, telling me to abandon takeoff. Apparently the hyperdrive on the hypership has developed an irregular fault and they need to move it out of orbit in order to reduce the effect of Gateway’s gravitational field.”

  Justinian gazed at him. “That’s all bullshit, isn’t it?” he said softly, and already he felt the defiance of the last two hours draining away. Why fight the EA? It always won.

  The captain leaned forward and touched Justinian on the arm. His lined face now looked very old; his voice was heavy with resignation.

  “Listen, Justinian, I’ve seen this happen before. I flew a lot of missions in the Enemy Domain. You’re not the first person I’ve met who has tried to get away from a situation he didn’t like, only to be held up by a series of seeming coincidences. The only difference today is that the EA doesn’t have its usual web of senses covering Gateway. It can’t pick up the smallest nuances of your expressions; on this planet it doesn’t have the finesse to cause subtle effects to gradually unravel that lead you to places you don’t want to be. It has to employ a more direct approach.”

  Justinian held his son close and gazed at Schummel, who looked away, embarrassed.

  Justinian’s voice was low and firm. “It can be as direct as it wants. I don’t care. I’m leaving.” It was his last attempt to take back control of his own actions. The baby shifted in his arms, eyes closing; he was tired. Justinian felt tired, too. He pulled his son up and rested the baby’s little head against his shoulder.

  Schummel stared at the grooved pattern set into the rubbery material of the ground and shook his head. A cold breeze stirred, carrying the scent of autumn soil. The whole planet smelled like that, like the land here was not so much on the verge of waking up but rather at the beginning of the process that would eventually result in a spring.

  Finally, Schummel looked up at Justinian, and his voice was gentle.

  “Justinian, I know how you feel, but you’re not the only person on this planet. Look around you.”

  Justinian kept his eyes fixed on David Schummel, but all around him he could feel the pulsing lights of the other fliers. Some of them had dropped their exit hatches. All around him were people standing in the shadows of their craft, trying not to stare in his direction.

  “I want to go home,” Justinian said.

  “So do they,” Schummel said gently. He reached out and laid his hand on the baby’s sleeping head. “Look, even if by some means you do get to be on the shuttle when it lifts, what will happen next? Will it develop a fault? Will the hypership hit a gravitational curve and find itself locked into a path around this planet? You know that the more you fight it, the less subtle the EA will become.”

  Justinian wasn’t listening anymore. He knew now he was going to stay. There was no defying the wishes of the EA.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll stay,” he said softly.

  David Schummel gazed at him. “Thank you.” He paused, looking towards the rear of the flier. Justinian turned to see that Leslie had just emerged.

  “I’ll take the baby, shall I?” the robot said.

  “I could take the baby with me,” said Schummel suddenly. “One of the astronomers space-side has brought her daughter with her; she’s about the same age as your son.”

  “I know. Mareka,” Justinian said. “I met her on the way out.”

  Schummel nodded. “I thought you might have. She’s nice, isn’t she? Good with kids. Your son would be in safe hands.”

  Justinian looked sideways. He could see the shape of his son’s head as it lay against his shoulder, could feel the regular rhythm of his breathing. The thought of passing him to a stranger filled him with sadness.

  “No,” he said. “No, I can’t let him go. He’s already lost his mother…”

  The captain nodded again.

  Around them, the shuttle was coming to shimmering life. Patterns of lights began to twinkle on the wings above them. Something awoke deep in its ancient engines. The occupants of the other fliers were already making their way past. Justinian heard the occasional muttered expression of thanks as they walked by. David Schummel tilted his head as he listened to something.

  “We’ve got the word to go. They’ve fixed the fault space-side and are moving the hypership back into orbit. Takeoff in three minutes.”

  “Surprise, surprise.”

  Schummel fixed him with a stare. “You’re a good man, Justinian. You deserve better than this. I hope you get whatever it is you are doing here finished as soon as possible, then get off this planet.”

  “Me, too,” Justinian said. He felt angry at the EA-so angry. It wasn’t fair, but when Schummel offered his hand, Justinian pointedly ignored it. He couldn’t help it. He had to take his frustration out on somebody. David Schummel looked down at his own hand, nodded ever so slightly, then withdrew it. He turned and made his way back towards the shuttle. Justinian watched the tall man go, finding himself left alone as the occupants of the other fliers boarded the shuttle and the ramp raised itself. He watched the wings sparkling and flashing as the air around them was ionized and shaped into a path through which the craft could fly. Then the shadow in which he stood was shrinking as the shuttle lifted lightly into the air. Justinian watched it rise, spiraling higher and higher into the turquoise sky. And then it was gone.

  He turned and made his way back up the ramp into his own flier, pushing his way past Leslie as he went.

  “Don’t speak to me,” he growled as he set a flight chair to the shape of a cot and placed the baby in it. Then he slumped into a chair opposite, suddenly aware of a tingling on his leg. He pulled up the right trouser leg of his passive suit.

  A second BVB had formed there.

  Helen 2: 2240

  Concealed as she was by darkness, the pale lights flickering across her face were the only clue to Helen’s presence in the shuttle. Judy 3 sat opposite, monitoring her for signs of stress, but so far she had detected nothing but an awed, breathless wonder. Helen smiled, and Judy felt the happiness rising from her, filling the interior of the insubstantial craft. They were dropping down by the seemingly endless diamond-studded black wall of the Shawl towards the blue-white swirl of the Earth below, and it was good to be alive. Even if that life was in the digital world.

  Brilliant sunlight burst around them. They had now dropped beyond the lowermost edge of the Shawl; they could see it receding above them and begin to make out its shape.

  Earlier, back in her room, Judy had unrolled a bolt of black-and-white chequered kimono silk and gathered it loosely around her shoulders, like a shawl. “This is what it looks like,” she had explained. “Imagine that the black squares are the sections of the Shawl. New sections are formed and added around the neck; the older sections are allowed to drop a little closer to Earth…”

  Helen was looking up into the heavens, following the receding pattern of sections, unable to make out the overall shape of the Shawl. It was just too big.

  But it was beautiful. The spun-glass bauble of the shuttle was filled with rose and gold from the bright sun. Helen jumped from her seat and, arms outstretched to catch the warmth, seemed to hang sus
pended in a golden halo, a vision of life, her hair plaited with flowers, rich light blooming on her white shift.

  “I’m glad we took the shuttle!” she sang out. “We would have missed all this if we just stepped straight down to Earth.”

  Judy smiled back. Emotional extremes were normal after Helen’s experience. Her moods would continue to swing back and forth for the next few weeks, as Judy sought to center her.

  “To think I might have died without seeing this!” Helen said.

  Judy said nothing. The atomic Helen had died fourteen years ago. Judy thought it significant that Helen hadn’t thought to ask about her “original” self’s death yet. She was still thinking in atomic ways. Example: insisting on catching a shuttle when a door could have been opened directly to Earth.

  An orange glow was building around the transparent skin of the shuttle as they plunged down towards the narrow channel of water lying between England and France. There were plenty of leisure craft floating there; someone would take them on to the coastal town where Judy’s next client unwittingly slept.

  “This place looks grim.” Helen gazed down the narrow street. A trail of damp, sandy footprints led back along the rubbery road to the grass-covered dunes. Behind them, the yellow catamaran that had brought them ashore now skimmed its way southwards, borne by the cold morning wind that cut through Helen’s shift’s warm-field, making her shiver.

  “I thought you said there hasn’t been any poverty since the Transition,” Helen said through chattering teeth. She hugged her arms to her chest as she gazed at the bleak scene all around them.

  “It depends on how you define poverty,” said Judy calmly. “No one goes hungry, but there are still people with fewer possessions than others.”

  Judy’s white face turned to scan the street. Helen noticed that her black hair was knotted in a different style this morning. There were other subtle variations to her kimono, too. The sleeves were shorter, the obi sash not as wide. Nonetheless, she still had the same striking appearance: black lips and nails, white face and hands. Put next to Helen in her simple white shift and tanned skin, the contrast could not be more marked. The virgin and the nymph. It was no wonder that shadows moved in the windows of the apartment block, watching them.

  “You’d think that they would have set a VNM loose on this place,” Helen murmured dismissively. “Converted these dumps into something more modern.”

  “Different places, different times, different perspectives,” replied Judy. “Here they don’t pay as much attention to the exterior appearance. This street isn’t seen as shabby; it is valued for the fact that it isn’t constructed by Von Neumann Machines. This is a prime location. The people who live here are rich by whatever definition you care to apply. Remember what the atomic Judy told you back on the Shawl? There is as much of a shortage of raw materials for the VNMs to work on today as there was in your time. Everything already belongs to someone else.”

  “But none of this is real,” said Helen. “Why not let everyone have what they want in this processing space?”

  “Because that would make us less human,” said Judy. “That’s a basic tenet of the EA.”

  “That sounds a bit-”

  “Listen, that’s just the way it is. Remember, my ‘sister’-the atomic Judy-doesn’t inhabit the digital world. She has a different perspective. She believes in the stories of the Watcher and Eva Rye far more than I do. Hah! Eva Rye. The woman whom the Watcher studied in order to learn what it means to be human. I don’t think so. Eva is a metaphor. A training technique they use on us when we start with Social Care. The clue is in the name. Eva. EA. En-Vironment Agency? Get it? Now, come on. This way.”

  She led Helen up a cracked concrete path to a narrow doorway. The dimly lit hallway beyond was elegantly plain. A set of stone steps led up to the first floor. Helen followed Judy up the stairs and along a corridor, where Judy gave a loud knock on a wooden door near the end.

  “No one home,” Helen said.

  “He’ll be asleep,” said Judy. “The apartment’s Turing machine will be waking him up as we speak, telling him there is a member of Social Care at the door. He’ll take a few minutes to get washed and dressed. Maybe have a shave. Everyone likes to make a good impression with Social Care.”

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Helen said, noting Judy’s self-satisfied smile.

  “I take pride in my work,” Judy said, “as do all members of Social Care.”

  “But you like the power it gives you, don’t you?”

  Judy turned her face to Helen’s, impassive black eyes lost in a white face locking on to hers.

  “What makes you say that, Helen?”

  “The way you’re behaving.”

  “I believe I am acting in the appropriate manner for a member of Social Care.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  Judy said nothing. There was something unsettling about her black-and-white figure, standing utterly motionless in the silent corridor. Something deliberately unsettling.

  “It’s not that I blame you,” Helen said crisply. “I might feel the same if I lived like you do: experiencing the real world, not following the safe, comfortable lives of the majority.”

  Judy measured a silence before answering. “Spare me the emotional tourism, Helen. People are whatever they choose to make themselves. Social Care is just here to point them in the right directions.”

  Helen was taken completely by surprise at the anger that boiled up inside her. She hadn’t known…of course twelve hours out of the torture chamber would not be enough to effect any sort of cure. She was taken aback by the venom welling up inside her; she felt that she was standing to one side and listening to herself shouting at Judy.

  “Don’t speak to me like that, you bitch.” She had pressed her face close to Judy’s. “I hate that attitude! I hate the way people like you do that!” The calm part of her was looking at that smooth white face, those black, black eyes. “You teachers and social workers who take on the suffering of their clients for your own. I’m the one who was locked up in a torture chamber! Me! Don’t make out that you have a better understanding than I do about the way the world works! You, you…virgin!”

  She was spitting. Judy stared at her, tiny drops of Helen’s saliva rolling from her impassive white face, her black hair shimmering softly in the dim light. And then, just as suddenly as it had come, Helen’s anger vanished. Still Judy stared at her. And stared. And then, one hand reached into the opposite sleeve of her kimono. Down the hallway sounded the gentle click of a door closing, and Helen was abruptly, utterly deflated.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  “Helen,” Judy said, calmly pulling her hand free of her sleeve. “I do have a far better understanding than you of how the world works. Maybe, as you work with me, you will come to realize this.”

  Helen opened her mouth in astonishment at Judy’s arrogance.

  “Here,” Judy said, before Helen could speak. “Walk a klick in my shoes. Take this.”

  She held out a tiny red pill. Before she could add anything else, the door to the apartment opened.

  “Peter Onethirteen?” said Judy, turning smoothly to face the man who stood in the doorway.

  “Pleased to meet you,” he said eagerly, holding out his hand. He glanced briefly at Helen, her hand to her mouth as she swallowed the red pills, but his gaze was immediately drawn back to Judy. Helen watched him, intrigued. Judy was right: people always did want to make a good impression with Social Care. She had a flash of embarrassed recognition as she remembered how she herself had acted in similar encounters in the past. Just like the tubby little man who was now inviting them into the hallway. There he went, wringing his hands together, leading them into the lounge, nervously pulling out a canister of real coffee and waving it vaguely in the air, offering to make them both a drink. And look at Judy, thought Helen. She’s using it; she’s relying on it, playing with the man. Helen felt nothing but scorn for him.

  “Sit dow
n, sit down,” said Peter Onethirteen. His hair had been allowed to recede, leaving just a little tuft at the front of his head, a fashion that Helen had never liked. He wore a transparent floating gown, his pale green pajamas clearly visible beneath it. He was almost fat, probably just at the upper limit of the EA’s acceptable parameters. No doubt his kitchen would be stocked with low-kilojoule supplies, his exercise routine just a little more vigorous than the average person’s.

  “Are you sure you don’t want some coffee?” he was saying. “It’s very good, genuine Arabica.”

  “No, thank you,” said Judy. “Peter Onethirteen, I would like you to cast your mind back fourteen years. You were a crew member of an Inner System ship back then, weren’t you?”

  “Yes…” said Peter. Helen didn’t need the effect of the little red pill of MTPH to sense the fear that rose in the man. She could see it in his eyes, in the way his frame suddenly stiffened. He placed the coffee container on the kitchen counter and gave Judy a tight smile.

  Judy’s face remained expressionless, her arms folded, hands tucked in the sleeves of her kimono. She withdrew one hand, brought her right forefinger to her mouth. A tiny spot of blue showed on her tongue as she licked the little MTPH pill from her finger. A little tick was pulsing just below Peter’s eye. Judy watched it for a moment and then she asked her question.

  “What did the ship do?”

  “The ship?” said Peter, looking at Judy’s hands as she returned them to the sleeves of her kimono. “We dealt in luxury goods: mainly permitted drugs, coffee, tea, whisky. A little refined heroin. We took them out from Earth to the space-based communities.”

  “What about the Moon? Mars?”

  Peter shook his head. “We didn’t like to get too deep into gravity wells. Too much time spent in traveling.”

  “And restricted access points, too. Is that right, Peter?”

  Peter shook his head, the tick pulsing away. He was looking flushed. He shrugged his way out of the floating gown. It hung in the air and-after a moment’s pause, and to Helen’s delight-it drifted slowly back towards the bedroom, maintaining its shape and form. Then Helen felt the wave of nauseating-panic that rolled out from him.