The Prayer Machine

by Christopher Hodder-Williams

  ‘You are surprisingly informed on the subject of history. I regard it as a non-subject, though, for one very good raison — It invariably ignores Evolution. In other words, it presupposes that the people of our own time would react the same as Primitives who had to exist as best they might without intermesh.’ He deliberately tossed this point into a vacuum as he led the way down a corridor marked Deviants’ Ward.

  Neil said, ‘I accept the fact of your precept but not the conclusions. How can you argue that the installation of a piece of hardware within the cerebellum counts as “evolution”? A species evolves, surely, within the double helix? And however many times the process of replication is repeated it won’t come up with an electronic chip.’

  Rone said sharply, ‘Your use of suburban egologic is an embarrassing constraint on your intellect. Evolution isn’t just what is done to us by nature; it’s equally a matter of how our cerebral equipment reacts to it. In the pre-intermesh era, people could not truly think because their brains were virtually animal brains concerned with survival … hunting, eating — fighting and fleeing. How can a man think when he’s concerned for his stomach? And how can he communicon when the primitive instinct is one of privacy? We are but cells in one organism, Mr Prentice; but each cell has billions of neurons to add to the whole. Primitives and all early primates had no way of sharing them for the total good; individualism was a closed door against thoughtsharing. Ironically, the greatest potential thinkers were the ones who wasted their cerebral contribution the most! You speak of history; but do you recall the telltale words of Einstein? When asked what was the secret of his success he replied, “keeping my mouth shut”. Note the use of the word “secret”. Why was secrecy regarded by Archaics as a prime right? The answer is in our modern Bible: I quote — though you should know it — “Man is only as secretive as his guilt dictates.” Have you forgotten that?’

  They had arrived at a door marked HIGH INFRINGEMENT PENALTY, YELLOW BADGE HOLDERS ONLY. Evidently the badge operated the door mechanism; for Rone produced one and inserted it into a slot. Without a glance at Neil he said, ‘But machines have no residual guilt; which is why the Puter remains the repository of all secrets — by definition they cannot be guilty ones. Think how this eases the burden of living! Centralized decision-making protects the species. There is enough food, enough water, enough housing, enough leisure … except, of course, for the Deviants. They are the cancerous cells; the ones which have to be isolated before the disease spreads throughout the total organism. Thus they are punished — you no doubt observe the mandatory periods for watching teleflickers? … of course you do! Not without raison do we enforce viewtime on the public, so that the deterrent effect of inverse brainops can take hold. And you see, it isn’t cruel. How can it be? — To contain and publicly limit a cancer cell is an act of good. Good for the many; good for the species as a whole, because it protects that species from the spreading of a scourge. Egologic, as of course you realize, actually reversed this idea by nurturing “minority” ideals and thus accelerating human decay. We contain this decay within the Screaming Rooms. There is no raison why you yourself should ever enter here except as a visitor — a privileged visitor, as you’ll appreciate. And my confidence in you is such that I know you will decide that in a sensibly controlled society we have to keep the Puter informed about the diseased. I’ll explain what I mean when we have emerged from this … this tragic sector of our operations — tragic, because we can only fight heresy from the inside of the brain.’ On this, he paused with a calculated sense of drama. Then, via intermesh, he parted the double doors.

  A curiously benign expression attached itself to Dr Rone’s face as he led the way along a circular, endless corridor. He pointed out, with sepulchral reverence, the finer points of the Treatment Rooms. ‘Through these port-holes you can see the Will of the Puter expressed inhuman terms … for these are the people who have offended against the Spirit of Statistical Logic. In other words they have denied, in their actions and thoughts, the right of the race to express itself through the instant referendum of simple numbers. They are people who have complained about the Regime, when all that Regime consists of is the root mean square of humanity itself-in other words, the attested average. Obviously, their Sin is one of Ego; and so we wire their brains inward instead of outward. They can therefore only perceive what lies within themselves; the chaos and irrationality of brains which are no longer stimulated by the outside world. This is true justice; for in the end, the only meaningful punishment for egologic must come from egologic. So, in a sense, these pathetic people are punishing themselves.’

  He walked a few paces along the corridor to the port-hole of a patient whom he regarded evidently as a suitable example for selection.

  With the sound-proofed port-hole shut, you couldn’t entirely respond. But the woman inside was convulsed in one corner of the room. Her mouth hung open in a way that suggested it could never again be closed, because the lower jaw no longer corresponded to the set of the upper teeth, which were gnarled and brown from neglect. The hair was matted like the stuffing of a rotten sofa; and the faded clothes were stained from fetid patches of old sweat.

  But the eyes. They bulged from their sockets as if from some long-endured physical pressure from the brain itself, as if the brain were growing out of its containing skull, so that the whites of the eyes were out of all proportion with the size of the iris. Beneath the enlarged lids, the facial shape had collapsed, leperlike; and to Neil it seemed that only by technical definition could you describe what was left as a face.

  Rone said, ‘Here, by her nameplate, you can see what her face was once like.’ He indicated a 3-D colour photo of a young woman.

  It was an unusually expressive face. Neil thought there was something almost holy about it; for it contained that super-understanding and natural humaneness of a true intellectual. Though there was great determination in the set of the high cheekbones and the basic friendliness enshrined in that proud head, there was also a suggestion of fatalism, as if the soul of the woman was aware all the while of the punishment that must come.

  Rone said quietly, ‘In a moment I shall open the port-hole so that you can hear the curiously primitive strain of the voice — which proves, beyond question, that here indeed is a throwback to some former, semi-civilized state of a primate not wholely formed into homo sapiens as you and I know it in modern Man.’

  Neil found his own voice normal and unaffected, and wondered why. ‘What was her profession?’

  Rone glanced at him in appreciation of something that he had evidently expected. ‘I thought you’d ask that. She was a writer. Quite wellknown. That, in a way, was what was so unforgivable: for she used her position of national communicon — quite suddenly — as a launchpad for views we did not suspect. Before the Regime realized what had happened, nearly a hundred thousand copies of a Profane book had been released. And though we naturally made it a Capital Infringement to harbour copies of the horrorbook in question, it is thought that even now there are illicit copies in circulation.’

  ‘Is she … aware … of what has been done to her?’

  ‘My dear boy, what would be the point of all this if she were not? … though you phrase your question faultwise. It has not been “done to her”, except that inverse brainops inevitably followed on what she had done to herself. In other words, she placed herself beyond the normal boundaries of the sane, and did it as an act of deliberation. Perverse, but it does happen. Yes, she is aware; indeed she is kept aware. See that screen — just by her sleeping-straw? Every day, we run teleflickers of her as she was. We show clips of her doing the things normal people are allowed to do — anything from water-skiing to making love. She hears herself talk as she talked then; we show her as a young mother (her baby is, of course, being cared-for properly by the state); we show her being honoured by a public whom quite obviously she must have despised all along — for she renounced all the things they stood for … like Speech-Failsafe, File-Dedication, Sen
sonorm — you name it, she betrayed it. She even lured her Entitlement to omit contraceptives without validation. He was afforded quite a mild sentence because he realized the nature of his Infringement, and accordingly he publicly renounced her written work … Yes, we maintain her awareness of what she was and what, nano, she is — hence the mirrors, of course. I’m afraid it isn’t feeding time so you can’t see that … though no doubt, like everyone else, you’ve watched it often enough on teleflickers. But in a moment I’ll motivate the port-hole, so at least you can hear the Screaming. It goes on most of the time, really, since sleep of the ordinary kind doesn’t occur in recognizable form. As you know, there are mechanisms in sleep which ensure life-perpetuation and these aspects of sleep are ensured. She will live another twenty-five years or so, so she’s far from being in any immediate danger … Look, she is watching us through the port-hole! You see that sudden recognition of the outside world? A special sound goes with that, a sort of animal whimper which indicates a proper registration on the cortex of external stimulus … Nano, I’ll open the port-hole …’

  *

  Neil cried in Celandine’s arms. He could only speak in short spasms between fits of helpless sobbing … ‘You must renounce us … Me and Kin Krister and …’

  ‘Shush.’

  ‘Cela, I just … stood there! Listening to him. I didn’t protest. I didn’t react. I didn’t even feel for her —’

  ‘Your brain couldn’t take it in.’

  ‘Even when he opened that port-hole and those terrible noises gushed out … not even animal sounds, they were like nothing I could have imagined —’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Cela, I’m going back. I’m going to the PONEM and I’m safe. You’re not. Not unless you apply for immediate renunciation rights.’

  ‘That’s impossible, anyway.’

  Neil broke away and retched into the sink. ‘No! No, it’s not! Dr Rone promised it. He said that if I persuaded you to undergo … what did he call it?’

  ‘Humiliops?’

  ‘That’s it! Public Humiliops. You expose your shame. It needn’t mean a thing to you! What does it matter? Do it, and you’ll get a light sentence. Rone promised!’

  Celandine said, ‘It’s only a trick. I told you: you have to kill me. Death is nothing. It is peace.’

  ‘Then why didn’t that victim —’

  ‘She made a martyr of herself. I remember it years ago on teleflickers. She said that death was too easy. But I’m no saint. It is simple. You ask Mr Farson for a minilaser. I know he has access to deathwish controls —’

  ‘He hasn’t. He told me he’d already tried to use a crunchpill and it didn’t work. They must have got to know about crunchpills and disarmed them. If they’ve gone to that length he won’t get his hands on so much as a razor-blade.’

  ‘What’s a razor-blade?’

  ‘Oh, I forgot … Cela, if they’ve got Farson lined up for inverse brainops you can reckon on it being virtually impossible for him to take his own life.’ Neil looked suddenly mortified and cut his voice down to a terrified whisper. ‘My God! Fono! I forgot fono! They’ll be listening —’

  ‘I ripped the wires out a few minutes ago.’

  ‘But that’s a —’

  ‘— a Capital Infringement. I know. Except, of course, “capital” doesn’t mean what it meant in your era. It doesn’t mean death …’

  He said, ‘And I’m the one who has been doing the crying.’

  She touched his face with cool fingertips. ‘Don’t be ashamed. You were crying for humanity. And for me. Don’t. See this?’

  He seemed puzzled. ‘The length of wire that led from fono?’

  ‘I ripped it out. For a purpose. Understand nano?’

  ‘Their line will be dead and they’ll know. What will happen when they find out? — Christ! Not with that wire!’

  ‘I’ll be dead.’ Without drama she handed him the wire. ‘When I come back from the Master Infopoint, you simply strangle me with it. You close your eyes and you pull the knot tight with a jerk.’ A sickening piece of mime. ‘The wire will cut the main arteries. I’ll know almost nothing about it. But make it sudden. One sharp jerk. You mustn’t worry. There’s nothing else you can do. I am resigned to death. Communicon?’

  ‘No! Not because I’m squeamish. Not because I’m afraid of guilt.’

  She said, without raising her voice, ‘You would prefer I were sent to the Screaming Room?’

  ‘I would prefer to gamble.’

  ‘On what? Having me killed by someone else? There’ll be nobody left to do it.’

  ‘You’ve forgotten why I’m here.’

  ‘You came for those printouts.’

  ‘I came to change the future.’

  ‘You make it sound so … technical. But your eyes don’t match what you’re saying.’

  ‘Because I need you to help me to believe it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the life-essence that is you isn’t expendable. Because, if my theories are right, that life-essence will survive. Maybe in a different form. Maybe you won’t even know about it. But you are the seed from which other celandines in the field will flourish. You can’t just opt out. If you do, you’ll end the strain. Imagine a world without celandines! Why should anyone want to live in it?’

  ‘If your gamble failed I’d be paying the highest price known to civilization.’

  That’s my point — this is not civilization! This is not what was meant — by nature, by God … by any normal human standards.’

  She held onto him, clung to him, her eyes pleading. ‘Neil! Don’t use me as an experiment. I’m not a martyr. I’m human and afraid. Yet you’re talking as if I’m not even real. You seem to love what I stand for and not who I am. If you go on believing that, you’ll be doing almost what the Regime does — thinking of the species, instead of people. So you’ll sacrifice me because I only matter as an idea!’

  ‘You’re the only idea I’ve ever had that matters.’

  ‘Neil! I’m flesh and blood! I don’t simply live in your head! And I’m asking you to save me —’

  ‘— by murder.’

  ‘By mercy.’

  He held her shaking body. ‘You’re the only person I’ve ever touched who is real. Don’t you think I know that?’

  She stared at him. ‘Then … what about this Ann Marie? Are you saying nano that she was only an idea?’

  ‘I’m saying that she is only real as a nun. Knowing you makes me realize that she could never have escaped her calling. My phrenia was the act of thinking she could be anything else. But Ann Marie could only be a thoughtlink. She was split in half, by my own phrenic state. That is why she was both Clare and herself. I understand that nano.’

  ‘You talk theories when I’m faced with inverse brainops!’

  ‘You’re not! Don’t you see? My job as a Phrenic is to bring the two halves of Ann Marie Clare together! At the moment the two halves are at opposite ends of the time-tunnel! If I close the gap —’

  ‘You’re cured. So you’re just thinking of yourself! You tried to love Ann Marie and you couldn’t. You’re trying to love me and you can’t.’

  ‘That isn’t true. You’ve got to believe me! You’re the victim of a distorted future! I’ve got to go back and change that future —’

  ‘So that I no longer exist? Why is that better than killing me? Is it because you’re afraid of killing a part of your own mind? Are you so phrenic that you can only think of yourself? —’ She broke off, listened, stilled by something. ‘What’s that? What’s that terrifying sound? Why is everything blurring? Shimmering?’

  ‘Why nano? Why a Thoughtquake, just when —’

  ‘Neil! You’re disintegrating! I can see through your trog! You’re trying to leave me to the mercy of them! I tell you they have no mercy!’

  ‘Then hold onto me!’

  ‘I can’t. I can’t even feel you. You’re sliding away.’

  ‘It’s because you won’t believe in wha
t I’m trying to do.’

  ‘Does your very existence depend on my belief? Do I have to put you together by living in your own mind and then suffering in it, too? Is the Screaming Room inside you?’

  ‘!em edisnisi esrevinu elohw ehT’

  *

  Jane Schuber looked up sharply. ‘He spoke forwards!’

  Ann Marie said, ‘I know. He approaches the crisis! He is in great danger.’

  ‘Did you hear what he said?’

  ‘I think he said something like the whole universe being inside him.’

  Jane said, ‘We have merely induced total schizophrenia. What in God’s name do we think we’re doing?’

  Ann Marie said quietly, ‘What we are doing is experiencing a Thoughtquake. Don’t you feel it?’

  Jane said, ‘I heard an Earthless Quake.’

  ‘You heard something more than that. We must believe. He needs us to believe! Listen, Jane, we cannot just turn back, nor turn our back on him. He is in a world —’

  ‘— of his own.’

  ‘How do we know that? Is it solving things to quote Dr Braknell? We felt the Thoughtquake. Not just the patient. We did. At last we know what an Earthless Quake really is.’

  ‘You deny he is schizophrenic?’

  ‘Jane, he is in much danger of being Phrenic, both here and at Central Pool.’

  ‘Phrenic? Central Pool? Ann Marie, somehow he has drawn you into his own fantasies. You are in danger, too — of becoming as sick as he is!’

  Ann Marie said, ‘We must decide what is sick. Always you want to believe all the things you are taught. It is so easy. When in doubt, dial Dr Braknell. When in doubt, talk the patois of senile men without vision.’

  Jane Schuber said tartly, ‘We’re going to talk to someone, Ann Marie. This has gone quite far enough.’

  ‘Then let us call Father Stillwell.’

  ‘When you have turned your back on everything he stands for?’

  Ann Marie gazed at the empty body of the patient. ‘Something has changed … something within the patient.’

  Jane Schuber said, ‘It has to be a change in you. Father Stillwell won’t want to be used, merely because we have been mistaken in what we’ve done. Something has to change you.’