Air (or Have Not Have)

by Geoff Ryman

  'Well, okay then, just wipe out those imprints in Air.'

  'Ah,' he said, delighted with the beauty of the thing. 'Everything in Air is permanent.'

  Another doctor entered, and the first greeted him effusively, waving the paper. Then he turned back, nodding politely.

  'Oh, and one thing to cheer you up. Your blood test shows that you are expecting a joyful event. It will be a son. Good day.'

  Madam Akurgal shook her head. 'Stupid men,' she hissed, and looked, stricken, into Mae's eyes.

  'What does he mean, I'm pregnant? I can't be pregnant.'

  The woman looked serious. 'Oh, yes you can.'

  'I've had my period.' Mae was whispering frantically but even so, the male doctors turned. 'Do you understand? I had a normal period!'

  The woman shook her head. 'Then there must be real problems. Is the bleeding just today, recently?'

  'I have not miscarried! It was just a period and now it's over!'

  The woman stroked her forehead. 'Then there may be something really wrong. We can have you tested.'

  'I don't want to be tested again, I have had too many tests!'

  'Just give yourself time to think. My name is Fatimah. Fatimah Akurgal. I will always be nearby.'

  'What does it mean that they found nothing wrong with my head?'

  Fatimah sagged under the weight of so much evidence of things gone awry. 'It means that you are the first of a kind. There is little that we know.'

  'I don't want her taking over!' Mae was nearly in tears. 'She is trying to take over!'

  'We will be looking at the Format to see if there is a way we can control it, even stop its communicating with you.' Fatimah paused. 'I am so sorry. I wish I had better news.'

  Mae did begin to weep then. She hid her eyes. The doctors kept talking about her.

  Mae spent the rest of the morning having magazines passed to her. She could not read them. She thought about what these people had said, and the way they had said it.

  Fatimah took her to the bright noisy canteen and bought her a lunch of spicy red leaves that Mae had never seen before. 'We'll see about getting a car to drive you back to the hotel,' Fatimah said.

  'Be sure to tell Mr Tunch for me,' Mae said, 'that I will be going straight back home to Kizuldah.'

  Fatimah protested.

  'Just ask Mr Tunch to talk to me,' said Mae.

  Mr Tunch drove Mae back to the hotel himself.

  The car was bronze-coloured and inside it smelled like a toilet, all false pine.

  'You are going to have to give me something else to keep me,' said Mae.

  'I beg your pardon!' coughed Mr Tunch.

  'You can't cure me, why should I stay?'

  'Why should I want you to stay?' Mr Tunch's eyes twinkled. It was cool in the car, air-conditioned. People outside squinted against the sun, walking on empty, baking streets.

  'You want information from me. And information is like sugar, it is to be sold.'

  'How very wise,' replied Mr Tunch, sounding very pleased, as if she were a clever pupil.

  'You always sound surprised when I am not stupid. That's insulting.'

  He dipped his head in respect. 'I'm sorry. But I would have thought that a possibility of a cure was reason enough for you to stay.'

  'Possibility of a cure. That's not a lot. What do you get?'

  'I get to understand your unusual situation. That will tell me a lot about how Air works.'

  'Then,' she sighed, 'I am afraid this is not a fair trade. I do not want to spend time here being explored by you, only to find that there is no cure. I have work to do.'

  'What else do you want?' he asked blandly.

  'To learn everything you know,' she said. 'About what is coming.'

  He chuckled. 'My dear woman, why would you want to know that?'

  'So I can prepare my people.' Mae paused. 'Not your people. My people. There is a difference.'

  His face did not lose a mote of its benevolence. 'You could not possibly learn all the things I know.'

  'I want to know about this "Juh-ee" stuff. And what these Gates are. And what will really happen inside people's heads. What the great powers are using Air for, what they are going to get out of it.'

  Mr Tunch smiled. 'Is that all?' he said, his irony losing its airy touch.

  'One other thing. What is your full name?'

  She almost saw his tongue flick. 'Surely a modern woman such as yourself does not believe in the Wisdom of Names?'

  You do, Mae realized. That's why you don't want to give it to me.

  'I am just a peasant,' she said. 'It is not good to do business without knowing your client's name.'

  He shook his head slightly. 'I am your client, am I? In your professional hands?' He relented. 'My full name is Mr Hikmet Tunch.'

  Mr Wisdom Bronze. A wise criminal has no need to soil his hands and so stays shiny. People mistake the polished bronze for gold. A wise criminal can sometimes even help his people, but always for a price.

  Mae, you are flying with hawks. Watch out for their talons.

  'So. Okay. The deal is this. I stay here one week. Not one day longer. We spend three hours a day finding out what you want, and three hours a day finding out what I want. Okay?'

  'Agreed,' he said after a moment.

  'I have the mornings,' she said.

  Doors bleeped and blew and said hello to Mr Tunch.

  'Sorry about all this, but we try to get rid of all the dust,' he said.

  His office walls were covered in wood, and it was cool, without windows, and the electric lights were phony, made of bronze to look old-fashioned.

  The surface of his desk was covered in glass. Mr Tunch touched it and spoke to it and it came alive with the familiar Interface.

  'In order,' he said. ' "Intro background briefing on genetics, cosmology, and Air history." "Resistance to GM and its relevance to the development of Air." "The nature of the UN Format and background history." "The nature of the Gates Format and background history." "Speculative futures." ' He paused. 'Is that what you want to know?

  'I will check my list.'

  'Good. I will be back here at lunchtime.' He caught her scowl. I did not agree to teach you myself. That machine is far more used to teaching than I am. And much more patient. But please let me know if there is anything it cannot tell you.'

  'I don't know how it works.'

  'No. But it knows how you work. Good morning, Mrs Chung-ma'am.'

  And he was gone, through another jet of air.

  The machine began to speak and show pictures.

  They had, apparently, unthreaded humanity like a carpet.

  Inside the beautiful white semen, nestled inside the warm home of the womb, were threads, one from the male, one from the female. They now knew what made the threads, and the meaning of each stitch, as if it were Eloi embroidery.

  They could place each stitch. Or replace it with better ones.

  This was miraculous stuff to learn. Mae could imagine the souls of the unborn blossoming in new forms like flowers bred for new colours or perfumes.

  They could make people prettier, stronger, and smarter. Mr Tunch's desk repeated the arguments against doing this. Favourable modifications would be available only for the rich. An even greater gap would open up between Haves and Have-nots.

  Air, however, would make everyone a Have. So they said.

  These Everyone-Haves would have their memory, their knowledge, and their skills increased. Their ability to calculate figures and link previously unrelated information would all be enhanced by using Info through Air.

  It all sounded so calm and clear and reasonable, a briefing for the Disney people of Yeshiboz Sistemlar.

  Mae knew when she was being sold something. You are trying to scare me with all this talk of rich people buying smarter babies. You want me to buy Air instead.

  She sat forward. Already the bland neutral voice was slipping in warnings. Like old village gossips trying to get their way. Unplugged security
problems that might mean the UN Format may not be controllable.

  Like her Kru. They put him in Air and they can't turn him off, and all that knowledge goes away for free.

  No money to be made. What you need me for, Mr Tunch, is to learn how to turn off Mrs Tung and turn off my Kru.

  There was a tickle somewhere. The tickle was a way of looking at the world, a narrative. It was impatient.

  'The benefits of Air for social inclusion are evident,' said Mr Tunch's desk. 'But questions of safety for users must be paramount. And intellectual property must be protected.'

  The tickling grew as insistent as a headache. It was fear. It was hopelessness. It was a dread of the world beyond Kizuldah.

  The desk said, 'Liberal economists wanted to open up Air to the competitive marketplace. Others argued that there could only be one Air, and that it would be wrong to grant a monopoly to any purely business interest. With two competing Formats, users could choose.'

  They want to own our souls.

  You see! You see?

  Her. She's here.

  The desk said, An international consortium of software houses agreed to set standards. The anti-monopolists soon claimed that the consortium was in fact controlled by the Company.'

  It's always the same with these people.

  Showdown, thought Mae. It's you or me.

  'Tension increased when the Director of the International Air Consortium resigned, charging the Company with bad faith.' The Desk still spoke.

  Before there was time for conscious thought to signal what she was doing, Mae said, 'It is so sad about your daughter-in-law's death.'

  What? The old one did not like surprises.

  'It was then that the director-general of the UN founded a new consortium to continue development of Air.'

  'Tui. She died. The same day you did.'

  Someone answered Mae aloud: 'What? That's a horrible thing to say!'

  Mae replied, 'She threw herself down a well, don't you remember? I know you're dead, but you have been told about it many times. The day of the Air Test – it was months ago. She died. By the way, who are you speaking to?'

  The desk said, 'But the new consortium struggled for lack of funds.'

  'This is a terrible thing to do, to try to scare an old lady this way!'

  'Scare? All I asked was, who are you talking to?'

  'I…I… Well, Mae, of course!'

  Mae remembered Aunt Wang Cro. She would pretend and pretend that everything was fine. There were no mirrors in the room. 'Mae? Where is Mae? Can you see her in this room?'

  Mae leaned back in case the old one could see her reflection in the desk.

  The desk stopped teaching. 'Excuse me, was that an instruction? I do not understand.'

  Mae pushed again. 'Okay. Who are you?'

  'I am…' The thing stopped. For a moment, it had no identity. 'I am… I am Madam Tung Ai-ling!'

  'Then who are you talking to?' Mae thrust words like a knife.

  'Excuse me, was that an instruction?'

  'I don't know! I can't see! I'm blind. This is terrible to do to an old blind lady – make fun of her! Why are you doing this?'

  The thing tried to stand up. It tried to look about. Mae could feel a twitching in the nerves of her legs and neck and eyes. She needs my body to live, Mae thought. She wants it.

  'So,' Mae asked airily. 'Do you like being in Yeshiboz Sistemlar?'

  'Excuse me, was that an instruction?'

  'No!' Mae told the desk. 'Please continue lesson.'

  'Who are you talking to?' Mrs Tung demanded in triumph.

  'An intelligent desk. They make them these days. It's giving me a lesson in the UN Format.'

  'I don't know what you mean.'

  'Of course you don't; you can't remember anything from one minute to the next. You are here in Karzistan's most important medical-computer complex. Where did you think you were?'

  'I don't… It's of no importance!'

  'When international fundraising efforts failed, the major Company offered to pay for both Formats, promising to keep both workstreams entirely independent.'

  On the screen, important people shook hands, and half the UN General Assembly rose to its feet applauding. Others notably stayed seated.

  'See this desk? The whole thing is a screen, yes? See the people applauding?'

  'Yes, of course!'

  'So, who in Kizuldah has such a thing?'

  Mrs Tung fought to keep her equilibrium as had the Iron Aunt, by disguise and improvisation. 'Kwan? Kwan. We are in Kwan's house! Everyone says she has made her house very modern!'

  'You see the desk?'

  'Yes, of course I see the desk!'

  'How? You are blind!'

  'I… I my eyes have got better.'

  'How long have they been better?'

  'Since yesterday! Since yesterday!'

  'Oh! There was a miracle yesterday! What else happened yesterday?' Mae was shouting.

  'The Consortium proved to be short-lived. Amid technical disagreements and charges that the Company was rigging Air structures that would only work with its other solutions.'

  Old Mrs Tung faltered. 'I… I… You came to see me?'

  'Who? Who came to see you? Who are you talking to?'

  She chuckled, embarrassed. 'It's so silly… I can't…'

  'There's no one here! Where are you?'

  'I don't know!' Mrs Tung wailed aloud.

  Mae bellowed: 'I just told you! Why can't you remember?'

  Old Mrs Tung broke down into desperate tears. 'I can't… I can't…' She shook Mae's head.

  Revulsion flooded through Mae's body like a case of food poisoning. Something was sickeningly out of place, wrong. I am like a ghost, I am invisible, I have no body.

  'I can't move!' wailed Old Mrs Tung.

  Mae began to weep for her, for the neat dead system of responses on the other side of the screen of the world. Mae felt the terror and the sadness and the horror of being dead.

  And so the thing gained strength. It spoke as if Mae and she were one. 'We'll lose everything! This is a terrible place. We must get away!'

  Mae struggled back, her voice more feeble: 'What place is this?'

  'I don't know. Don't start that again.'

  'Where are you? What day?'

  'Stop pestering me! Who are you to come at me with impertinent questions?'

  'Work began on the new Format. From the beginning, some engineers felt the schedule was too ambitious.'

  Mrs Tung barked, 'What is that thing talking about?'

  'I told you. The UN Format. But you can't remember. Shall I explain it again to you?'

  'No, I don't want to hear about it!'

  'Of course you don't, because you're scared of it and you're scared of it because you know you wouldn't be able to remember it. You can remember nothing! Where are we? Can't remember? I just told you where we are but you can't remember, can you? Can you? You can't remember what day it is or where you are or even who you are!'

  The thing howled and stood up and Mae stood up with it. The thing was in a rage. Mae felt it thrash inside her with frustration. If the thing had carried an old walking stick, she would have beaten Mae with it. The thing spun in confusion and anger and disgust and terror around and around the desk, and it threw Mae against the imprisoning walls. Mae felt a buzzing in her brain and her body, as if there was a great numb abscess in all of her being.

  Suddenly Mae's hand reached up and slapped her own face.

  Mae clenched and fought, her hand shook in midair, wavered as if pulled by magnets.

  Mae shouted, 'Whose face did you slap? You slapped and you felt it yourself! How could you slap someone's face and feel it yourself?'

  'I don't know! Let me go! Let me go!'

  'Excuse me, I am hearing sounds of distress. Do wish me to call for help?'

  The hand slapped Mae again, even harder.

  Mae fought with words. 'You slapped a body. Whose body?'

  The thing howled in te
rror and struck Mae's face again and again. Left hand, right hand, left hand, beating her about the face.

  Mae pushed: 'You're sick, you're old, you're mad, you're crazy!'

  The thing stumbled, wounded and disorientated. 'I don't know! I don't know-ho!-ho!' The thing wailed in complete despair

  'You can't remember, you're senile, you're dead! You're dead and senile and sick; you have no hands; you have no eyes; you are nowhere; you do not exist!'

  'Let me go!' The thing heaved with sobs. It could no longer speak, for grief and despair and horror. Its voice rose to a despairing shriek, and it picked Mae up and flung her across the desk.

  And like the passing of a tornado, suddenly everything was still.

  Mae was left panting, alone in Mr Tunch's office.

  'Do you need me to call for help?' the desk asked.

  'No,' Mae was able to croak. Her throat was raw from shouting. She had been speaking for both of them.

  Tears and spit were smeared all over her face and splattered over the desktop. The cheeks and the palms of her hands stung. She sat up and looked at her own reflection in the glass-topped desk. A fresh bruise was coming up on her cheek.

  Suspicion made Mae look up, and she saw a camera in the corner of the room. Tunch will have seen all that, she thought. He'll have been spying.

  Well, if he's seen all that, then that's all he's going to get from me.

  Mae pulled in deep, shuddering breaths. She stood up and wiped her face and tried to straighten her hair.

  I've seen her off. I know how to see her off and I don't need Mr Tunch.

  Time, she thought, to get down to work.

  'Continue with lecture,' she told the desk.

  Mr Tunch joined her for lunch.

  'I thought you might like to try the new food,' he said.

  Because of her lecture, Mae knew what that meant. New proteins, new tastes, grown from new organisms.

  'They are designed to be delicious,' he said.

  The soup was bracing and solid, like lentils laced with lemon, and made hearty with something like tomatoes and pork. It was sour and sweet, with a bitter undertow like coffee.

  'You see?' he said, chuckling. 'Good, isn't it?'

  'Yes,' Mae had to admit. 'Yes. I wonder if I will be happy to go back to cold rice?'

  He laughed again, and said. 'Maybe you won't have to.'