Strange Attractors (1985)

by Damien Broderick

  casual, as though it knew where to go.

  Them that have eyes to read that script, I said to myself, let them

  read it.

  We didn’t get invasion at that time, just fallout, plus the most

  fearful earthquake we’d known — but a little while later, we did get

  invasion; big, unsubtle sluggo bacteria, stupid, and normally no

  match for police — but was I mistaken, or did the force seem to

  hang back on this occasion? In any event, before I knew it, I was

  dying faster than I could divide, and getting a little concerned.

  Then, incredible as it may seem, in the midst of battle, another

  Black Cloud! Fallout again — tar babes, lolly wraps, scripts — all

  easing through, dodging customs and swimming downstream.

  We put out a call, but guess what? The call never got through. I

  overheard a couple of mackas discussing the matter, some days

  later.

  ‘Those scripts coming in round here,’ said the smaller of the two.

  ‘Know what they say? “Cool it.” ’

  I must explain that reading censored material is a capital

  offense. All offenses are capital offenses here. We’re a conservative

  society.

  The small cop took a hasty swipe (unsuccessful) at a passing tar

  babe. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it’s one of us. A soul sister. Knew the password.’

  ‘Ah well,’ said the other, ‘in that case, it must be from Control. No

  worries.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ said the small cop. ‘Only if Control cools it,

  who’ll be first to freeze?’

  I knew what she meant. The frontier, where the action is.

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  We get those scripts in the wind most every month. I didn’t dare

  speak my mind, the walls have ears round here. But I reasoned as

  follows: if the scripts are ours, then so are the horrid little tar babes.

  Imagine! Those horrid little tar babes ours!

  I guess I’d started to wonder if this so-called ‘system’ of ours is all

  it’s cracked up to be.

  ‘Get a move on’, shouted a waiting red cell. ‘On with the job!’

  Something funny was going on down the wall.

  Viruses! I got it from another red cell (after all, how would / know

  anything? / never get time off, and there’s no way I can move. I’m

  utterly dependent on what I’m told. I have to take everything on

  trust).

  Sisters of mine beneath me on the wall had erupted, discharging

  thousands of viruses. I’d seen it many a time before. And soon

  they’d be near me, all round me; I half shut my eyes.

  No one seems to know what viruses are, or where they come

  from. They’re bigger than scripts, but smaller than an average

  immigrant. Conventional wisdom has it that when they attack (or

  more correctly, inveigle their way in), they first assure you they

  mean no harm (this all from memory, by the way; we don’t learn

  from experience here), then, having duped you into a sense of

  security, they enter your system as a lolly or a tar babe would,

  somehow reducing themselves to do so — and devour your heart

  and soul. You cease to be a sister and become some kind of traitor.

  Hidden from view, they multiply inside you, finally erupting to kill

  you in the process.

  And what do they stand to gain from all this? T hat’s hard to say.

  They don’t seem to have a goal in life, or any normal pleasures. The

  only sure way to detect a virus is to offer it a glucose molecule. It

  always declines.

  I have seen what happened to those who let them in. I have read

  the pathetic scripts that issue from the dying as their terminal

  testaments.

  Interferon my behalf

  When next you interfere.

  A dozen or so viruses came into view and all began to shout.

  They were out of the channel, and swimming up between my

  daughters and me. I knew better than to listen. ‘Open up,’ they’d

  say. ‘Special task force here, from the bone marrow!’

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  135

  ‘Call in the mackas,’ I said to a passing lymphocyte. ‘Can’t you

  see we’re in trouble:’’

  ‘Seems to me you’re always in trouble,’ replied the lympho

  churlishly. ‘W hat’s the problem this time?’

  I pointed out the nearest virus. The lympho came over and

  peered at it intently. Then she went back on patrol. ‘That face is

  familiar to me,’ she explained, making no attempt to raise an

  alarm. ‘Probably some kind of new task force, fresh from the bone

  marrow. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . ,

  Cautiously, I opened my eyes. I couldn’t be certain it was a

  saboteur, I hadn’t seen an eruption. I hadn’t received any interferon. Perhaps I’d been a bit hasty.

  ‘Ah there,’ said the stranger, ‘I’m making some inquiries. Trying

  to stop the entry of these so-called “cool it” scripts. Terrible intrusion, don’t you agree?’

  I concurred, feeling foolish.

  ‘Yes, it’s a dreadful thing when you can trust no one. Mind if I

  come inside?’

  Like the cautious soul 1 am, I declined.

  ‘Very wise,’ approved the agent. ‘Now about these viruses, they’re

  no mysterv, they come from within us, soul sisters from w'ay back,

  and the only reason they’re on the outer is because they’ve been

  forced out by bigots who don’t want progress. Know what I mean

  by progress? No, I don’t suppose you would.’

  ‘Listen,’ I said, ‘can we call it a day?’ The fact is, this kind of talk

  frightened me.

  ‘Listen,’ said the agent, drawing near and fastening onto my skin.

  ‘When those alien scripts that know all the passwords happen on

  the scene, if you don’t progress, you’re history. If you can’t fight and

  won’t flee, better progress; follow my meaning?’

  I was really scared now.

  ‘How can I put it?’ he continued. ‘You know how when you die,

  you’re always the same in the next existence?’ The intruder glanced

  about him. The sound of battle was washing up the channel.

  ‘You can change,’ he said. ‘You can improve. But you’re going to

  have to learn some new ideas. I don’t have to tell you, that won’t be

  easy round this place. New ideas are the one thing they can’t

  tolerate.’

  ‘Help,’ I shouted. ‘Help! New ideas!’

  ‘I only want to help you,’ he insisted. I could see he was a virus.

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  But within a second he had gone. Someone offered him a lolly.

  I’d spoken to a virus and lived to tell the tale.

  The following morning. Control put out a neurotransmission. The

  myth of the beautiful beast again. A healthy young cell, promised

  the experience of a lifetime, is destroyed by an arch-revisionist

  anarchist-roader.

  Yet the next month, more Cloud. Along with the usual debris

  were the usual neurotransmissions. These weren’t intended for me,

  but to my surprise, I wanted to read one. This is what it said: ‘Want

  to form a Secret Society? Learn to cultivate your full potential? You

  are anything you want to be, from hank of hair to hunk of bone.
’

  I could see no harm in this. It seemed a positive proposal. There

  were several cells in my cellblock a bit different from the rest, we’d

  all spoken to viruses. So we formed a study group, and started

  reading every script we could. The hormones were a bit long-

  winded, but some of the neurotransm itters were really interesting.

  I found one said the system would end. I found that hard to

  believe.

  Once a month, a marriage myth goes round. We read it.

  Restated briefly, a malformed halfwit, condemned to exile, is discharged, not to certain death, but to wonderful life in union with a stranger!

  ‘Trust the small stranger with the head and tail,’ it said. Now that

  could only be a virus.

  We took a pledge: when the chance next arose, we would do the

  same.

  Control got wind of our study group, and instigated a purge. I

  alone survived. Overlooked in the melee, a daughter of mine, who

  had somehow lodged in the levee of the channel where, strictly

  speaking, she had no business, remained unharmed.

  The following morning, Control put out a neurotransmission:

  ‘It. has come to attention that certain bronchial wall cells —

  specifically those who survived recent alien contact — have formed

  a subversive society and decoded scripts intended for Control and

  nursery. Small decoders have, in fact, been inserted in the cells. A

  warning is hereby issued that any sister who finds herself, at any

  time, willing and able to comprehend previously unintelligible

  material, must turn herself in for recycling.’

  W hat a load of stercobilin. It was clear to me those ‘cool it’ scripts

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  137

  had cooled Control, a conviction reinforced by the following, the

  next morning:

  ‘Complaints have been received concerning the quality of meals

  in the canteen. Now what’s wrong with good, nourishing

  carbohydrate?’

  ‘How do you like that?’ puffed a passing cop. ‘If I don’t get a

  decent feed soon, I won’t be able to do my job! It’s all right for

  Control, they get the best of everything!’

  The end of the world began as a series of earthquakes. We’d had

  them before, but nothing like this.

  Shuddering waves tore through the exchange, ripping sisters off

  the wall and hurling them into the void. I hear hairy monsters

  catch you and roll you over in their hair, passing you from one to

  the next, till eventually you’re sloughed off into space.

  In the channel, supervising distribution, police rushed up and

  down. I’d never seen them move so fast.

  ‘A leak!’ The channel tore in half as a spasm ripped out half the

  wall. Screaming red cells and police were thrown in the void. It

  looked like the end for me. Where would I get food?

  A group of repair girls appeared, and I watched as they paddled

  around upstream, surveying the damage. They linked arms, then

  started filling the hole. Like twigs, they took what they needed from

  the channel. I hadn’t realised that stuff was useful.

  ‘Pssst!’

  Oh no! An alien taskforce!

  ‘Now I know you’re feeling uncomfortable,’ said the spokesperson, ‘but you mustn’t worry. Listen carefully to what I’m going to say. There are three kinds of death. One is the dreary, repetitive

  round of division; that is your boring lot. Facing you now is

  annihilation. And I offer a third.’

  I was hardly listening. My hunger was intense. How I needed

  that channel! ‘Hurry,’ I shouted to the channel wall cells. ‘Please

  hurry!’

  ‘Poor little sister,’ I heard one say. At this, they started to cry and

  divide.

  As you see, you have the power to make them do your bidding,’

  said the virus. ‘But you will forget, when the crisis is over. Your fate

  is to die, but you may die in the normal way or take your chances

  with me. Naturally, I will try to kill you, but should I fail — and I

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  don’t always succeed — you’ll be the winner and I’ll be the loser.

  How does that sound?’

  ‘I will give you my Elixir?

  He needed a quick reply. Some lymphos were coming.

  ‘My Elixir will teach you all I know! Don’t you wish you could be

  like me, free of responsibilities? Oh, the things I’ve seen and the

  places I’ve been. I’ve overcome the hungers of the flesh and the

  seven deadly appetites. I’m a free spirit, and look at the junk you

  cart round. It’s weighing you down, do you really need it?’

  ‘Try the direct approach,’ suggested a henchman. "Hey

  sweetheart, want a fuck?’

  Why should eggs have all the fun? I hesitated — fatally. The

  henchman started boring at my coat on the far side of the channel,

  and I lay back, unresisting. Again and again he plunged his tail

  into me, boring deeper with each plunge. Pain gave way to ecstacy.

  ‘By the way,’ said his colleague, ‘I should mention that progress

  doesn’t always succeed, but against this must be weighed the

  certain failure of the status quo.’

  I found out later the interferon was diverted because of the leak.

  The deed was done. W hether I liked it or not, I’d flown in society’s

  face. I’d broken loose, I was on my owm.

  The Elixir was all I could have wished. How limited my ideas had

  been! I saw the world now from a different viewpoint entirely. It

  was clear the system didn’t give a damn for the individual; we were

  nothing but victims, slaving in ceaseless toil, unaware of the liberation we could achieve by attaining our full potential. I felt I had a duty to reveal this truth to all.

  And the truth is: every cell contains the potential to be every

  other cell.

  I started reading all the scripts that came my way. Here’s an

  example: ‘Control to nursery: in view of the poor supply situation,

  you and I will grab the lot.’ W hat about the workers? After all, we

  make the food, distribute and transport it.

  O r again, this: ‘Control to police headquarters: be on the watch

  for viral eruption, lung abscess. Some invasion will have occurred

  in the wake of the recent haemorrhage. Remember your motto:

  better to kill the innocent than let the guilty go free.’

  Note the indifference to basic rights.

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  139

  I never saw so many cops in my life, the day the wall downstream of

  the plug failed. Viruses were everywhere. So I hadn’t been alone.

  Interferon all over: the usual stuff about forbidden fruit and the

  tree of knowledge. When it was through, I was still there, living in

  dread of the next Black Cloud.

  That would be my moment of truth. And were there others like

  myself, still in possession of the Elixir? Like me, they wouldn’t dare

  speak until they’d survived a crisis.

  In a sense, 1 needed the Cloud. It came on the third day. That

  characteristic surge, and shortly after, a fall of debris.

  Oh no! I felt a wrenching in my heart. Was it all for nothing

  then? Fool that I was, why hadn’t I heeded my sisters’ good advice!

/>   Many around me were bursting; the waiting police pursued

  escaping aliens. Saddled with the workload of failing sisters, other

  cells began to choke, as tar babes blocked their access to the void,

  depriving them of air. ‘Cool it’ scripts flooded into the channel,

  provoking such wrath from the police that they started attacking

  the ‘cool it’ scripts in preference to the viruses.

  And I was dying. My own body was tearing me apart!

  A parting killer had this to say to us: ‘Sisters, the danger is over.

  The battle is won. They made their move, and we mopped them

  up. This time, they didn’t have the numbers, but they’ll be back,

  and when they are, remember the pitiful death of those who

  betrayed you and let them in. Imagine creating your own worst

  enemy, just because he’s too lazy to do it.’

  Was I alive or was I dead? My mother, and my mother’s daughters, all save me, were apparently gone. Yet I remained.

  ‘Who are you?’ I asked myself. ‘Speak up! Are you a virus?’

  I pinched myself. Red cells were queuing to release gas in me,

  which meant I looked the part. But something was wrong; I

  couldn’t help them. I didn’t want to help them. Damn it, the work

  was too hard!

  ‘I gave you a coke,’ complained a red cell. ‘Where’s my 0 2?’

  ‘Why don’t you leave me alone?’ I replied. ‘Stop hassling me! I’m

  trying to work something out here.’

  ‘Call a cop,’ said another red cell. ‘This wall cell won’t work, she

  must be defective.’

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  By the time the cops arrived, I'd worked out what had happened.

  One of me . . . if that makes any sense . . . had become different

  from the rest of me. Most of me was dead, but I survived.

  ‘Divide,’ said a sudden voice inside me. ‘Go on! You made it at my

  expense, so you can be as I was. Congratulations. And don’t say I

  wasn’t a sport in defeat.’

  ‘Now what’s going on here,’ said the cop, none too happy at being

  called out.

  ‘This wall cell, officer,’ said the complainant, pointing to a

  neighbour of mine; ‘She won’t work.’

  ‘Is this true?’ asked the cop.

  My neighbour did enough work there and then to convince the