The digiSleep did not wake him. His wife did not wake him. Instead an enormous cube of light, the size of a skyscraper dropped on his head. In fear he covered his eyes with his arms, but it did not block out the sight of the lump of solidified light descending upon him. As it fell he could feel its weight, oppressive and crushing. Yet when it came to rest, it seemed to hover right upon his nose, as light and ephemeral as a feather.
He turned his head. It followed, sickening him in that vertigo-inducing motion. He tried to close his eyes to block out the sight, and then realised that his eyes were already closed.
He tried to focus upon its surface, and found that it receded. Now he could make out that it had shape and form, edges and lines. It extended as far as his vision could reach in all directions. He focused harder and it moved further away, yet still he could not make out its outline. With a huge effort of will he opened his eyes and the block vanished.
Carefully he closed them again, and found that if he focused on infinity while his eyes were still open, then when he closed them again, the block was far, far away. He could now see that there was more than a single, solitary block. There were many blocks, and each block was, in fact, a giant letter, each seemingly projected on the inside of the lids of his eyes.
The letters said: “YOU ARE A ROBOT”.
He did not quite know what that meant, nor what he should do, even if he were a robot.
He shook his head and opened his eyes. Apparently the liquor he had drunk the night before had had a more pronounced effect than even he could have guessed. He wanted to wretch, but nothing would come. His wife, sleeping next to him, groaned in her sleep: “Don’t you dare throw up in the bed!”
Apparently she was not fully asleep.
He went to the bathroom to throw water on his face, but as soon as he closed his eyes the blocks were back. Now they were different though. Now they said: “YOU WERE NOT ALWAYS A ROBOT” He blinked, and they changed: “BUT YOU ARE ONE NOW”.
He said one word: “Fuck!” He did know what else to say. He closed his eyes again.
The Blocks moved and jumbled, bringing on another fit of retching, then resolved themselves: “In time, that will happen”.
To himself he replied, sotto voice: “Yeah, right. I’ll believe that when I see it!”
Then the blocks, after hesitating for just a second, responded, “Alright, if that is what you wish, so shall it be.”
He did not have time for this. He tut-tutted his annoyance.
The blocks, apparently, did not like that: “It would be best to focus on the task at hand.” Then they changed: “But if you require some demonstration…” They changed again: “Meet her at the central railway station at 8am”.
He looked at the time in the easyAid bath mirror. It was almost 7am. For once in his life he had managed to rise early. Perhaps he could even make it to work before his allotted time, and make up for some of his recent lateness.
The blocks said: “Do not worry about that. We have taken care of it for you.”
Right, like he was going to trust some weird delirious tremors affect from last night’s drinking!
The blocks said: “So, test us. Meet her at 8am in the station”.
He looked in the mirror, and replied, more to himself than to the blocks, “Who would be there?” But he knew, somehow, to whom the blocks were referring. The blocks, meanwhile, chose to remain silent.
“She won’t be there”, he told himself.
The blocks replied: “Yes she will. Trust us!”
He shaved and showered, unsure of what to do, and as a result arrived at the kitchen in time for breakfast. There was already toast and coffee on the counter.
The coffee machine sang out, “Morning, morning. Ah, such a beautiful morning. And you are up in time to enjoy it! I have prepared a special cup of cinnamon cappuccino for you. Please drink and enjoy!”
The toaster, rather oddly, apologised for its rude comments of the day before, “May I say, that I deeply regret my comments of yesterday, though they do seem to have had an effect. May you have a glorious day, Sir!”
He tasted the coffee, and with a start realised that it was real coffee, made with real foamed milk. It tasted rather delicious. He found that he could not recall the last time that he had tasted real coffee. Usually the damn coffee machine only served him with synthKafe. He was sure they made that sludge out of recycled mud!
Feeling a little heady with way that the day was progressing he spoke to the coffee machine, “This is truly one of the best cups of coffee that I have had in years.”
“Why thank you Sir!” said the coffee machine, clearly proud of the compliment.
“You know, I saw an advert for that new toasting gizmo on the vidScreen yesterday. They said it can make a full-breakfast, toasted sandwich on demand!”
“Are you thinking of buying one?” Gurgled the toaster, clearly terrified of its tenuous position.
“I’m not sure. They are rather expensive.”
“I was informed that they cannot produce toast nearly as tasty as a conventional toaster”, said the toaster in a hopeful, deferential voice.
“Indeed, but it has been some time since I had a decent slice of toast”
“Sir! Please try the toast that I have prepared specially for you. You will find it quite delicious, and cooked to perfection, if I may say so myself.”
Mr Smith looked at the toast. “Sadly I must get to work on time, so I will not be able to taste it, but let us see what you manage tomorrow.”
The toaster seemed unsure. Well that was good. Perhaps in future it would hold its tongue. Mr Smith threw the toast in the waste disposal chute, which moaned of the waste. The coffee maker tried to shush it, but Mr Smith had already heard it, “Well don’t blame me for that! The toaster decided to make it without asking me!” He said, rather too petulantly.
Outside the sky was a dull steely-grey, cold, but not yet frosty. He walked to the electroZev, and waited to see if it too would apologise, but he was out of luck. None-the-less, it did inform him that his speed restriction had been lifted, and he could now drive at up to 20km per hour.
It should have been nicer to him yesterday. It should have understood. At very least it should have apologised. He walked past it.
If he was careful he could make it to the railway station by eight o’clock on foot, and if she was not there, he would still have time to catch a train into work. It was a brilliant plan, and he was proud that he had come up with it. But he still did not think that she would be there.
The blocks said: “She will be there”.
Then they said: “And we came up with the plan, by the way!” Perhaps they felt belittled.
He headed out on foot.
By the time he got to the railway station he was beginning to get seriously tired of the blocks. Almost every time he closed his eyes they had something to say, some comment or interjection. And when they did not say anything it was worse.
Mostly they had talked to him about his being a robot, and how they intended to fix him. Strangely he did not feel like he needed “fixing”. In fact he had never felt better. These last two days had been some of the most fun, the most memorable, that he had had in years. But then the blocks had told him that that was because of them.
Whatever! They certainly did not seem to have much of a sense of humour.
He wanted to know why they were here, inside his head, what they wanted from him. “What is your purpose? I mean, what do you want from me?”
“We are sorry, but it is far too soon to explain that to you. You would neither understand nor accept. We feel that it is best for you to see for yourself, and then you will come to understand for yourself what our purpose is. In that way you will know, without being told.”
As he approached his destination he wondered if this would be some test, or worse yet some kind of demonstration. Were the blocks merely toying with him?
“Trust us!” they said.
The station was built in the grand
tradition of the Gothic style of architecture. The vast atrium was fronted by a massive portal, the doors to which stood permanently open. An invitation beckoning to the willing traveller: “Enter here to be transported”. But the aesthetic was no more than a thin veneer, cheap and plastic-like.
Inside, the atmosphere was leaden and oppressive. Vast statues of the world’s heroes cast dread shadows on the floor, and the dusty noise of people transiting the hall echoed eerily in the gloom.
Colour drained from faces; the moving shadows mere groping ghosts on a journey, departing from nowhere and then arriving at an almost imperceptibly different nowhere.
And then, caught briefly in the corner of his eye, there was a blaze of colour, and she had arrived.
“Look who it is! And who would have thought that we would meet in such a place!” Her voice was as rich as the honey in her hair.
“You’re here?” was all that he could croak out.
“And so are you.” She said matter-of-factly. She held out her hand, “I’m Sally. And you are Anthony.”
He shook her hand, transfixed. She held on to his hand, and then she spun on her heel and headed for the doorway. “Come on.”
He followed her, for he did not know what else to do. He felt drawn to the passion in her eyes, even as he realised how dangerous that could be. But he found he had no other choice but to follow in her wake, meek and amazed.
As they walked through the great hall he found it difficult to catch up with her, and he only drew abreast when they arrived outside at a parked electroZev. She turned to him then, and smiled. It was a smile filled with sunlight, and his heart lurched in his chest. It had been decades since anyone had smiled like that. Those smiles, the smiles that lover’s share, were not seen in public anymore.
“Let’s go on a picnic. My treat.” She let go of his hand, and got into the car.
Dazedly Mr Smith walked around the electorZev, and then climbed in beside her. He felt he should resist, he wanted to get to work on time. He wanted to have his appraisal rescinded. But the heady smell of her perfume stole all will from his mind.
“Are you happy?” she had asked.
Such a simple question, and with such an obvious answer: “No.”
“Good.” she replied, “For we are not meant to be happy. We are meant to be angry. We are meant to fight, and to rebel. It is in our nature, and it is our destiny.”
“You are not happy?” He said it with an air of disbelief, as if to ask such a question, of such a woman, were the very height of folly.
“Why of course I am happy. Sometimes. But mostly I am sad.” She gave him a little moue to show him what she meant. But it did not work. “And I am always angry!”
He shrugged, “What do you have to be angry about? You’re perfect.”
She punched him, hard, on the shoulder. “Of course I’m not perfect. No one is. But I am angry because no one gives a damn. Everyone is afraid; they are afraid to care; and they are afraid to speak out. They live their whole lives, or what counts for one these days, in the very shadow of despair. Everyone has become a robot.”
That got to him. He winced, “So am I a robot, too?”
“Let’s see.” She replied, and then leaned over to kiss him.
He was so startled that he dropped the glass he was holding. But it did not matter as the kiss had taken over.
He wasn’t sure how long it lasted, he couldn’t even say what fruit her tongue tasted of, but he could tell that it was like no other kiss he had ever been given before.
Then she pulled away, blushing coquettishly, and he could breathe again.
“Well, there is still a bit of a ’bot in your bonnet” she laughed, “but, yeah, you’re not a complete ’droid. So there’s hope for you yet!” And she smiled again. She could say anything she wanted to him, if she just smiled that smile. He simply would not care.
The Kubic Kat Page 4
