Sometimes, in the middle of one of these rants, she would defiantly turn off her Field implant, making the people and the traffic disappear from her view, houses become empty shells again and all the shop windows with their cheerful displays turn back into hollow caves:
“I can’t even see you, you know!” she shouted, knowing that the consensuals could nevertheless still see her, for sensors across the city pick up the sights and sounds and textures of everything physical and this becomes the matrix within which the consensual city is built. They had no choice but to see her. “I’m in the real world and I can’t see you at all. That’s how unreal you are. I can turn you off with a flick of a switch.”
But though she might like telling the consensuals they didn’t really exist, their opinion mattered to her desperately and she couldn’t resist turning the implant on again to see what impact she was having. (I’ve never known anyone who turned an implant on and off as often as Clarissa did.) Almost invariably they would all be carefully ignoring her.
It was in these moments, when she had thrown a tantrum and discovered that no one was impressed, that things could get out of control. Once, a month or so before her trip to Piccadilly Circus, she found she could get no one to pay attention to her in the streets outside Walthamstow underground station. Rather than admit defeat, she insisted instead on going right down the stairs, arthritic and unsteady as she was, and waiting on the Southbound platform for a train. The platform emptied around her as the consensuals crowded up to the other end.
And then when the train came in, she promptly tried to step onto it. Of course she fell straight through onto the track, it being a virtual train, part of the Field, which couldn’t bear physical weight, only the notional weight of consensual projections. She broke a small bone in her ankle. It hurt a great deal and she began to hobble up and down calling out for someone to help her up. The rules under which the Field operated meant that the train could not move off with her there. Yet she herself was breaking those rules. To the consternation of the passengers she appeared to them to be wading waist deep through the solid floor of the train, looking up at their averted faces accusingly and haranguing them for their lack of compassion:
“Isn’t there a single soul left in London prepared to help an old woman? Have you all lost your hearts as well as your bodies?”
Broken bones – and physical injuries in general – were completely outside their experience, so they would have had some excuse for not empathising with her plight, but actually they would have liked to help her, if not out of pure altruism, then out of self-interest. For she was holding up the train – not to mention the other trains behind it – and she was distressing everyone. Consensuals, unless they are destitute, are uniformly beautiful and, although they die at last, they don’t age in the way we do. Spit never flies from their mouth. Snot never runs from their noses. Their make-up doesn’t smudge. It must have been truly horrific to see this dreadful wrinkled smeary creature wading up and down among them with its head at knee-height, like some kind of goblin out of a fairy tale. But what could they do? They couldn’t lift Clarissa back onto the platform with their consensual hands and arms, any more than the train could hold her up with its consensual floor.
So someone called the Hub, and the Hub put the word out to us in the physical community that one of our people was in difficulties and did we want to deal with it or should Agents be sent in?
Phone calls went to and fro. The physicals of London are like the members of some old dysfunctional family who have seen right through each other’s limited charms, know every one of each other’s dreary frailties, but who are somehow chained together in misery.
“Bloody Clarissa. Have you heard?”
“Clarissa’s up to her tricks again.”
“Obviously we can’t let Agents in. The real people have to deal with their own.”
“Bloody Clarissa. How dare she put us in this position?”
In the end I was delegated to go up there with Richard Howard to sort it out. We travelled right across London and, since of course we couldn’t use the virtual escalators, climbed slowly and stiffly as Clarissa had done, down the deep concrete staircase into the station. Clarissa was still stuck on the track. She had turned off her implant again, partly out of defiance, partly to avoid being overwhelmed by the agitated consensuals around her. But as a result she had lost the lights that the Field superimposed on the deserted and unlit physical station. For the last hour she had been stumbling around crying and wailing in pitch darkness with nothing for company except rats, and no sound at all except the drip, drip of water from somewhere down the southbound tunnel.
Richard and I had our implants switched on so as to be able to see what we were doing, and so had to endure the cold gaze of the consensuals. They sat in the train watching as we clumsily extracted Clarissa from the floor; they stood on the platform watching as we dusted her down; they craned round on the virtual escalators to watch us half-carry her up the concrete steps.
“Look at those spooks!” someone in the street said, quite loudly, as Richard and I helped Clarissa into Richard’s truck. “Look at the ugly faces on them! Haven’t they got any self-respect?”
And there was a general hum of agreement. As a rule consensuals are scared of us Outsiders and our uncanny powers over the physical world. (Richard in particular is an object of awe, with his immense height, his great mane of white hair, and his tendency to walk contemptuously through virtual walls.) But we couldn’t have looked very scary just then: two breathless old men, flushed and sweaty, helping a batty old woman with an injured foot into an ancient truck.
“Don’t forget my car!” wailed Clarissa.
Somehow we manhandled her invalid car into the back of the truck. God knows why we agreed to take it. We would have been within our rights to say it was too heavy and left it behind. But Clarissa was powerful in some ways. She always had been. However much you might resent it, however much you told yourself that there was no reason at all to comply, it was hard not to do what she asked.
“Don’t expect us to bale you out like this again,” Richard told her as he bandaged her foot up back at her house. “Next time it’ll be Agents.”
None of us is sure what Agents really are, except that they are the servants of the Hub in the physical world. They have no visible faces. Their smooth heads and bodies are covered all over with a costume or skin in a special shade of blue which isn’t picked up by the Field sensors, and is therefore invisible to consensuals. Some of us think they are simply robots of some kind, but others maintain that they are a new kind of physical human being, bred and raised apart from us for the Hub’s own purposes. But, whatever they are, we fear them almost as much as do the consensuals, who only know of them by rumour and can only infer their presence from secondary clues.
“I couldn’t have borne that,” Clarissa murmured, “not Agents coming for me down there in the dark.”
“Well it’s your choice,” Richard told her. “You get yourself in a fix like that again, and that’s all the help you’ll get.”
He had been married to her once, before the days of Terence. Absurd as it now seemed, they had once, briefly, been lovers, enchanted by the sheer fact of one another’s presence in the world. And even now, absurdly, Clarissa attempted to defuse his anger by flirting with him.
“I know I’ve been a silly girl, Richard dearest, but I promise I won’t do it again.”
*
I’m thinking about what I wrote earlier:
‘The rest of us took the position,’ I said, ‘that we didn’t like having to deal with the consensual world, but it was sometimes a necessary evil…’
I’m imagining Clarissa reading that and snorting with derision.
‘Would you prefer it then if there was just us and no consensual world at all?’
Actually that very thing is looking increasingly on the cards.
When the consensual cities were first established as a way of withdrawing huma
n beings from an environment which they were about to destroy, it was decided that these virtual cities would be congruent with the old physical ones. There were three reasons for this. Firstly many people could only be persuaded to accept consensual status on the basis that they would still have access to what they still thought of then as the ‘real world’. Secondly, it was thought important to allow consensuals to continue to be able to interact with those of us who bought an exemption from the dephysicalisation process, by paying the enormous levy and by allowing ourselves to be sterilised. (In those days, after all, physicals and consensuals might be brother and sister, father and son, schoolmates, life-long friends…) And thirdly it was because the processing capacity of the Hub, though huge, was finite and a consensual world based on the physical one was less heavy on the Hub’s resources than a purely invented one.
All three of those considerations have largely ceased to apply. The Hub has grown bigger, the physicals and the consensuals have grown apart and the consensuals have long since lost any sense of the physical world as being the ‘real’ one. So it would now be politically and technically possible for the Hub to decouple the physical city from the consensual one. In some ways this would be much easier than maintaining the status quo with its costly network of sensors.
But I suppose, if I am honest, that when I contemplate the possibility of waking up to a London where the implants no longer work, the consensuals can no longer be encountered and we are left on our own among the ruins, then I don’t welcome it. In fact what I experience is a sense of dread, abandonment, isolation. I suppose I simply rationalise this feeling by saying that we need the consensuals for practical reasons, that their presence is a necessary evil.
*
I think Clarissa’s promise held for all of two days before she was off in her car again. Within a week she was back in Walthamstow, though she avoided the station and didn’t make any scenes. Before the end of the month, she was charging up the battery for a major trip, right into the centre of London. And then she was off again in earnest, bumping and bouncing grimly along the road and stubbornly refusing to think about how far her battery would take her.
As ever she drove with her implant switched off. She saw empty houses, abandoned petrol stations, an empty road, badly damaged by years of frost. But once in a while she stopped for that hit she so constantly craved, that momentary burst of comfort and reassurance that came from switching on her implant and seeing a living city emerging from the silent ruins.
“I’m going down to Piccadilly Circus,” she told the people outside a row of shops in Stoke Newington. “They used to take me there when I was a little girl, to look at the coloured lights.”
The shoppers all turned away.
“I used to love those lights,” she told a man outside a betting shop in Islington, “the way they rippled and flowed. All that electricity! All that lovely colour!”
“Why don’t you go home, spook?” the betting man muttered as he hurried off.
“I expect they still have lights like that now, don’t they?” she asked a young woman in King’s Cross, “Not real ones obviously, but ones for you people to see?”
“Oh yes,” said the young woman, whose name was Lily, “they’re lovely lights in Piccadilly Circus, but they’re quite real you know. They’re not physical or nothing like that.”
Lily was not very bright and was happy to be friendly with anyone. She had a simple round very low-res face that was quite flat and looked like something from a cartoon strip. Consensuals could choose their own appearance and be as pretty and as interesting and as high-resolution as their bank balances would allow, but some consensuals couldn’t afford much in the way of looks – and Lily was very obviously poor. Her eyes were dots, her skin a completely uniform pink, her clothes mere slabs of colour and her smile a simple upward curve of the single line that was her mouth.
“I’m pretty sure they’re not physical anyway,” she said, in her tinny little low-res voice.
And then she realised she had been rude and the smile abruptly inverted itself into a downward curve of regret.
“Oh dear. I didn’t mean to say there was something wrong with being – you know – physical. That came out all wrong.”
“Oh don’t worry. I get that all the time. And you’re the first friendly person I’ve met since I left home.”
Clarissa had opened a flask of coffee and, still sitting in her little car, she poured herself a small cup. It was mid-October, a fresh autumn day getting on towards evening, and she was beginning to feel the cold.
“My father took me to see the lights in Piccadilly Circus when I was a little girl. Apparently when we got there I asked him where the clowns and tigers were. ‘And where are the pretty ladies in tights?’ I wanted to know. He said it wasn’t that kind of circus: ‘Circus just means a circle for the cars to go round.’ I don’t remember that conversation myself, but I do remember standing there with the beautiful electric lights all round me and realising that I didn’t care about the tigers and the pretty ladies. Colours are so magical when you are a child. I looked one way and then the other, but I wanted to see it all at once, so in the end I decided to spin round and round on the spot.”
She lifted the coffee cup to her lips and took a sip.
“I’m Lily,” Lily said helpfully, staring wonderingly at the intricate wrinkles all over Clarissa’s hands, and at the brown liver-spots on them, and the way they trembled all the time so that coffee keep sloshing out down the sides of the cup. If Lily’s low-res looks were short on detail, Clarissa seemed to possess detail in reckless abundance. And yet – and this was the part that puzzled Lily – it was to no apparent decorative purpose. That look must have cost a fortune, Lily thought, but why would anyone choose to look like that?
“I’m Clarissa, my dear. I’m Clarissa Fall,” said the old lady grandly, finishing her coffee and shaking the drips out of the cup before screwing it back onto the top of the flask.
“Do you know the way?” Lily ventured. “Do you know the way to Piccadilly Circus?”
“I should think so,” Clarissa snorted. “I’m over two hundred years old and I’ve lived in London since I was born. I’m the last physical person left in London, you know.”
She looked at her watch. She craved company and attention and yet when she actually had it, she was always curiously impatient and off-hand.
“Oh. Two hundred,” repeated Lily humbly. “That’s quite old. Only otherwise I was going to suggest I could come and show you the way…”
“Yes, do come by all means,” said Clarissa magnanimously.
The laws of the physical universe prevented physical people from riding on virtual vehicles, but there was nothing in the rules of the Field to prevent virtual people from riding a physical car. The only difficulty was that the invalid car was only designed for one, so Lily had to ride at the back on the little rack intended to carry bags of shopping.
“I don’t mind,” said Lily, who couldn’t afford dignity. “It’s not that far.”
“I’ll have to turn my implant off, I’m afraid,” Clarissa told her, “so I can see the bumps on the road. You won’t be able to talk to me until we’re there.”
“I don’t mind,” said Lily gamely. She had no idea what Clarissa meant, but she had long since accepted that life was largely incomprehensible.
Clarissa turned the key to start the car. As she did so she noticed the meter that showed the remaining charge in the battery. When she set out, the needle had pointed to ‘Fully Charged’, but now it was on the edge of the red area marked ‘Warning! Very Low!’ She allowed herself for a single moment to see the trouble she was in – and to feel fear – and then she pushed it firmly from her conscious mind.
*
Clarissa drove slowly down Tottenham Court Road. The shop buildings were dark and empty, their windows blank, or sometimes broken and full of dead leaves. The roads were bare and strewn with rubble. Apart from the whine of her electric car and the click
of stones thrown up by its rubber wheels, there was utter silence.
But Lily saw windows full of goods for sale, cars and buses all around them, and people everywhere.
“Nearly there!” she called out cheerfully, still not fully grasping that Clarissa with her implant inactivated couldn’t hear her or sense her presence in any way. Then she gave a little shriek as Clarissa nonchalantly swerved across the road directly into the path of oncoming traffic and carried on down the wrong side of the road, magnificently indifferent to honking horns and shouts of indignation.
“She’s physical,” Lily called out by way of explanation from her perch on the back of Clarissa’s little car. “She’s just physical.”
Half-way along Shaftesbury Avenue, the battery gave out and the car died.
And now Clarissa was scared. It was getting towards evening; it was turning very cold; and she was an elderly woman with an injured foot in the middle of a ruined city. She had nowhere to stay, nothing to eat or drink, and no means of getting home.
But Clarissa was good at pushing things out of her mind.
“It’s not far,” she muttered, referring not to the fake chateau, her distant home, but to Piccadilly Circus which still lay ahead. Piccadilly Circus offered no warmth, no nourishment, no resolution at all of her difficulties, but all of that was beside the point. “I’ll just have to walk,” she said. “It’s absurd to come this far and not get to see it.”
She dismounted from her car and began, painfully, to limp the last couple of hundred metres, but then she remembered Lily and stopped.
“I’M GOING TO WALK THE LAST BIT!” she bellowed back, assuming correctly that Lily was trailing behind her, but erroneously that Lily’s invisibility made her deaf. “I CAN’T SEE YOU because MY IMPLANT’S TURNED OFF and I don’t want to turn it on again until I get there, or it will SPOIL THE EFFECT.”
She had it all planned out. She would not turn on her implant until she was right in the middle of the Circus.
Turing Test Page 14
