A Calculated Life

by Anne Charnock

  Having changed into her pajamas, newly laundered, Jayna performed her bedtime rituals. At her small sink, she washed her face, cleaned her teeth, applied face cream, and brushed her hair, all with standard issue kit, all on automatic. The Nicole incident in Birmingham was eating at her and, while her thoughts ricocheted, her background processing on the latest regional crime statistics flagged up a data snippet within the restricted files. I could leave it for now. It can easily wait till tomorrow…Maybe unwise; that westerly wind…I need to tighten up.

  And so, she focused on a spike in public affray incidents. Jayna held the sides of the sink with both hands and leaned forward as she considered the implications. She knew the authorities ignored a significant level of riot within the organic community out in the enclaves. But the latest figures included five GBH cases committed by organics on their bionic superiors. No such cases in the past nine months. With the back of her hand she brushed a stray hair from the basin edge. She’d seen no media reports; suppressed? If she could clarify the situation, find any indicators…She smacked her hand hard against the basin. She should have detected something awry before now. There was always a telltale within the historical data and she’d been trawling for months. It must be there. Why hadn’t she seen anything?

  The room was now in darkness and she banged her sore knee as she fumbled her way into bed. Lying on her side, she stroked the fresh sheets with the inside of her foot. This small act always soothed her but tonight the ritual’s potency failed.

  When eventually she did fall into sleep, the day’s events crowded her dreams in bizarre juxtapositions. Benjamin and Hester were dining with her in the rest station discussing their tax returns, Hester arguing she shouldn’t have to pay a brass farthing. She kept repeating, “Not a single brass farthing.” Tom carried a tray loaded with mugs of steaming tea and tried desperately to persuade everyone they weren’t poisoned. He was pathetic: “I made them myself.” Then, her stick insects gave birth, somehow, to male nymphs and she fed them honey. Most bizarre of all, Jayna soaped herself in the communal shower with Dave from Archives. At which point, daybreak was announced, not by birdsong but by the clumsy removal of recycling units from below her second floor window.

  Her dreamworld sloughed away and a name, wrapped around an invisible ball—it bounced, bounced, bounced through her mind. Taniyama…Yutaka Taniyama. She stretched and smiled. Yes, he made plenty of mistakes.

  CHAPTER 5

  Jayna squinted against the piercing sunlight as she emerged from the side entrance of C7. Turning right, and then left, would take her along the shortest route to Mayhew McCline. She stepped down to the pavement and stopped. She looked up and down the street. What would Taniyama do? Tilting her face to the sky, she summoned back the words she’d recalled while stirring from sleep that morning: He was gifted with the special capability of making many mistakes, mostly in the right direction. The soles of her feet tingled. Yutaka Taniyama’s collaborator Goro Shimura had written these words of high praise thirty years after Taniyama’s suicide, in an article, “Very Personal Recollections,” published in the Bulletin of the London Mathematical Society.

  Poor Shimura, thought Jayna. No matter how hard he’d tried, he had failed to emulate his friend’s intuitive daring. Shimura admitted he was, by nature, simply too methodical.

  The Taniyama–Shimura Conjecture: a mid-twentieth century discovery—too fantastical to be taken seriously at first—that modular forms and elliptical curves were one and the same thing. This conjecture opened the possibility that all mathematical realms are related. When Andrew Wiles extended their conjecture he was able to prove Pierre de Fermat’s Last Theorem and in doing so made headline news around the world. Here was a theorem that mathematicians had failed to prove for 358 years and yet it underpinned many areas of number theory.

  She turned left and left again, heading north. She strode, long and languid, across the veldt. There’s nothing wrong with making mistakes—Taniyama proved the point—as long as one’s intuition is sound. That’s where I fall down. That’s my problem. My world is too small. My experiences…too few, too repetitive. I must search out the extremities, meet the unexpected…feel the true texture of life. And as she negotiated her less-than-direct route to work, she formulated the basis of her plan:

  An Experiment: To introduce random activity into daily routines, forcing a shift into uncharted territory and new experiences.

  Her actions in the shower were a perfect example. She had to take risks, just as Jon-Jo would. Don’t think of the consequences, she instructed herself. Act!

  Jayna already felt disorientated. A new road, fewer vehicles, more pedestrians, different sounds, a side street lined with cherry trees. She touched the pole of a metro stop, just a red dot on a map before today. And new faces. If she took a different route each day, would she eventually register all the people who worked in this commercial district? She cast her thoughts to demographics: the size of the working population, modes of transport, working hours. A 90 per cent probability of encountering 35 per cent of the district’s workforce over a twelve-month period. As a hunch.

  A huddle of pedestrians was forming up ahead at a crossroad; no one willing to dodge through the traffic. Jayna hung back from the patient crowd and looked into a corner antiques shop. Why, she wondered, did people want to own these things? Not for their utility. She wrinkled her nose at the clashing display of chairs, lace, jewelry, ceramics. An attempt to grasp rarity? Or a search for original forms, a search for the beginnings of things? Now that she found intriguing, something she could appreciate. She turned away from the shop front and smiled. A new line of research—sales at auction rooms, guide prices—purely because she’d changed her routine, taken a new route to work. A little tame, but a start.

  As she crossed the junction, however, she sensed at the back of her mind something shouting for attention from her wildcat research—smell, taste, and olfactory signaling. She raised its status.

  “Hi Jayna,” said Dave. “You’re into pigeons, too.”

  “I usually feed them on a Monday after work but I’ve changed my routine.”

  “Technically, they’re pests.”

  “Who decides that, I wonder?” she said, almost to herself. She saw his quizzical look.

  Undaunted, he said, “You’re quite the animal lover, aren’t you?”

  “Pigeons are not animals. They’re birds.”

  “I know that. It’s just a figure of speech. I’m not totally stupid, you know.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’m being pedantic. It’s a common fault in…”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  She tore another strip of crust from her sandwich. “You’ll regret that at lunchtime,” said Dave. She offered a piece of the crust to him. He took it from her palm and threw it as though throwing a stick for a dog. She laughed, and threw the remaining crumbs.

  “Let’s walk down together,” he said.

  “Come on, then. Let’s not be late.”

  He strode through the pigeons. “My grandfather told me that his father could remember when all these parks were like tiny lungs sprinkled across the city. I liked the idea of that.”

  She didn’t pursue this line of conversation. But it did remind her of the statements she had read in his personnel file:

  David Madoc

  Age: 27

  Status: Organic

  Residence: Enclave W3

  Length of service: 7 years

  Progression: Door greeter, boardroom attendant, archivist assistant

  Potential for advancement: Capped

  The subsidiary notes in his file revealed that his grandfather had been an academic before losing his job for the falsification of expense claims. The slippery slope, she thought.

  “Olivia likes you, doesn’t she?” said Jayna.

  “Well, I’d never have my job in the public sector.”

  “So how did it come about?”

  “I used to get the boardroom ready for big me
etings and I suggested she buy some display books about Jesse Recumbent. I sourced them for her.”

  “That was you? I’ve seen them.”

  “Anyway, soon after, she moved me to Archives. That caused a stink.”

  “What happened?”

  “Hester objected. But you know Olivia, didn’t care what anybody said.”

  They passed a coffee house and she looked back at the office workers queuing to buy their cinnamon specials and pastries. “Smells good, hey?” said Dave. “Beyond me, unless the honey’s selling well.”

  “Beyond my allowance, too. So, tell me, how did you end up keeping bees?”

  “I wanted a better sideline. I used to buy and sell old books, still do now and then. But all along I was angling for the janitor’s job at my flats. Took me three years to get it.” He could see she didn’t follow his drift. “If you get the janitor’s job you get sole access to the roof. All you have to do is clean the stairwell, report any maintenance problems, check and clean the solar collectors.”

  “Does it pay well?”

  “Nothing. The whole point is you get the roof. That’s why people want the job. They use the roof to run a small business, like me and my bees.”

  “But why bees?”

  “My grandmother had beehives before I was born and I always liked her stories about drones and giant swarms. It’s a wonder I slept.”

  “And,” she hesitated, “how far do they fly?” She remembered Hester’s remark.

  “I can’t tag them.” They both laughed. “But they can fly up to six miles from the hive. I think they collect pollen from the shuttle line embankments but they can easily reach the citrus groves. I like to think I’m flying with them.” He flushed.

  “Why would you want to do that?”

  “You should see where I live.”

  “I’d like to.”

  “No, you wouldn’t. Believe me.”

  “I’m serious. I’d like to.”

  “Are you allowed out? What’s the set-up?”

  “Yes, of course I’m allowed out. I just don’t have much free time so I have to plan very carefully.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, if I want to attend events in the Entertainment Quarter, go to the Repertory Domes, I can only go at the weekend because I don’t have time on weekday evenings. Lights out at seven-thirty. I’m asleep by eight.”

  “What? That’s outrageous.”

  “It’s only unusual to you. You remember Frank? He could remain alert until much later. He could keep going until nine.”

  “That’s bad enough. So what about the weekends? What will you do tomorrow?”

  “I spend Saturday and Sunday mornings in my room, just processing. Some of my friends go to their offices but because Mayhew McCline is usually closed I tend to allocate particular tasks for the weekend.”

  “So your weekend afternoons are free?”

  “Yes. I have lunch in our canteen and then I go out. Except this Sunday afternoon. We’re holding a backgammon championship against the neighboring C6 rest station, which should be fun.”

  “Well, you certainly know how to enjoy yourself.”

  She looked towards and beyond him catching their reflection in the lime-tinted windows of New Broadcasting House. Her dream splashed into her mind. “Sarcasm,” she said. “The use of bitter or wounding, especially ironic, remarks. Am I right?”

  “I guess so. But the question is: do you feel offended?”

  “I don’t feel angry. That’s probably outside my repertoire.”

  “Then what?”

  “I think sarcasm is usually intended to demean a rival. Why would you want to do that?”

  “Ah, come on. Don’t take me so seriously. You should reply with an equally sarcastic remark.”

  “Like…? At least, Dave…” She wasn’t sure about this. “At least I have the intellect to play something more challenging than draughts.”

  His facial muscles stitched pain. “A bit fucking close to the bone, Jayna. But good, a good retort.”

  As they entered the Grace Hopper Building, Jayna’s fast-track processing on all-things-olfactory reached a set of conclusions. She turned to Dave. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be brutal. I’ll try better next time.” And she smiled sweetly with her eyes and her mouth.

  She culled the key points:

  The neural systems for smell and taste are separate but the sensations of flavors and aromas often work together. Flavor comes from food molecules that enter the nasal passages.

  What came next was more intriguing:

  The olfactory system is the most primitive sensory system because of its very early development in the evolutionary chain. Unlike the other senses, the olfactory sense has links through a back door to ancient areas of the brain.

  In more detail:

  Olfactory signals follow several pathways to different brain structures in the olfactory cortex, an area that evolved before those cortical areas of the brain associated with consciousness. This olfactory cortex lies at the bottom surface of the brain and has connections to the limbic system (hippocampus, amygdala, and hypothalamus), which is important in emotional states and in memory formation. Odor messages also go to conscious cortical centers, via the thalamus, where identification of the odor takes place. In other words, odor signals trigger emotional responses in the ancient areas of our brain before our conscious cortical areas can identify the smell.

  And, specifically:

  Illness and accidents can result in disorders. Less frequently, the olfactory system is affected by genetic traits. Hyperosmia is a heightened sense of smell. Anosmia is the inability to smell, which can be general or specific to one odor, though sufferers retain some sense of taste.

  At her work array, she refocused and read her latest messages: Hester requested Jayna’s comments on the final draft of Olivia’s forthcoming paper for the Royal Society of Arts, which Jayna herself had ghostwritten. Benjamin wanted her to observe a contracts meeting with their public relations agency and then write a summary with recommendations.

  No problem. Olivia’s RSA paper would slot between her own priorities: find more hydrogen factors, investigate anosmia, and some digging around at the Institute of Forensic Accountancy. Exactly why had Nicole’s time-keeping gone awry? Finding the answer, Jayna realized, would demand invasive maneuvers; serious risk-taking. So, as a precaution, she made a number of downloads on tax evasion prosecutions, which she reckoned would mask her true intentions. Then she searched for a path into the IFA’s internal comms, keeping an eye on the time.

  Eventually she infiltrated the IFA through the Metropolitan Police Department’s Statistics Division. It was circuitous, but with her current access rating she knew she could slip through with little risk of detection. But just as she dipped into IFA’s comms, Benjamin called her to his office.

  “A couple of things, Jayna. You’ve approached Warwick University for progress reports on current research into olfactory disorders. What’s that about?”

  She feigned a bored sigh but her pulse leaped to 135 beats a minute. “It’s going to be very time-consuming, Benjamin, if I have to justify all my lines of investigation.” She decided to lower the pitch of her voice to mask an irregularity.

  “I’m curious. I just want to understand how you work.”

  “The way I work is complex.”

  “Yes, and that’s why you’re here. Indulge me.”

  “Well, it’s an established fact, isn’t it, that diet has a causative link with hypertension and anti-social behavior?”

  “Yes, and now we have urine alerts for dietary—”

  She cut him off. “Not everyone has bathroom detection. Certain types of criminal behavior are on the increase among organics. So I decided to investigate the underlying urges that might cause these people to eat inappropriate foods. Hence, the smell and taste uploads. You see, in most of my investigations I’m propelled by my own curiosity. I make the retrievals instinctively, almost impulsively, once
I have a line of thought.”

  “Hmm…I’m more selective, can’t handle the same volumes of data. I have to be far more strategic.” Benjamin raised his index finger towards his face and kneaded the flesh of his chin. He looked beyond Jayna, lost in private thought.

  “You said you had a couple of things…”

  “Yes.” He stared at her, then remembered. “I considered your request. I’ll let you visit a few people at home. Two conditions.”

  “Okay.”

  “I want you to visit only Mayhew McCline staff.”

  “I don’t really know anyone outside Mayhew McCline.”

  “And I want to restrict this to two visits initially. Then we can review what you’ve gained from the exposure. I suppose you could visit me. I live close to the center.”

  “Yes? When?”

  “Not this weekend. How about next Saturday?”

  “So soon?”

  “Why not? Let’s say two o’clock if that fits your schedule. We’ll have a barbecue.”

  Jayna’s eyes widened. What’s his home like? Will his daughter be there? Is Benjamin a different person away from the office? Does he have a happy family? What will he put on the barbecue? “Oh! Thank you, Benjamin. How kind of you.”

  “Get my address from the personnel files.”

  “I don’t have access,” she said, abruptly.

  “Ask Eloise, then.”

  It was purely a precaution, she thought, as she left Benjamin. She’d only dipped into the personnel files. Not really worth asking permission. She wouldn’t misuse the information. Why would she? Just avoided embarrassments. She’d learned that Craig had taken special leave last year when his marriage disintegrated. She knew that Dave was excluded from implantation and that Eloise had late implantation. And the recruitment files were interesting, too. Tom hadn’t worked more than eighteen months for any employer over the past twelve years. Even with that record, Benjamin had been obliged to offer Tom a massive inducement to join Mayhew McCline.

  Arriving back at her work array, she immediately resumed sifting through two months of IFA interdepartmental communications. She homed in on obvious keywords: Nicole, recall, absence. New keywords then emerged: investigator, Barry, and the surprisingly common double occurrence of sick and bastard.