As she tended her stick insects, she came to a decision. Marking her body was altogether too reckless. Safer, instead, to carry a secret about her person, conceal something in a pocket or wear something under her standard-issue attire. If discovered it would be easier to explain away.
She knelt alongside her bed and sprayed water through the netted wall of the cage. Then she turned and looked up to the top of the wardrobe. Good idea. She lifted down both the handbook and the small package atop. She scanned the lines of type on the stick insect’s paper shroud and with a pen she circled three “m”s, two “e”s, two “o”s, one “n,” one “t,” one “r” and one “i.” She took her jacket from the wardrobe, slipped the shroud into the inside pocket and murmured: “Memento mori.”
The canteen assistant winked at her but breakfast was otherwise the usual perfunctory weekday affair: porridge, toast, and tea. She ate hastily as she formulated a list of requests for specific backup data on her hydrogen research. She looked around at her friends—no one in conversation. No doubt they were foregrounding their own duties to their licensors. By the time they reached their offices they would be super-crunching at a phenomenal rate; the speed was beyond the grasp of their employers. Remarkable. If their bosses truly appreciated these processing powers they might have reservations. Strange that no one asked how they deployed their spare capacity; they should.
Breakfast over, she rushed her tray to the clearing hatch and, surprising herself, she belched.
With a heavy day ahead, Jayna reverted to her normal short route to the office. As she turned on to Granby Row she noticed a feather dancing along the pavement, a white feather from the underbelly of a pigeon, most likely. It was carried this way and that at the whim of the local air movements—an amalgamation of the prevailing winds with super-impositions from swirling local eddies caused by people and vehicles traversing the now-busy street. By some eerie coincidence, the feather caught a more violent burst of energy and Jayna reached out her hand and caught it at chest height. She felt giggly, scatty. Smiling, she slipped the feather into her breast pocket alongside the paper sarcophagus.
A collection. But a collection of what? A random gathering of ephemera, things that touched her life briefly in some obscure way. She sidestepped two men walking towards her, shoulder-to-shoulder, oblivious, deep in animated exchanges. Should my collection relate to living things—animals, birds, insects? Difficult to decide when I only have two things. If I really wanted to be a major-league obsessive I know what I’d collect—she dodged another pedestrian—I’d collect coffee paraphernalia. And I’d mix odd cups and saucers like…No, I don’t want to think about Dave just yet…They could all be white, or off-white, with chips and cracks, which could be fascinating in themselves. I could make still lifes…bring out minor differences in shape and curvature. But maybe I should rely on instinct and chance; it’s working well so far.
One of those awkward commuter moments occurred. Jayna heard clackety heels gaining ground. It was too intimate for strangers to walk side-by-side. Should she slow down, let the woman pass, or maintain her pace…make the woman walk faster? Judging by the rapid approach, she was intent on passing. Over several steps, the woman started to draw alongside but Jayna held her pace. On the verge of losing her conviction, she felt tight grips on both her arms. In seconds she was at the end of an alley, pushed and shoved to the dark back corner behind a black shiny car. She couldn’t see who it was, but then: “I want to speak to you.” Jayna knew the voice. Yanked around, pushed back, and winded against the brick wall, she gasped, “Ingrid, what—?”
“You’ve no idea, have you? Stupid cow.”
“Please, Ingrid, you’re hurting.”
“I’m telling you, shut it! I’ve never been so…humiliated.” Her face was hideous. Ingrid tried to shake Jayna but she wasn’t big enough. “I had to go home and tell my family. I had to tell them I’d been replaced by a fucking…clone.”
Jayna’s jaw dropped. “I’m not a clone, and it wasn’t like that.” She could smell coconut hair.
Ingrid grabbed Jayna in the crook of her arm and ground her elbow into a brick edge. “Oh? Well, what was it like then, Jayna? Enlighten me, please.”
She couldn’t bear to look at Ingrid; she spoke to the side wall. “Benjamin took out a contract. I turned up for work. I didn’t know you’d be made redundant.”
“Well, that’s exactly what did happen.”
“Ingrid, there wasn’t enough work.”
She grabbed two handfuls of Jayna’s hair and shoved her back against the wall. “You were fucking piling through everything. And I’d had a bad quarter, that’s all. Just one bad quarter.”
“I’m sorry. But if you hadn’t been so mad at Benjamin you’d have got your job back. Tom Blenkinsop—”
“I know about Tom Blenkinsop. What a prize bastard!” She pressed her palms to her temples. “Always taking credit for other people’s ideas…my ideas.” And just as Ingrid turned to retreat she swung back and landed her small fist into Jayna’s belly. Low and dirty. She doubled over. Ingrid clutched her wrist. “Christ! Look what you made me do.” And she left the alley.
Mid-morning, Hester walked over to Jayna and as she opened her mouth to speak she hesitated. “You look pale.” But immediately pressed on: “I hear you’re on to something. Eloise says you’re seeing Benjamin this morning. Well, we always score brownie points for energy intelligence.”
Jayna ignored the first remark. “It’s taken some ferreting out.”
“By fair means or foul?” Jayna attempted a smile but made no reply. “As long as the report stands up. We may need to release it as an Energy Confidential—fewer takers but a much higher fee. Copy me in on progress.”
The pain from Ingrid’s punch had given way to soreness and a hard ache. Jayna had taken ten minutes in the alleyway to recover. Setting out towards Mayhew McCline, leaving vomit on the polished wheels of the parked car, she’d struggled to keep pace with the other walking commuters. And, entering the cavernous lobby of the Grace Hopper Building for the one-hundred-and-thirty-sixth time, she’d refused the doorman’s greeting and ignored Eloise on entering the elevator. As though smoothing the line of her garment, Jayna had slowly brushed her right hand from her left shoulder downwards across the slight stiffness of the paper shroud in her inside breast pocket. That’s when she decided. She would not report the incident. A mugging, for heaven’s sake. There would be so much fuss; they would watch her too closely. And she also decided on a new level of risk-taking:
An Experiment: (As Dave might put it) To fucking show them all.
Hester busied around the office all morning, almost hyperactively. Jayna followed her movements. It was so obvious; Hester was excited about the energy report, thinking how to spend her bonus already. Maybe planning a little flutter before the report’s release. I’d do the same if I had the money and I’d make a better job of it than Hester ever could.
As if trying to conceal her thoughts, she left her array and slipped into the washroom. Locking the end cubicle door, she stared at the gridded tiles lining the external wall and visualized a spreadsheet. She knew Taniyama would disapprove…She stroked a row of tiles above her eye level. If she delayed submitting her draft energy report to Benjamin…until the end of play on Thursday…that would give her four days. First task—with her left forefinger she stroked a column of tiles on the far left—she’d need a series of aliases either invented or hijacked; homework needed on that. Then she’d set up the bank accounts—she ran her finger down the next column of tiles. Raid a few medium-sized corporate deposits—stroking the next column—steering clear of any company with a resident simulant. And she’d make a string of share purchases—stroking another column—all under the false names.
I’ll have my investments in place before my draft report is even seen by Benjamin, and well before the final Energy Investment Strategy is released to the outside world.
Hands on hips. A little background research would be handy:
bank security reviews, identity fraud, media reports on insider trading together with case notes from the Metropolitan Police Department. No need to re-invent the wheel.
She unlocked the cubicle door, hesitated, and relocked it. She took the spare roll of toilet paper, pushed it as far as she could into the toilet U-bend, flushed, and dashed out.
Benjamin, as anticipated, fell into spasms of corporate ecstasy when she reported her hydrogen breakthrough. She requested extended database searches and he pressed for early submission of her draft report: “The sooner this is ready the better. Half-year reviews are coming up and this will look very good for the department.”
“And particularly good for you, Benjamin.” He beamed. He took the comment at face value; no innuendo, no underpinning of sarcasm, no office politics informing her response. She brought out the best in him. “Good for everyone,” he said.
“I’ll have the draft ready on Thursday.”
“Thursday? You can’t make it sooner?”
“I need to find several new sources to replace some that were…intrusively acquired. We may need to brief a friend in the media to ask the right questions of the right people. Then we can quote their comments. But I doubt it will come to that.”
As she stood to leave he pointed to her face and made a circle. “You all right? Look a bit peaky.”
That evening, chatter in the canteen still buzzed around the Sunday social. They trawled through the statistical data from the backgammon results, looking at individual efforts and seeing which first moves had the best correlation with success and failure. The randomness of the dice throwing was scrutinized, because they could recall every throw. And, they tallied the results according to simulant age and according to their professional work. Everything was exhaustively debated and re-analyzed; the weightings for each variable were fine tuned. Each contributor to the discussion was fully indulged by the group of friends, as they squeezed the maximum satisfaction from what amounted to a communal reminiscence. But Jayna did not contribute.
Sunjin became the subject of conversation and she tuned in.
“Will he always work at the Police Department?” said Lucas.
“Why shouldn’t he?” said Harry.
“Well, eventually he’ll solve all the old cases. And there can’t be many crimes these days.”
“Volume isn’t the issue. Implantation is increasing the complexity of white-collar crimes, rare as they are. So, I don’t think Sunjin will be short of work,” said Harry.
“But why would any bionic risk going to prison?” said Lucas, incredulous.
“Faulty screening. Some slip through the net.”
Jayna spoke up: “You remember Ingrid? The analyst sacked at Mayhew McCline?” They all nodded. “I think she slipped through the net; problem controlling her temper. Benjamin thinks so, too. Or, at least I think he does. It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?…Maybe we should run operations where fraudulent activity is a risk. We wouldn’t need much help. We could work quite happily alongside a few well-trained organics.” Jayna was now confronted by a vista of bleak expressions. “Just thinking aloud,” she said.
“Implantation of organics could be a detour. But I can’t imagine today’s politicians coming to that conclusion,” said Harry. Another round of nodding.
Jayna nudged the conversation further: “It might be commercially driven. Shareholder pressure might be the impetus towards higher employment rates for simulants, might be very attractive to CEOs. And, don’t forget, the Constructors are themselves a very powerful sector.”
“I can’t see it, Jayna,” he said firmly.
“No, I agree, Harry. It wouldn’t make any sense at all.”
It was time for dessert and thus conversation returned to safer ground as they discussed the viscosity of the custard: too thin to stick to the jam sponge. “Really,” said Julie, tipping custard off her spoon, “the standard’s dropping.”
In the recreation time following dinner, Jayna decided she ought to visit Julie in her quarters. She now realized that when she’d last sat on Julie’s bed, there had been no uncertainties in her mind; no unexpected, unpredicted events troubling her. They had known nothing, then, of any recalls.
Julie stepped out of her room. “Oh hi, Jayna! We must be psychic. I was just coming to see you.”
“It’s my turn to come to you.”
“So who’s counting?”
Jayna smiled at her friend’s quip, for she recognized the remark as such, and briefly reveled in their shared propensity for frivolous calculation. “Life is good here in Manchester, isn’t it, Julie?” she said. They sat cross-legged on the bed.
“Yes, of course. Why do you say that?”
“Your joke; makes me feel warm. Knowing we’re different, like a brotherhood or sisterhood.”
“Different and together. You’re right. Can you imagine if we didn’t live like this? I can’t see myself living in an apartment block on my own, not seeing anyone once I closed my front door, eating alone.”
“If you had a partner you’d have company.”
“I don’t know…that kind of exclusivity could be dull. And I can’t imagine how I’d choose one person to live with, even a flatmate. I like different things about each of my friends here. You can’t roll everything up into one person.”
“Physical attraction seems to clinch things for them.”
“Even so, they spend a lot of time together when they’re not having sex. That’s what I think, anyway.”
“But if you had to choose someone, Julie, who would it be? You know, just supposing.”
“Is this a game?”
“Yes, a silly game.”
“Let me see…Sunjin!” They laughed gently and Julie prompted, “Your turn. Who would you choose?”
Difficult. She couldn’t mention Dave. “Sunjin would be my first choice, too.”
“Really, Jayna, this is a ridiculous game.”
“But look what would happen, Julie, if it were true—that we were both attracted to Sunjin. In the born world that could spell trouble. We would hate one another because we were competing for the same man. We’d trample all over our friendship without even thinking about it. You can see how complicated life would be. Sunjin might even encourage us to fight over him. We might end up killing each other.” Jayna couldn’t stop. “Imagine if you got the man you wanted, and he turned out to be a…cruel and callous person.”
Julie looked distressed momentarily. “I see what you mean. I suppose, when you think about it, a lot of song lyrics are about exactly that—jealousy, unfaithfulness, unrequited love. I actually can’t think of many happy lyrics.”
“Not enough drama, I suppose.”
Julie brightened. “I’ve thought of another game. If you had to sack someone at work, who would it be?”
“Julie, that’s terrible. How could you think that?”
“It’s only a game, less ridiculous than yours.”
“It’s more achievable.” And, again, the two friends laughed. “I think…no, definitely Hester.”
“Because?”
“She doesn’t have time for anyone. Well sometimes she does. But she’s so impatient. I think she frightens people.”
“My turn. I would choose Peterson because he talks endlessly about his family. He can’t imagine I’m not interested.”
“A very reasonable excuse for dismissal.”
“Well, it’s a better reason than…” Julie stopped herself.
“What?”
“I’m just thinking about the recalls. It doesn’t seem fair.”
“Sunjin seemed concerned about them, too. He told me…he didn’t like the idea that we wouldn’t be consulted, that it was disproportionate.”
Julie stood up and started to brush her hair in front of her mirror. “If one of us were recalled and reassigned, would we be stationed somewhere else in the city?”
“More likely, Julie, you’d be reassigned to another part of the country or overseas. You’d have a new name,
too, I expect.”
“So, a completely new beginning,” she said, turning around.
“Most likely. Does that bother you?”
“I don’t know. If it made clear sense then it should be easier to accept. I can’t help thinking there’s a flaw in the argument.”
“Well, let’s not think about it now. It’s not going to happen to you or me.”
“I hope not,” said Julie, dejected.
“Come on. Let’s listen to some music. Lighten up a bit.”
Fifteen minutes before lights-out, Jayna took her leave and as she opened the door to her friend’s room, Julie said, “Don’t let Hester bug you.”
CHAPTER 10
Jayna lifted the cage’s cover and gingerly rejigged the twigs to create some new angles. The base needed cleaning but she didn’t have time. Wretched little things. They would be better off outdoors on some bramble, even bramble on waste ground. She decided to call by the florist. “No reason why you phasmids should suffer just because I’m preoccupied,” she murmured. She stood and stamped her right foot into her shoe. They seemed to prefer the variegated ivy. She stamped into her left shoe. A pain pierced through her heel. A small foreign object gouging her skin forced her to stagger backwards. She sat on the edge of her bed, gripped the bedclothes, and ground her heel into her shoe. Her movements were slow and deliberate. Her eyes were brimful.
Crying—an outward sign of sadness in born-humans, preceding any true feeling.
She forced herself to conjure memories—of Dave holding her close, the screaming baby; thoughts already so close to the surface. She stamped her heel again, grinding, more pain and more reflexive tears; an excruciating concoction. The wetness in her eyes swelled, her nasal passages constricted, and she knew that if she blinked the tears would spill. She tipped her head to the right. Thus, the tears overflowed but not down her cheeks. They formed a pool—between her left eye socket and the bridge of her nose—and a small stream that ran from her right eye across her temple and penetrated her hairline. She moved her head to the upright and the small pool emptied; tears ran down into her open, receptive hands. Incoherently, she murmured, “I will see him again.” The normal measured tones and rhythms of her speech were distorted. She cried silently, spread the tears across her palms, and wiped them down her cheeks.
A Calculated Life Page 10
