The Apex Book of World SF Volume 3

by Lavie Tidhar

  “We have the document.”

  Tolu frowned. “What document?”

  “Edikan is a citizen of Nigeria,” John said, and held up the printed paper to the camera.

  Tolu’s legs almost gave way under him as he leant in to study the image projected on the mirror.

  “You’re lying! It’s fake!”

  “Your office has confirmed the existence of the original, Tolu. We need to talk.”

  Tolu swiped at the mirror, cutting off the image. He staggered out of the bathroom and flopped onto the couch in the living room. How had they got the document? He had the original. He stood up and stutter–stepped towards the door.

  Tolu opened the door and yanked a document out of John’s outstretched hand. Tolu studied the paper briefly, and then slowly sat down on the steps of the staircase.

  “As of now, Mr Tolu Makinde, this house belongs to Edikan, by virtue of him being the verified son of astronaut Edikan Usoro Senior, who died on Milina in the year 2069. If you wish to contest this fact, I suggest that you file an appeal in court within the next thirty days.”

  Tolu sighed, stood up, and said, “Please come into the house.”

  The City of Silence

  Ma Boyong

  Translated from the Chinese by Ken Liu

  Ma Boyong is a popular blogger, speaker, and one of China’s foremost authors of speculative fiction. His novels include the Western–setting wuxia novel The Chronicles of European Heroes, and the alternate history A History of the Conquest of the Maya by the Shang Fleet. He is also the author of many short stories.

  The year was 2046, the place, the Capital of the State.

  The State needed no name because, other than it, there were no states. It was just as the Department of Propaganda kept emphasizing: there are no other states besides the State, and It is who It is, It has always been and always will be.

  When the phone rang, Arvardan was sleeping with his face on the desk in front of the computer. The ringing was insistent, sharp. He rubbed his dry eyes and got up unwillingly. His brain felt heavy and slow.

  The room was cramped, the air stagnant. The only window was shut tight. Even if the window were open, it would not have helped — the air outside was even murkier. The room was only about thirty square meters. An old army–green cot stood in the corner, the serial number painted in white on one leg. Right next to the cot was a computer desk made from thin wooden boards, on top of which sat a pale white computer.

  The phone continued, now on its seventh ring. Arvardan realized that he had no choice but to take the call.

  “Your Web Access Serial, please.” The voice on the other end was not in any hurry. Indeed, it contained no emotional content whatsoever because it was generated by a computer.

  “ARVARDAN19842015BNKF.”

  Arvardan automatically recited the string of numerals and letters. At the same time, he felt his chest grow even more congested. He did not like these empty electronic voices. Sometimes he thought, wouldn’t it be nice if the voice on the phone belonged to a real woman, smooth and mellow? Arvardan knew this was an unrealistic fantasy. But a fantasy like that still relaxed his body for a few seconds.

  “Your application dated October 4th for an account to participate in the BBS discussion forums has been processed. The appropriate authorities have verified that the information you provided was in order. Please come to the processing center within three days with your Personal Identification Card, your Web Access Permit, your Web Access Serial Card, and other relevant documentation. You will receive your account user name and password then.”

  “Understood. Thank, you.” Arvardan carefully chose his words, pausing between each.

  It was time to get some work done. Arvardan sat down in front of the computer and moved the mouse. With a faint electronic pop, the screen came alive: “Please enter your Web Access Serial and name.” Arvardan entered the requested information. Immediately the indicator LEDs on the front of the computer case began to blink rapidly, accompanied by the low hum of spinning fans.

  Every Web user had a Web Access Serial, without which it was impossible to access the Web. This was the only representation of a user on the Web: it could not be changed or deleted. There was a homomorphism between the Web Access Serials and the names on the Personal Identification Cards that everyone carried. Thus, ARVARDAN19842015BNKF was Arvardan and Arvardan was ARVARDAN19842015BNKF. Arvardan knew that some people with poor memories would print their Web Access Serials on the backs of their shirts.

  The appropriate authorities explained that the Real ID Web Access System was designed to make administration of the Web more convenient and rational, and eliminate the serious problems caused by anonymity on the Web. Arvardan was unsure what these “serious problems” were. He had never personally used the Web anonymously, and he knew no one who had — indeed, from a technical perspective, it was impossible for anyone to disguise himself on the Web. The appropriate authorities had given this careful thought.

  “The appropriate authorities” was a semantically vague phrase that nonetheless was full of authority and the power to intimidate. It was simultaneously general and specific, and included within its meaning a broad range of references. Sometimes, it referred to the State Web Administration Committee, which had issued the Web Access Serial to Arvardan. Other times, it referred to the server that e–mailed Arvardan the latest Web access announcements and regulations. Yet other times, it referred to the Web Investigation Section of the Department of Public Security. Still other times, it referred to the State News Agency. The “appropriate authorities” were everywhere and responsible for everything. They would always appear at the appropriate time to guide, supervise, or warn.

  Now that the Web was almost equivalent to daily life, it was necessary to be ever vigilant and not allow the Web to become a tool for conspirators seeking to destabilize the State — so said the appropriate authorities.

  The computer continued to hum. Arvardan knew this was going to take some time. The computer had been issued to him by the appropriate authorities, and he was uncertain about its technical specs and hardware configuration. The case was welded shut and could not be opened.

  While waiting, Arvardan ferreted out a plastic cup from the mountain of trash at his feet and filled it with distilled water from the drinking spigot at his side. He swallowed a painkiller with the water. The distilled water went down his throat and settled into his stomach. The empty taste nauseated him.

  The speakers on the computer suddenly began to play the national anthem. Arvardan put down the cup and refocused his eyes on the computer screen. This meant that he had signed on to the Web. The screen first displayed a notice from the appropriate authorities: plain white background, black text, 14–point font. The notice described the meaning of using the Web and the latest regulations concerning such use.

  The notice quickly disappeared. What followed was a desktop background emblazoned with the slogan: “Let us build a healthy and stable Web!” Another window slowly floated up, containing several links: work, entertainment, e–mail, and BBS discussion forums. The BBS link was greyed out, indicating that choice was not yet available to him.

  The operating system was simple and clear. The browser had no place to enter a URL. Only the bookmarks menu, which was uneditable, contained the addresses for a few Web sites. The reason for this was simple: all of these Web sites were healthy and positive. If other Web sites had the same content as these, then, logically, having access to these Web sites alone was sufficient. On the other hand, if other sites had different content, then, logically, those other sites must be unhealthy and vulgar and should not be accessed.

  Some said that outside the borders of the State there were other Web sites, but those were only urban legends.

  Arvardan first clicked “work.” The screen displayed a menu of Web sites and software related to his work.

  As a programmer, Arvardan’s daily duty consisted of writing programs in accordance with instructio
ns from his superiors. The work was boring, but it guaranteed a steady income. He did not know what the source code he wrote would be used for. His superiors never gave him such information.

  He tried to continue the work left over from yesterday, but he soon felt he couldn’t concentrate. He tried to entertain himself, but the “entertainment” link only contained Solitaire and Minesweeper. According to the appropriate authorities, these two games were healthy: there was no violence and no sex, and they would not give players criminal desires.

  A system alert popped up: “You have new mail.” Arvardan had finally found a reason to pause in his work. He quickly moved the cursor onto the “e–mail” link, clicked, and soon a new window appeared on the screen.

  To: ARVARDAN19842015BNKF

  From: WANGHENG10045687XHDI

  Subject: Module/Already/Complete, Start/Current/Project?

  WANGHENG10045687XHDI was the Serial of a colleague. The body of the e–mail was written with a series of individual words and certain fixed expressions separated by slashes. This was a format suggested by the appropriate authorities. Although modern mainframe computers could now process natural–language digital texts easily, this style of writing was a gesture on the part of the citizen to indicate that he possessed the proper attitude.

  Arvardan sighed. Every time he received a new e–mail, he hoped there would be some fresh stimulus to jolt his nervous system, which was growing duller by the day. On some level, he knew that he would be disappointed each time, but he felt that keeping hope alive at least yielded a few seconds of excitement. It was like his wishing that the voice on the phone would be the smooth and mellow voice of a real woman. If he didn’t keep for himself bits of remote, hopeless hope, Arvardan thought he would go mad sooner or later.

  Arvardan clicked “reply,” and then opened a text file with the name “List of Healthy Words” in another window. This file contained the words and fixed expressions that the appropriate authorities required every Web user to use. When they wanted to compose e–mails or use the discussion forums, they must find the appropriate words from this list with which to express themselves. If the filtering software found any Web user using a word not on this list, then the word would be automatically shielded and replaced with the phrase “Please use healthy language.”

  “Shielded” was a technical term. A shielded word was forbidden in writing or in speech. Ironically, “shielded” itself was a shielded word.

  The list was updated constantly. Every revision meant that a few more words disappeared from the list. This forced Arvardan to exercise his brain to come up with other words to substitute for the words that were shielded. For example, “movement” used to be allowed, but then the appropriate authorities decided that this was a sensitive word, so Arvardan had to use “change of position” to express the same idea.

  He referred to the list and quickly composed a response similar in style to the e–mail he had received. The List of Healthy Words forced people to compress as much information as possible into the fewest words, and to eliminate all unnecessary flourishes and figures of speech. The resulting compositions were like that cup of distilled water: flavorless. Arvardan sometimes thought that one day he would become as bleached out as the e–mails and distilled water because he wrote such e–mails and drank such water.

  Arvardan sent the e–mail but could not save a copy for himself. His computer had no hard drive, and no slots for floppy disks or CDs or even a USB port. Broadband technology had advanced to the point where software applications could be hosted on remote servers, and individual users would not suffer any speed issues related to remote access. Thus, there was no need for end users to have hard drives or local storage. Every document or program a user wrote, even every movement of the mouse or keystroke, would be automatically transmitted to the public server of the appropriate authorities. This made administration easier.

  After completing the e–mail, Arvardan once again fell back into his anxious, listless mood, which he could not express because “tired,” “annoyed,” and other negative words were all dangerous words. If someone wrote an e–mail to others to complain about such feelings, the recipients would only get an e–mail full of “please use healthy language.”

  This was Arvardan’s life. Today was a little worse than yesterday, but should be a little better than tomorrow. But even this description was imprecise, because Arvardan himself was unclear what constituted “a little better” and what constituted “a little worse.” “Better” and “worse” were variables, but his life was a constant, the value of which was “repression.”

  Arvardan set aside the mouse, tilted his head back, and gave a long sigh. (At least “sigh” had not yet been shielded.) He wanted to hum a song, but he couldn’t remember any songs. Instead, he whistled a few times, but it sounded like a dog with tuberculosis barking, and he had to stop. The appropriate authorities were like specters that filled the whole room, giving him no space. He was like a man stuck in a quagmire: as soon as he opened his mouth, mud flowed in, so that he could not even scream for help.

  He shook his head restlessly a few times, and his eyes happened to fall on the phone. Suddenly, he remembered that he still had to go to the appropriate authorities to finish the application for the BBS permit. He was glad of an opportunity to be temporarily free of the Web. On the Web he was nothing more than the sum of a series of dry numbers and “healthy words.”

  Arvardan put on his coat and covered his mouth with a filtering mask. He hesitated for a moment, and then picked up the Listener and put it over his ears. Then he left his room.

  The Capital’s streets had few pedestrians. Now that the Web was everywhere, most chores could be done there. Unlike in the primitive past, people no longer needed to go outside the home for the necessities of daily life. The appropriate authorities did not recommend too many outdoor activities, as they caused people to make physical contact with each other, and what happened after that was difficult to control.

  The Listener, a portable language–filtering machine, was designed specifically to prevent that sort of thing. When the wearer said or heard some sensitive word, the Listener automatically gave a warning. Every citizen, before leaving home, must put on this device so that they could review and critique their own speech and conversation. When people realized that the Listener was present, they often chose silence. The appropriate authorities were attempting to gradually unify life on the Web and life in the physical world, so that they would be equally healthy.

  It was November, and the icy wind drove clouds across a leaden, oppressive sky. Along both sides of the street, utility poles stretched out in two rows like dead trees. Pedestrians wrapped themselves tightly in black or grey coats, shrinking into themselves so that they appeared as quick–moving black dots. A thin miasma covered the whole Capital. Breathing this air without a filtering mask would be a challenge.

  Has it really been two months since I last left my room? Arvardan thought, as he stood next to the sign for the bus stop.

  A tall man in a blue uniform stood next to Arvardan. He looked suspiciously at Arvardan, wrapped in his black coat. Gradually, he shuffled closer, and, with pretended casualness, said to Arvardan:

  “You, have, a, cigarette?”

  The man enunciated each word, and paused half a second between them. The Listener was not yet sufficiently advanced to adjust to the unique rhythm and intonation of each person. In response, the appropriate authorities required that all citizens speak in this manner, so that it would be more convenient to check if anyone used words outside the regulations.

  Arvardan gave him a quick glance, licked his own dry lips, and replied:

  “No.”

  The man was disappointed. Unwilling to give up, he opened his mouth again:

  “You, have, a, drink?”

  “No.”

  It had been a long time since Arvardan had had any cigarettes or liquor. Perhaps it was due to the shortages, a common problem. But something was amis
s: Arvardan’s Listener had not issued a warning. In Arvardan’s experience, whenever supplies of cigarettes, liquor, or other necessities suffered shortages, these words would temporarily become sensitive words that had to be shielded until the supply could be restored.

  The man seemed exhausted. His puffy red eyes were a common sight these days, a result of long hours spent on the Web. His hair was a mess, and a few days’ growth of stubble surrounded his mouth. A strong moldy smell dissipated from the collar of the shirt under his uniform. It was obvious that he had not been outside for days.

  It was only now that Arvardan realized that the man’s ears were unadorned. The space where the silver–grey Listener should have been was empty. Arvardan was stunned, and for a moment, he did not know whether to remind the man or to pretend that he hadn’t noticed. He thought, perhaps it would be better to report this to the appropriate authorities.

  Now the man inched even closer, and desire and yearning radiated from his eyes. Arvardan’s heart squeezed tight, and unconsciously he took a step back. Was he going to be mugged? Or maybe this man was a sex maniac who had repressed his desires for too long? The man suddenly grabbed his sleeve. Arvardan struggled awkwardly but could not pull himself free. The man did not make another move, but gave a loud yelp, and began to speak to Arvardan in a rapid manner that Arvardan was no longer accustomed to.

  “I just want to talk to you, just a few sentences. I haven’t spoken in so long. My name is Hiroshi Watanabe.[1] I’m thirty–two years old. Remember, thirty–two. I’ve always dreamed of having a house by a lake, with a small boat and a fishing pole. I hate the Web. Down with the Web Regulators! My wife has been poisoned by the Web. She only calls me by my Web Access Serial. This whole city is an asylum, and in it, the stronger inmates govern the weaker inmates and turn all the sane people into madmen like themselves. Fuck ‘sensitive words.’ I’ve fucking had it…”

  The man’s words poured out of him like soda from a bottle that had been shaken and the cap then popped. Arvardan’s Listener beeped continuously. He stared in amazement but had no idea how to respond. Even more worrisome, he discovered in himself a sense of sympathy for the man, the sort of sympathy people who suffered from the same disease had for each other. The man had now gone from complaining to simply cursing, the most raw, direct kind of curses that had long been shielded. It had been five or six years since Arvardan himself had last cursed, and even the last time he had heard such language was four years ago.