The Living

by Anna Starobinets

  The gun had a silencer.

  The cubes quietly collapsed.

  Part 3

  Eight

  ‘Gwanda! Gwanda gwan-da gwan-da…’ The youngest had only recently learned to talk, and she liked the sounds. ‘…dagwan dagwan da-gwa…’ She laughed and held up her hands to clap and reached up to his beard. She also really liked this thick crop of twisted white springs.

  ‘Second,’ her mother said didactically. ‘Granddad is Second.’ The youngest fell silent for a second, opening even wider her coffee-coloured eyes, which were perpetually amazed anyway, and then started gurgling away again:

  ‘Segun! Segun! Segun! Segun…!’

  ‘Bzhdvang! Dz! Dz!!’ Her five-year-old brother exploded in spit and sound as he played a no deather in second layer.

  Second frowned wearily.

  ‘Sh-h-h.’ His mother put her finger to her lips. ‘Darling, don’t vocalise.’

  The boy stared at her blindly, then squinted, aiming at someone in second layer; his right hand was clenched into a weak, shuddering little fist:

  ‘Bzdva-a-ang!!!’

  ‘Don’t vocalise, how many times do I have to tell you. Don’t vocalise the depths!’

  …With an insidious bumble-bee buzz the Diver’s wonder-chair rolled into the hall. The youngest, screeching in delight, hurried off towards him on all fours. She liked the way that the Diver was always so docile and still. You could push his arm off the armrest of the chair and the arm would just stay hanging there. You could pinch him and tickle the soles of his feet, he was not afraid of tickling. You could even poke about in his mouth when no one was watching…

  ‘Wai!’ She tugged on the Diver’s trouser-leg. ‘Wai? Wai?’

  ‘Wise One,’ her mother reminded her with a smile. ‘Wuh-ize wuh-un. Say it.’

  ‘Wai wa… Wai wa!’

  ‘That’ll do!’ Groaning, Second leaned over and unhooked the youngest from the Diver’s trouser-leg. The youngest was furious and lay on the floor and started screaming loudly and stroppily, waiting for the tears to come.

  ‘Enough!’ Second turned impatiently to the Servant of Order. ‘Talk to your woman.’

  ‘Take the kids, Layla!’ The Servant examined the screaming Darlings strictly. ‘There’s only two minutes to go until the Conference.’

  ‘And what have the kids got to do with that?’ Layla snapped back. ‘They’re just sitting in first layer, they’re not bothering anyone…’

  ‘Idiot,’ the Servant said good-naturedly. ‘This is an Open Conference. It’s broadcast in first layer.’

  Layla snorted sceptically, but she took the children away, wiggling her enormous behind.

  ‘She’s got fat,’ the Servant thought as she left. ‘And insolent. I have to take another one.’

  ‘That First is going to be the pause of me!’ Second grumbled restlessly and squirmed on the new sofa, trying to find a comfortable pose and somehow stick in it; the sofa was doing a good job of resisting. ‘I’m going to break my spine!’

  Second hated the sofa. The sofa was from the latest ‘Feeling Lucky’ collection – bright, ridiculous and completely shapeless, like all of First’s design fantasies; but not sitting on it during the Conference would mean showing disrespect to his colleague’s work. And his colleague First took such things to heart.

  Due to an excess of adolescent energy First got personally involved in creative projects. And the Association of Designers that he headed up (largely thanks to the efforts of their thirteen-year-old moderator; nevertheless, Second reckoned that they were all a bit soft in the head), instead of making attractive and useful objects which might tempt people into using first layer, developed completely impractical clothes and furniture which no one could ever use, even if for some reason they wanted to, and adorned the streets with concretal sculptures of forks, eyeballs and clenched fists. Only people who never left socio could dream up stuff like that! And then they are surprised that the general populace wander round in bedraggled hand-me-downs and sleep on the floor. It’s a disgrace. I’d like to tell the idiot straight out that his sofa is nothing more than a pile of multi-coloured crap…!

  ‘Not today, father,’ the Servant replied quietly.

  Second shuddered: he hadn’t even noticed that he was talking out loud. He nodded, and poked at the sofa’s upholstery with a trembling finger.

  ‘Yes, of course not today, Darling…’

  The Servant of Order looked at his father – the bald skull, the white beard, the wrinkled skin covered in liver spots – and was quietly horrified. Fofs, he’s so old! The oldest person on the planet. A strange thought. Not so long ago Fifth had been the oldest…

  Members of the Council of Eight normally live a long time. Until a natural pause: the experience gained in each reproduction is too valuable to just wipe it all out at sixty. And their natural pauses did not, as a rule, come until late. A ‘clean’ life: carefully checked, long-term partners (no doing the rounds with festival sluts), natural food from farms (even including protein!), medical treatment almost at ancient levels… But sooner or later the pause comes to everyone: Fifth temporarily ceased to exist at the age of eighty-seven, only just falling short of the sacred second eight; for two weeks now there had been a countdown on his cell, ticking down until the birth… So now the oldest is Second. His father. Eighty-two years old…

  But his eyes are still lively and intelligent. Cunning. Black. The Servant concentrated on his father’s eyes. He said:

  ‘Don’t worry, everything’s going to go great…’ Who was he talking to: his father, or, more likely, himself? ‘…The most important thing is you’ve got to distribute the transcript immediately. Don’t lose the initiative…’

  ‘Gopz,’ Second barked. ‘Don’t tell your father what to do. And wipe the Wise One’s mouth, he’s drooling, it’s embarrassing when there are other people around.’

  …In eighth layer an eight on its side started shining – the emblem of the Council, the ancient symbol for infinity. Time to start. Second connected himself and Diver.

  The other participants were already waiting in the conference-zone, each in two forms: their socio avatar and direct connection from first layer in a separate window.

  They started according to protocol.

  ‘First, moderator of the harmony of first layer, welcomes the Wise One and all members of the Council,’

  said the Golden Horse and swished its tail stupidly.

  First’s actual pimpled face nodded solemnly in the window.

  ‘Next you’ll be squeezing out manure, idiot,’ thought Second. ‘What’s with all these vulgar farmyard motifs…’ But out loud he said:

  ‘Second, moderator of the tranquillity of the Living in all layers, welcomes the Wise One and all members of the Council.’

  His Octopus intertwined his tentacles respectfully (you see he had used his brain when choosing a userpic: a mighty, eight-armed beast from the depths, very fitting).

  ‘Third, moderator of the harmony of deep layers, welcomes the Wise One and all members of the Council.’

  Third’s avatar, a winged creature which had fangs, horns and a tail and was wearing armour, smiled absent-mindedly; it was clearly doing something else in shallower layers at the same time. Third’s sallow face twisted feebly in the first-layer window, trying, evidently, to smile like the Winged Beast. ‘Didn’t shave again,’ Second looked into the window with distaste, ‘and he’s dressed in rags, how can he let himself go like that. He’s gone to seed, got fat… Fofs, he’s still a young man, only forty-two. Plus, he can hardly claim to be any good at cell design or tech-support…’

  ‘Fourth, moderator of assistance to nature, welcomes the Wise One and all members of the Council.’

  A blue-eyed athlete, flexing his muscles, raised his right hand. The grey-haired, sharp-nosed woman in the live broadcast window maintained a contemptuous silence.

  Second looked away. Recently members of the Council had tried not to look at Fourth: she aroused som
ething like superstitious fear in them. She was responsible for farms, medical centres and festivals. All the mating and pausing. Previously, when she had been rosy-cheeked and busty, she had seemed to the Council to be a goddess of fertility. Now, with hollow cheeks and thinning locks, devoured by some worm of an illness, she seemed like an old woman with a scythe.

  ‘Automatic secretary of the Council of Eight welcomes the Wise One and all members of the Council. I would like to inform you that Fifth, moderator of entertainment content and socio advertising, is undergoing rebirth. The Association of Screenwriters, the Association of Game Raters and the Association of Copywriters have temporarily been transferred to the control of Fifth’s honoured deputy. Unfortunately, the deputy does not have the right to vote.’

  ‘Sixth, moderator of the production of goods for popular consumption, welcomes the Wise One and all members of the Council.’

  Sixth nodded rapidly, like a wooden bobble-head doll, from the window in first layer. His eyes, a little slanted, poured a meagre portion of unctuous bonhomie onto the members of the Council. The Dragon, his avatar, launched a volley of fire from its mouth.

  ‘S..ve..th, mod..r…’

  A semi-transparent Duckles started vibrating and disappeared from the conference-zone.

  The child’s face in the live broadcast window scowled discontentedly and also disappeared.

  ‘Automatic secretary of the Council of Eight welcomes the Wise One and all members of the Council. I would like to inform you that Seventh, moderator of sales and socio-monetary affairs, has currently reached the age of six. Unfortunately, it is difficult for him to participate in a Conference at this depth and he will not have the right to vote until he is twelve years old.’

  Eighth – the Wise One – said nothing, as usual. His face in first layer remained impassive. His avatar did not appear in the conference-zone.

  His avatar resided in twelfth layer.

  After the official greetings, they relaxed slightly, discussed the health of their Darlings, the last episode of Festival Passions (without Fifth the topic dried up), the design of the new furniture (everyone hypocritically lauded it; First, like an idiot, clopped his hoof proudly after every compliment), silly mistakes in programs (not to offend Third, but just for laughs). Then Second moved to the agenda.

  ‘We have gathered together here at the behest of the Wise One,’ he said, ‘to discuss the Zero problem. The Wise One would like to make an announcement… Gentlemen! I would like to request that we all now dive.’

  Golden Horse, Octopus, Winged Beast, Dragon and the handsome blue-eyed athlete all disappeared from the conference-zone.

  Octopus returned first, after a minute. The rest pulled themselves up after him.

  ‘I’m so embarrassed.’ Second wiped his damp brow with a ‘feeling lucky’ napkin; the octopus’s tentacles trembled nervily. ‘You all heard, gentlemen, what the Wise One was proposing…’

  Third nodded his horns darkly; in first layer his pale face was also covered in perspiration.

  Golden Horse neighed smugly, but in the live broadcast window the look on First’s face showed his dismay…

  ‘You didn’t hear anything, you fool,’ Second thought spitefully, ‘you struggle to even hold eighth layer, so what are you going to do with twelfth! And you can’t even control your facial expression in first layer. Totally pathetic.’

  He had to hurry with distributing the transcript, but Second could not say no to a bit of fun. He asked First:

  ‘Did you hear everything clearly?’

  The horse shook its radiant mane; First scowled, looking spiteful and harassed in the live broadcast window.

  first: i heard everything

  second: do you agree with what the Wise One said?

  first: absolutely

  Well, isn’t that just marvellous.

  ‘So, dear colleagues,’ said Second, ‘for your convenience I have, nevertheless, produced a transcript of the Wise One’s announcement and sent round the document. I suggest that we move to a vote.’

  In first layer First’s eyes bulged and his mouth gaped. He was taking a look at the document.

  Let’s start the vote…

  Do you agree with the Wise One’s proposal?

  yes no

  Second clicked yes in open mode. Everyone might as well see that he agreed. It’s bound to work, bound to! He was counting on a majority: everything was coming together nicely. First is definitely going to vote ‘for’, he has already blurted out that he agrees and he’s not going to want to lose face, unless he is a complete cretin. He would probably be a ‘yes’ anyway, just to save himself both from diving and from universal derision. At the age of twelve he had been stupid enough to admit that he could not find the Diver and he had been teased ever since… Seventh and Fifth don’t have a vote, which is lucky, Sixth and Third, most likely, will be against. But Fourth should agree – which means there are three of us. Against two. So it’s a majority. And maybe Dragon will agree. After all he’s a smart guy, Sixth, I don’t know why he’s having problems with socio marketing… And I’m in control of the SPO and the PSAP, the Houses of Correction and the looney bins, I can cause him problems… If he comes out against I’ll stop half the deliveries – it’s long overdue, by the way. Or else everything at his factories, whether it’s pants, boots or toothbrushes – it’s all going to be made from the same stinking shit…

  …Voting over.

  The Wise One’s proposal has been accepted

  with a majority of votes.

  The Wolf

  He wound a rusty lock of hair around his finger.

  ‘I’m going to dye it,’ she said. ‘Black.’

  ‘Why?!’

  Cleo pulled the towel down to her face.

  ‘Layla says that I don’t look after myself. That in the Residence women have to take care of their appearance and comply with globaloid standards. And my hair looks like a rundown anthill in the woods. She promised she’d give me some black dye.’

  ‘Your hair is like flowing honey.’ He stroked her auburn crown. ‘Layla’s just jealous. No one has hair like this anymore.’

  ‘Exactly. On the whole the Living has dark hair. I should look like everyone else.’

  ‘I don’t want you to look like everyone else. Anyway it wouldn’t work.’

  He carefully pulled the towel from her face. Such white skin. And under her eyes and on her nose, like the grains of sand on Golden Mean Square…

  He ran his hand along her cheek and neck. With effort he pushed his hand under the towel – she had wrapped it tightly around her like a cocoon – and then pulled it away.

  ‘You’ve got that on again?’

  ‘It’s a different suit…’ Cleo hurriedly uncovered herself to convince him. ‘It’s not the same as yesterday. Skin-tight, ultrathin, for the sensation of body contact. You’ll like it… I mean… well, it really is properly, properly thin. And almost see-through.’

  Eighth ran his finger along the cool surface of the sucs6. Thicker, thinner – what’s the difference… He didn’t like that smooth film. Which was heat-resistant and impenetrable to odour or moisture. Which made nipples and pelvis feel the same. Which kept their bodies apart.

  Which let them touch properly, skin to skin, only at the genitals.

  He lay down next to her, but not touching her.

  ‘What’s the suit for? What, am I physically unappealing?’

  ‘Fofs, you know that I find you very physically attractive! Before you I had never felt pleasure in first layer at all.’

  ‘I’ve just taken a shower. I’m not sticky, not contagious, not dirty. I don’t have any skin diseases. You’re clean and healthy too. I don’t understand why you’ve put this sucs on.’

  ‘Every time with you it’s…’

  ‘Every time I don’t understand!’

  ‘I put the sucs on because… for example, I might sweat.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘It’s an unpleasant physiol
ogical smell.’

  ‘I like the way you smell.’

  ‘Your temperature goes up during the act. Your skin gets hotter.’

  ‘I like it when you’re hot.’

  ‘Listen!’ she sat up, suddenly happy about something: she pulled her knees, wrapped in the sucs, up to her chin. ‘I specially asked Layla. Just now. She says that she and the Servant always wear contact suits too. Everyone does. For hygiene and psychological comfort. It’s… It’s just nice. So, Darling…’

  He shuddered: when Cleo called him that he would instantly remember Hanna.

  ‘…so, let’s try it in this one! They did this one for me specially. If you like it, Dragon will put it into production…’

  ‘Dragon? Sixth?’

  She nodded.

  ‘What’s Dragon got to do with anything?!’

  ‘Well, he said that what with your predilections… I mean, seeing as how you like tactile contact… there’s probably loads of people like you. Dragon said that it could become a massive trend at festivals – ultra-thin, see-through sucs… And Fifth’s deputy promised to launch some ads on socio – only, of course, if you really do like this sucs…’

  ‘Fofs…’ the Wise One covered his face in his hands. ‘Layla, Sixth, Fifth… Looks like you’ve managed to discuss our sex life with everyone already?!’

  ‘Not with everyone. Only with my socio friends… And so what?’

  ‘You really don’t understand?’

  ‘Smin.’ She shook her honey-coloured hair irritatedly. ‘Obviously I don’t understand.’

  She really didn’t understand. Something about him didn’t add up: this hypertrophic shyness of his, his pathological secrecy (as if the act were some sort of dirty secret), and this unbelievable, unnatural, shameless willingness to touch someone else’s body. In luxury you can be a hot, stinking animal – and despite all that still create an incredible act. But not here in first layer! It’s like he did not feel any difference… She peered across at him – he was lying on his side, his knees clasped to his stomach, bare-skinned, ridiculous, with no clothes, no sucs – and her irritation was suddenly replaced by pity.