The Living

by Anna Starobinets

  ‘A socio worker?!’ Third even flapped his wings. ‘And what exactly do you have your eye on?’

  ‘Well, being a sysadmin, for instance,’ I say.

  ‘What?’ he says. ‘What – a sysadmin? Don’t you want a decent job?’

  So I go to him, grandly: ‘And what exactly do you think is not “decent” about being a sysadmin?’ And then I sort of soften up a bit and say: ‘Well, maybe you’re right at the end of the day. Being a sysadmin would be boring. I’d be better off with something creative… I’ll do socio art. Pictures, you know, souvenirs, all those little bits and bobs for cell interiors… Or I’ll develop the models for new presents: socio cakes and birthday bouquets… Or not. I’d be better off as a socio-gunsmith, that’s it. Development and supply of weapons for shoot ’em ups and no deathers…’

  ‘Maybe you’d like to create your own game?’

  ‘Oh no,’ I say. ‘Why do my own? Too much responsibility. I’m tired, my friends, of responsibility…’

  At first I was thinking of making myself the Servant of Order. Sort of like a reshuffle… But then I realised: no. Even an ordinary planetman – no. No positions of responsibility in first layer. No power. Otherwise, anything could happen, you probably have ambitions, you’ve been insulted, your sense of honour has been slighted… Why risk it? You’ll still, probably, cause all sorts of hassle. So you’re better off sitting in socio drawing handguns. I don’t see any sense in risking my son’s welfare for the sake of your pleasure. At the end of the day, I couldn’t care less about you.

  Yep, I couldn’t care less. For me you just don’t exist. You’re surprised, right?

  After all, you are me, my direct continuation. It’s just five seconds of darkness and I’m alive again, bla bla bla… Tell me, matey, do you remember anything about me? Because tomorrow I’m going to pull all my previous letters to self out of Renaissance (I’m not going to leave behind all those state secrets for you to find ), and I’ll leave only one, this one… Do you remember anything?

  Maybe you remember how wisely I ruled in the Council of Eight? Or what I liked to have for lunch?

  Or how my long-term woman smelled, my slum witch, when she was young? You don’t remember, do you? I’ll tell you: she smelled of fish and ginger… And later, how did she smell later, before the pause, do you remember? No, of course not. Because it wasn’t you, it wasn’t you but me who was there breathing in that sweet, boggy smell of decay which she breathed out in her groans…

  Or maybe you remember the first time my son smiled? Or you remember how my grandchildren used to like to tug at my beard?

  You don’t remember anything. And without these crucial memories, are you really me?!

  I couldn’t care less about you. Just like my inc-predecessor couldn’t care less about me. And just as you can’t remember me, I couldn’t remember him. I didn’t know him and I couldn’t feel him. His Darlings were completely alien to me. As an eight-year-old boy – just like you are now – I threw them, his women, his kids and his grandkids, out of the Residence. And, to be honest, I didn’t care how and where they lived after that…

  That’s what everyone does. All the members of the Council, once they are renewed, throw ‘their own’ Darlings out of the Residence. Some harshly, with a kick up the behind, some politely, with respect. Some do it with no explanation, some with plausible excuses like ‘repairs to the façade of the main building’.

  And you’d do the exact same, right, mate?

  You’d throw them all out, you, a snotty-nosed eight-year-old kid – my women, old and young, my son and my grandchildren… Everyone who is dear to me.

  I am, you might say, a familial… What, have you pissed yourself? So then, off you go and make a complaint against ‘yourself’ to the SPO. A voluntary confession will reduce the punishment, they reckon… But nevertheless, I don’t recommend it, my friend. We sentence guys like you to a Shameful Pause immediately… And a Shameful Pause – do you know what that is, my friend? It’s a bit early for you to find out, but I’ll tell you anyway. It’s when they put you in solitary in the Special Unit – it’s this sort of hermetically sealed, transparent chamber, like a terrarium, with twenty-four-hour video-surveillance – and in second layer they show all the livings how you slowly die from dehydration and starvation. They show you crapping where you sleep. They show you going mad and banging your head against the walls. And calling for your mummy. And writhing around in your own excrement…

  So you’d be better off not telling anyone about me. Quid licet Iovi, non licet bovi… It’s one rule for the powerful, and another for you animals. I can be a familial, but you have to live by the law and not go shooting your mouth off. And, perhaps, it’ll work out, because the Living is all-merciful.

  …You shouldn’t think that I have always found the courage to call myself a familial. For a really, really long time I tried to believe in ‘the life eternal’. I read my letters to self and struggled and struggled and tried to get into the role, to feel that I am him. I even sent his relatives some socio cash every month, seeking forgiveness for my sin…

  And then I realised – I was already well past sixty then, other people don’t live that long – I realised: it’s all lies. Even before the Malfunctions, even before Fourth, I just knew it in my sick old stomach. I am me, the sum of my memories from birth until pause. Everyone who came before, everyone who will come after, is not me. And it doesn’t matter if we happen to have numbers that match.

  There are others who feel this in their belly too: to hell with inc-successors, your continuation is in your children… I destroy those bright sparks with absolutely no pity. The head and the arse can’t live in the same conditions…

  To my son, and my son’s son, and his grandsons, that’s who I want to pass down a quiet and obedient Living to. Manageable. Arranged by the Book…

  The Heir

  INT. FIRST LAYER. ANCIENT SUPERMARKET ABOUT TO BE DEMOLISHED. At first we don’t see anything, absolute darkness. All we hear is some mysterious rustling and someone’s hoarse, wheezy breathing. We are intrigued.

  FROM BLACK sharply, with a characteristic click: a wonder-sunshine floods the supermarket in blinding light.

  (NB. To begin with brightness at 8-9 – at first we should instinctively shut our eyes – then light to socio-STANDARD.)

  We see a dishevelled elderly man, with a very unpleasant, evil face, of an unhealthy earthy colour. The man is squatting down and his breathing is rapid and heavy. He’s an old-living. With a harsh, unfriendly expression he peers across at the SPO officer, who is walking up to him with quick, decisive strides.

  The officer is tall, young and good-looking. His mirrored mask clings elegantly to his handsome, wilful face.

  PLANETMAN (through chatterbox): Don’t move!

  OLD-LIVING (in a nasty, screeching voice): So you found me after all…

  PLANETMAN: You thought you could escape the law, eh, violator?

  OLD-LIVING (impudently): Yes, I thought I could escape the law. I do not agree with the law.

  PLANETMAN: So you are a Dissident?! That’s what I thought. What don’t you agree with? Why did you not go to the festival at the appointed time? Why have you exceeded the acceptable length of life by three whole days?

  OLD-LIVING: I don’t agree with the compulsory pause or with age limits.

  PLANETMAN (amiably): I’ll explain to you why we have to have limits.

  REDIRECT TO SOCIO (NB. The challenge for the cameramen and the editors is to create the sensation that we are moving to a deeper layer. The clip itself will only be broadcast in second layer.)

  IN SOCIO

  We see a cross-section of a human body.

  PLANETMAN (VOICEOVER): Over the years our body gets worn out and ceases to be fit for purpose. We are poisoned by toxins and carcinogens. The heart, lungs, liver and kidneys no longer function properly…

  We see these organs getting darker, as if covered in rot and soot.

  PLANETMAN (VOICEOVER):
…Brain function deteriorates…

  We see the brain ‘decomposing’ in the skull.

  PLANETMAN (VOICEOVER): …Plaque forms in the arteries…

  Close up of artery: it is full of dark clumps, we see the blood pushing the artery out from the inside, unable to break through the blockage.

  PLANETMAN (VOICEOVER): …Cells stop regenerating. The skin becomes lined and covered in wrinkles, it loses its elasticity and healthy glow…

  We see the hand, the skin on it is covered in liver spots, it becomes yellow and wrinkled.

  PLANETMAN (VOICEOVER): …Hair loses its pigmentation…

  We see someone’s black hair thinning and rapidly going grey at the same time.

  PLANETMAN (VOICEOVER): …The immune system weakens and the body comes under attack from illnesses.

  The entire body shudders from coughing. We somehow fly out of the body and see the old-living again in first layer. He is coughing violently. We realise that the tour we have just been on was through his body.

  INT. FIRST LAYER

  PLANETMAN: The condition I have just described is called ‘old age’. People can survive quite a long time in this condition, several years, but is it really worth putting yourself through this agony when the pause can solve all these problems? All it takes is five seconds of darkness and the Living will breathe a new, young life into you, a life full of health, stability and joyful discoveries.

  OLD-LIVING (stamps foot): I still don’t agree.

  PLANETMAN (strictly): You are damaging the health of the Living with your stubbornness! You are a part of the Living and you are poisoning His body with your old age. The Living wants all of His parts to be renewed at the right time. Otherwise the Living will start to get old too.

  OLD-LIVING: Ah, so that’s what it is! Well, in which case take me to the Pause Zone immediately.

  PLANETMAN: As you are a violator, you can expect a Shameful Pause.

  OLD-LIVING: It doesn’t matter, I agree.

  PLANETMAN: Thank you for being so understanding. I hope that in the future you will be corrected and become a worthwhile part of the Living.

  OLD-LIVING (with a hopeful smile): I promise to get corrected.

  The clink of handcuffs being fastened.

  We see the planetman and the old-living disappearing into the sunset along an avenue scattered with autumn leaves. Joyous, solemn music plays. In the background we hear, barely audible, the standard festival announcement (‘…the Festival Administration is pleased to welcome you to the Pause Zone. We would like to draw your attention to the refreshments on offer: coffee, tea, hot and cold drinks and snacks.

  If you are in need of entertainment, one of our festival clowns is sure to lift your spirits with one of their fun tricks…’), then we hear the sonorous cry of a new-born. FADE TO BLACK.

  FROM BLACK:

  A scrolling display on a black background with simultaneous voiceover:

  VOICEOVER: The Council of Eight, the Association for the Assistance of Nature and the Service for Planetary Order would like to remind you: all livings must undergo the pause procedure no later than the day of their sixtieth birthday.

  Those not in agreement with this law will be subject to a Shameful Pause and sentenced to indefinite correction in the relevant institutions.

  ‘…I’m going to puke,’ Second said and shivered in a silent cough to make the point clearer. ‘With a hopeful smile, walking into the sunset, the cry of a new-born, the mirrored mask elegantly clings to his wilful balls…’ Second gave a wheezing cackle, and First and Third followed his example.

  Fifth’s honoured deputy, assiduously goggling his eyes in the live broadcast window, also wrinkled his expressionless little globaloid face in obsequious cackling.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re so happy about.’ Second cut off their laughter abruptly. ‘Your screenplay is no good. What is all this lovey-dovey crap you’ve put in? Why does the planetman try and talk the violator round, explaining and wriggling about like an earthworm? Why does the planetman even talk to him at all? A dissident is an enemy, it only needs a short chat. A dissident is a lost cause, there’s no point having some soul-saving conversation with him. What you’ve got to do to a dissident…’ Second’s face twisted, either from pain or from genuine hatred. ‘…is this…’ Second clenched his trembling hand into a fist. ‘Crush the rat. Teach the others a lesson.’

  ‘So then… if… if I have permission to speak…’ jabbered Fifth’s deputy, ‘what adjustments would the members of the Council recommend…?’

  second: adjustments! you tell me, thickhead, what adjustments! i need a harsh, biting, realistic socio clip. and not this dialogue between two degenerates that you’ve just sent round!

  ‘Make the conflict tougher,’ First said didactically. ‘Put the emphasis in the right places…’

  ‘Who have you chosen to play the old-living?’ Second asked seriously.

  second: send me a photo

  dep 5: already have

  ‘Talk out loud!’ roared Second. ‘This conference is being held in first layer. You are showing disrespect to the Wise One!’

  ‘The photograph is in your inbox, Second,’ the deputy murmured.

  ‘It’s Prince G, a professional actor, he’s been in all the shows… A familiar face…’ the deputy fixed his gaze on Second’s features as they darkened in rage and then played his trump card: ‘Fifth’s favourite actor.’

  ‘A familiar face,’ Second bleated, mimicking the deputy. ‘His favourite actor… Idiot! The face of a traitor shouldn’t be familiar, it shouldn’t be someone’s favourite! Plus, Prince is forty-five and this is about an old-living!’

  ‘We’ll give him makeup…’

  ‘Silence!’ Second cawed, ‘Everything has to be realistic. When it’s about an old-living the viewer has to see old age. Real, stinking, terrifying, rotten old age.’ Second coughed wetly. ‘The sort of age that when any cretin sees it he realises that it is poisoning the body of the Living!’

  In their first-layer windows the members of the Council lowered their eyes in shame. The dark and wrinkled face of Second, covered in perspiration, fitted those criteria to perfection.

  ‘A little radical for my tastes,’ Sixth remarked. ‘Why arouse negative emotions in the viewer? Viewers shouldn’t have to feel disgusted when they see an advert.’

  ‘Not when they see an advert, but when they see a criminal,’ Second snapped back. ‘We are, by the way, in a state of emergency, in case you had forgotten. Playtime is over.’ Second flashed his eyes from beneath his swollen eyelids. ‘This is what I think. We’ve got to do a documentary. Real violators. Real extracts from interrogations. Real punishments. Shameful Pauses broadcast on socio.’

  ‘That’s not possible,’ Third intervened. ‘Showing violence is banned on socio.’

  ‘Who’s talking about violence?’ Second replied in a bored voice. ‘No one’s talking about violence… Wise One, what’s your take on this issue?’

  The Wise One nodded.

  ‘“I like Second’s proposal…”’ whispered the Servant of Order.

  ‘I like Second’s proposal.’

  ‘“There’s a lot of common sense in it.”’

  ‘There’s a lot of common sense in it.’

  ‘“And seeing as the emergence of the Dissidents is partly my fault…”’

  The Wise One inhaled deeply and held his breath. It helped slow his pulse, if only a little. The Servant said that if the second meeting goes smoothly then next time we’ll manage without any venom…

  ‘…And seeing as the emergence of the Dissidents is part…’

  ‘Fofs,’ Second suddenly sighed gruffly, and Zero stopped halfway through a word.

  ‘Carry on,’ mouthed the Serva nt.

  ‘…ly my fault…’

  Second gave out a short, sharp laugh. I’m saying something wrong, Zero thought in panic and immediately felt his pulse quicken. What’s he laughing at?

  The blood started splashing in
his head, unbearably, deafeningly loud, striking his ear drums in taut streams, swathing first layer in sparkling tatters… Through this knocking, through the warm, sombre splashing he heard the old man’s laughter – he-hee, such a hideous laugh, unnatural, like in one of the dramas – and the voice of the Autosecretary (‘Technical pause in conference’) and the voice of the Servant again:

  ‘…Can I trust you, Wise One? Can I trust you…?’

  As if under a layer of water, blindly and slowly, not understanding anything, the Wise One nodded. And that moment he felt a slippery little lump bite into his wrist.

  ‘I’ve given you the anti-venom,’ whispered the Servant, somewhere there, beneath the water. ‘After the break you can continue the speech yourself.’

  ‘He-hee!’ Second wailed.

  what is he laughing at?

  Sleep, sleep… Dozy and slow like a greasy bubble, silence stretched out in his head. And it dragged him, lulling him to sleep, somewhere downstream…

  ‘Don’t sleep, Wise One!’

  …He so wanted to float away… With great effort Zero unstuck his swollen eyelids and sat up. It was quiet and sleepy in the conference hall and the old man was not giggling anymore, but had also fallen asleep, his grey beard sticking ridiculously into one of the hollows in the sofa. The Servant of Order was sitting next to his father and stroking his back.

  ‘What was he laughing at?’ Zero asked, suppressing a yawn.

  ‘He wasn’t laughing, he was dying.’

  Zero looked into the old man’s motionless grey face.

  ‘So then,’ – the Servant of Order examined himself in the dark screen of the Crystal like it was a mirror – ‘will you manage without a prompt, Wise One?’

  The Crystal blinked on with a dry crackle and split into eight squares. All for the convenience of the Wise One. So that at the conference he could see all the faces of the members of the Council…

  The swarthy, tense features of the Servant appeared in square 2. He paused and then said: