This was the break I thought. Meagre though it was, an hour or two would surely help. I would get some fresh air, go for a walk on the beach and then head back, hopefully with my mind a little clearer. As if in response to these thoughts, my cell phone began to vibrate in my pocket. It was Maria. I sent her a text, reassuring her of my safety and put it back in my pocket, ignoring the ping of her reply.
I walked through an industrial unit and found myself on a quiet access road that curled down the hill above the sandstone cliffs. Before long, there was a fork in the headland and the Pacific opened out before me. The sun was almost touching it now: a white disc bleeding hazy yellows into the distant water. Above me, the broken cloud had darkened, shot through with silver and deep violet, dirty greys. The wind was cool and absentminded, unable to remember which way it wanted to blow. There had been a big storm the day before and the memory of its violence still tainted the air. I stood, hands in pockets for a few moments, my hair swirling around my face, watching tiny whitecaps break far out on the friendless ocean. I felt better already.
I chose to go right and the cliff fell away quickly. There was a rough stairway, which zig-zagged down it, sometimes in the teeth of the wind, where I found myself shrinking into the uneven cliff wall behind me, the sandstone crumbling beneath my feet. Then the steps would turn behind shivering trees and I would stop for a few moments in the relative silence and catch my breath. It felt peculiar, as if I were lost and the rest of the world had planned it that way. But I didn’t mind. I wanted to be lost for a while.
By the time I reached the base of the cliff, I was wondering if I should have taken the other track. This one seemed unused; I had seen nobody since I left the road. I came out from behind a soft, broken boulder that had, sometime previously, fallen from the cliff face. It was a small, enclosed beach of large, uneven pebbles. Across the bay, strings of yellow lights hung across the tourist area of the Miraflores district.
The beach was around 40 yards across and signs of the previous day’s storm were very apparent. Pieces of flotsam were strewn about it, heaps of glossy seaweed, trembling jellyfish, wind-rippled and effortlessly alien. The sea was still throwing itself at the shore with some force, like an enormous creature trying to drag itself up onto the land. I listened to the fizz of the surf and the deep rumble as thousands of pebbles were drawn back under its weight.
My eyes were drawn to her.
She was just above the surf-line and for a moment I thought that what I was looking at was a dead seal or a stranded porpoise. Instinctively, I looked back the way I had come, then upwards, shielding my eyes as I searched the sheer face of the cliff above me. There was nobody else around.
Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed movement and turned too quickly. The slick pebbles shifted under me with a grinding noise and I stumbled, just managing to stay on my feet. A gull, blown over my head by a gust of wind, mocked me again and again.
I walked over to the naked body. It had rolled over hadn’t it?
She was lying on her back now. I stood behind her, looking down on her bald head. Her arms lay by her side neatly, palms up. The tide was going out. It rattled the pebbles just beyond her swollen feet and drained away with a hiss.
I took a wide walk around her so I could view her face the right way up. My heart dropped into my stomach. My God! How long had she been in the ocean? Her stomach was distended, filled with water I guessed. Her legs and arms were thin and sunken, the bones gleaming through the translucent skin like flickering light bulbs in the failing light.
I took out my phone and looked at it for a moment. What was I waiting for? It was five thirty; night would fall within the hour. I put the phone back in my pocket and knelt down beside her. Was it a she after all? I looked back at her crotch in embarrassment. There was nothing down there, not even hair – no hair on her body at all in fact. Did hair fall out in sea water?
I felt a heavy sadness overtake me and realised that I didn’t want to share this feeling with anyone else, not yet anyway. She was so alone. I wondered about her history: where she was from and what she did for a living; all the minutiae of her life leading up to this moment that must have seemed so important while it was happening, but meant absolutely nothing now. Her face, upon closer inspection, appeared ageless; maybe the salt water had worn away any wrinkles. Her eyes had rolled back. They were tinged with green like over-boiled eggs. There was no jewellery on her, no tattoos on her skin, no scars, not a hint at her personality or identity. She lay before me, grey on grey, an unfinished sculpture by an artist who may have fled before my arrival, unnerved by what he might create if he continued.
As my eyes struggled in the dismal light, the body seemed to lose all of its humanity. Now it was just a bloated shape, something utterly abstract. I stood up, shocked at how my mind was re-evaluating what I was seeing. I felt disgusted at myself; surely she had just been in the water too long.
It was time to ring la policia, but before I did, I knelt down again and laid my hand on her shoulder. I had a romantic idea that it would be a chivalrous thing to do, a caring thing, that I was being sensitive and thoughtful. It was just a tiny movement, a moment among millions I have experienced, and I would give anything to take it back.
It convulsed at my touch.
I jumped back and rolled away from the thing as water pulsed from what I had thought was the mouth. The sound of the wind turned my scream into something small and pitiful, shook it and tossed it away. The cold ocean hit my hands and knees and stunned me. I stood up, unable to pull my eyes away from that grey shape wheezing in the thickening darkness. I ran my tongue over my lips, comforted by the salt thrown up in a fine mist by the breaking waves. I could not move.
Time passed. I expected the creature to crawl over to me and drag me back with it to the bottom of the ocean. But the minutes continued to tick by without any further movement from the thing, and my mind drifted with the tide. When I was washed back up into clear thought, I was in total darkness. There was just the shout and the whisper of the sea, alternating its mood by the moment: relentless, immutable. And the pebbles answering … clack … clack ... clack.
My paralysis broke suddenly. I ran from the beach, fell down a dozen times and nearly slipped from the cliff a dozen more. I didn’t register the pain or the fear of my flight from the beach until afterwards; didn’t feel safe until I got to my Toyota and pulled away with a screech of tyres.
I didn’t ring the police or tell Maria or anyone else about what I had discovered. I knew that once I started telling the tale, I would be unable to stop myself from sharing the most important part of it and nobody was going to accept that. Because it wasn’t a body I found down on that beach that night, of a woman or a man or anything else. It’s difficult to know how to put it into words. When I placed my hand on that thing’s flesh, I didn’t see, I just understood, and it happened in a microsecond. Something passed from it to me: knowledge so enormous that I often wonder if it came at all.
I sensed that it was a cell. An image reared in my mind for a fraction of a second: the ocean like a giant parasite, clinging to another organism, the earth perhaps, and that spinning through the internals of a yet much vaster organism … a God? I felt there was much more but my hand came away instinctively and my mind retreated with it. I don’t think it meant to communicate. I’m not even sure it was aware of me in any sense we would understand. The insight just came to me naturally, like picking up a germ or something. There was no sense of wonder. It was cold and thoughtless.
There are nearly nine million people in Lima, all scurrying around, battering their heads together. There are thousands of homeless children, even more confused than the adults: cold and lost and unloved. I still try to help some of them as best I can. But I have lost some compassion, and it was destroyed by, of all things, empathy.
I rang Emerald Earth the next day, told them they could have the child
ren, and that I would continue to supply them in the future. It doesn’t seem so important anymore, any of it.
Sometimes I sit downstairs in the communal living room with the children running around me and I think about that thing on the beach, on how it got dragged up from somewhere it should never have left. I wonder if it went back or like a glob of snot from somebody’s nose, it just dried up and died. And watching my daughter, Nina, crawling around the room on all fours, making her funny little noises, I think about those microscope slides they show on science programmes sometimes and it makes me feel different about her, different about my wife and also about myself.
And I want to be sick.
Empty Heaven
The room commenced its awakening programme: raising the temperature by 1.8 degrees and filtering soft, vitamin-enriched light through the organic walls. The cool smell of dew-laden meadow grass filled the air and somewhere nearby, a dove cooed a gentle wake-up call. The man on the bed remained asleep.
The room instructed the Bio-MEMS implanted in the man’s chest to lower the secretion of melatonin and administer adrenaline. It waited a further ninety seconds before emitting an extremely mild infrasonic wave to gently raise the patient’s heartbeat and nudge him into consciousness. After three more minutes, it spoke.
“Good morning, it is Mr Schema. Just confirm by opening your eyes upon your new first day.”
The man opened his eyes and sat up. He looked around the room for a few moments and his face showed a quick succession of emotions, as if he were unable to find one that correctly matched his feelings.
“What happened?” He swung his legs out of bed and sank his feet into the layer of heated massage air just above the floor. He tried to stand, passed out for a second and came around as he fell back onto the large bed.
“Please stay still for a few moments while your Harmoniser adjusts and dispenses your prescribed medications. How are you feeling now?” the room asked.“Oh swell, great, good to be alive and all that other horseshit.” The man flinched and slowly sat up. “Why the hell am I talking like this?” He tried to project his mirror image and realising his I-Kno was disconnected, picked up an antique mirror from the bedside table and studied his reflection. He turned his cheek this way and that, probing the teeth with his fingers, pulling at his eyelids so that he could see the wet, scarlet sockets beneath. “I feel strange,” he murmured. “What happened to me?”
“After breakfast, your doctor will explain–”
“You explain.”
“We are unable by law to–”
“Sure, sure! Spare me the whisperprint.”
When the room had finished its monologue, he complained again about the way he was talking. “Why is my teller on this crappy factory setting?”
The room apologised on behalf of the hospital and enquired after his chosen vernacular.
“‘English Gentleman’ of course. It must be on your records. Please do it now; I just said ‘swell’, for Christ sake.”
The room asked the man to lie down and gently put him out. He woke twenty minutes later and sat on the edge of the bed talking to himself. All seemed to be in order: not a ‘swell’ or a ‘horseshit’ to be heard.
Breakfast arrived: green algae on toast, mango juice and a sweet, green tea. It was served by a voluptuous nurse who greeted him with a smile that made his stomach quiver. She was a flawless Brasstint.
“Good morning, Amber,” he said, reading her name badge.
“Good morning, Mr Daniel Schema. Are you feeling new today?”
“Sex?” he suggested.
Her smile thinned, but only fractionally. “Not in your condition and I don’t do physical anyway. I’m not a clone.”
“That’s tragic.”
“I think the word you are looking for is hygienic, Mr Schema.”
The nurse laid the tray in front of him and stood quite still for a moment. Her brown eyes flickered a little as the room fed her information on Daniel’s condition.
“Uh huh!” She leaned over and pulled open Daniel’s shirt to study his chest. Her fingers caressed his skin. “Seems to be fine. You’ve no pain here have you? We’re not detecting any.”
“No. Why do I need this?” he asked.
She turned her head, which was very close to him, and he breathed in the sweet scent of her hair.
“It’s precautionary. Success depends upon how quickly your body and your mind develop their new relationship. During the first few days, they may struggle to unite, so the Harmoniser acts as a kind of mediator between them, introducing medication when needed, as well as regulating your blood pressure and organ functions. It is just a more sophisticated version of your regular Bio-MEMS. They’ll work hand in hand for the time being, but I’m sure you know all this, Mr Schema.”
Daniel’s smile faded slightly. “What new relationship?”
“Dr Gene-Mart will–”
“I feel high.”
“You’re not quite yourself at the moment. The infrasonics don’t help. Give it a little time.”
He sipped at his tea and studied the nurse’s face. “Nice Gallo-work, but you’re heavier; not sure if I prefer it.”
“That’s copyright laws; you must leave a significant difference or the real Natalie wouldn’t be quite so valuable.”
“I’m aware of that. I’m not a fool. How much for your sex-mems?”
“I’ll mail you a price list when you’re reconnected.”
“And clones?”
“I have two, but demand is high at the moment. You may expect a queue.”
“How much to jump it?”
“Eat your breakfast, Mr Schema.” Amber left him staring at the tray. He picked at the algae in a desultory fashion and spoke to the room. “Well, I don’t feel any happier with my condition. Why don’t you address my neuroses?”
There was a brief pause.
“We are unable by Life Law at this time to erase or modify any wetware unless specified under the terms of your life insurance agreement.”
“Exactly, but I assume from my presence here that you’ve acted without my permission, which is an infringement of my human rights.”
There was another pause.
“It was not an infringement because it was instructed by the terms of your policy.”
Daniel picked the mirror back up and angled it around his head. “I want my rights,” he said half-heartedly.
“The Life Law states at this time that–”
“You’re an idiot!” he said and ate his breakfast.
Dr Gene-Mart came to see him after breakfast. She was young, sixteen at the most, Daniel guessed. She sat opposite him and called up his file.
“Now, Mr Schema, are you aware of your situation?”
“I had an accident of some sort.”
The doctor crossed her legs, adjusted her white smock a little and her bronze-tinted skin flashed under the stark lighting as she moved. She peered over her antique, horn-rimmed glasses. They jarred with the otherwise clinical, efficient appearance.
“You committed suicide.”
“Attempted.”
“Succeeded. We regenerated you under the terms of your life insurance policy.”
“But I didn’t know–”
“The policy was set up for you by your parents when you were a child. Your memory needs a little more augmentation. You were aware previously and have given your permission for us to update your consciousness file on many occasions.”
Daniel picked the mirror up again. He studied his reflection for a moment and then lifted his other hand to check if there was a wrinkle misplaced on his palm.
“My God! I finally found some pluck. How did I do it?”
“I can’t divulge that information.”
“I can find out
when I leave here so why not tell me?”
“It is not within my remit. You may view a recording of the incident once you’re outside the hospital, but you cannot re-live it as the memory file no longer exists. This will prevent any unnecessary mental suffering on your part and so enable you to move forward.”
“Fuck you!”
“Pardon?”
“You heard me. You can’t do this to me. Get an adult in here.”
Dr Gene-Mart stood up. “You are under a mental evaluation, sir. I decide when you can leave this building, so I suggest you co-operate.”
“Fuck you! You can’t keep me here.”
“I can and I will, if I think it necessary. Keep the profanities coming, because I’m suing you for every single one. Now there is another matter to go over. Do you know what a memory fold is, Mr Schema?”
“Of course I don’t.”
“It’s not a natural phenomenon. It’s caused by a banned drug called Somex. It’s a complicated drug; suffice to say that when Somex is taken it covers a real memory with a fake one. We found two memory folds in your previous brain and the authorities are wondering how the folds got there.”
“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”
“I know you don’t,” the doctor sighed.
“So why are you asking me?”“I’m just following a mandatory procedure set down by the insurance company.”
Daniel threw the mirror across the room and it bounced harmlessly off the soft wall. “To hell with them!”
The doctor left the room without another word. Daniel felt the infrasonic wave roll through him and fell back onto the bed.
That evening, Nurse Amber came to see him after dinner. She was wearing a short, diaphanous dress and her body flowed like liquid metal beneath its delicate touch. She sat opposite him and flicked her hair back.
“Good evening, Daniel. I wondered if you might be interested in some extra healthcare?”
The Dreams of the Black Butterfly Page 9