by Greg Chivers
‘Thanks, I’ll be sure to let them know their work is appreciated by the city’s foremost culture vulture.’
‘You’re too kind, Silas. Now what do you want?’
‘I need some research from the state archives.’
‘That is possible, but there are procedures to follow. This is not a conversation for us.’
‘Ah yes, well, there’s the thing; I already know the answers to my questions. What I need is for the state archives to provide me with documentary evidence of a certain party’s involvement in espionage training during a visit to Moscow.’
‘Moscow? That’s going back … Why not make your own? I’m sure my superiors in Sverdlovsk wouldn’t notice a little forgery in a Middle Eastern backwater.’
‘I need the documentation to be independently verifiable, from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.’
The levity drops out of Vasily’s voice. ‘The Republic of Humanity has no need or desire to be involved in your schemes, Silas.’ The urbane cultural attaché is gone, exiled by the Soviet official, deaf to his own hypocrisy.
‘Come now, Vasily. I seem to recall the Republic felt rather differently when it wanted some statues for its Damascene puppets. I have exerted myself on your behalf. I don’t think it’s unreasonable to expect a little reciprocity.’
For a few seconds, all I hear is his slow, measured breathing. ‘All right. I’d hoped to avoid involving you in this, but there is one thing you could do for us. We’ve obtained intelligence indicating that emissaries of the Western powers are operating in the city …’ He pauses as if waiting for a reaction, a pointless fishing exercise in a conversation between professionals, but certain habits are hard to break. ‘Most likely, they are operating through their deluded proxies in the Machine Cult.’ Another pause. We’re sufficiently acquainted for him to know I share his distaste for them, but personal preferences are irrelevant in matters like this. ‘For reasons unknown, they are seeking to obtain a historical artefact known as the Antikythera Mechanism. We would like certainty that they do not possess it. We would derive that certainty from possessing it ourselves.’
I mimic his slow breathing to buy myself a few moments to think. One thing a career in intelligence cures you of is belief in coincidence. For the great powers to want it, this Antikythera thing must have some significance that’s eluded me; they would not expend this effort for an archaeological curio. He cannot know the theft has already happened – I didn’t, and the only other people who knew about the job are the Machine Cult, unless Levi has been remarkably indiscreet. Could Vasily have a source within the Cult? That would be a coup. They are religiously devoted to their inhuman masters from the West, upon whom their hopes for mechanical transfiguration depend. If he has someone inside the Cult, he could already know of my involvement. This entire conversation could be a bluff to draw me out.
‘I can assure you it is quite beyond their reach.’
‘Not good enough, Silas.’ A scratching noise is the sound of his grey, bristled beard brushing the receiver as he shakes his head.
‘Very well, I’ll need a few days. Contrary to what you may believe, Vasily, I am at least passingly acquainted with my collections, and I’m quite familiar with the Antikythera device. It’s high profile – I can’t just give it to you. I could, possibly, make arrangements for it to be in transit with minimal security, at a time and place where you could effect a recovery.’
‘Yes, I understand there could be … sensitivities, given your position. That could work. Just remember, the delivery of documents will depend on our receipt of the item. The Republic does not extend credit, Silas.’
The line goes dead and I’m left contemplating the blinking red light on my desk – a tiny flashing icon of the Hierophant’s muted rage. My gaze drifts to the shuttered window. Somewhere out there, Levi Peres is holding a black box with my future in it.
20.
Clementine
Golden dust billows from the wheels of a tractor rumbling its way out of the olive grove where we rest. Levi leans back against one of the ancient gnarled trunks and fumbles in his bag for a moment before producing an orange. He pierces the skin at one end with a sharp thumbnail and rotates the fruit so the incision spirals to the bottom. The peel comes away and hangs in a perfect ‘S’.
I remember once, in the Marseille docks, seeing a teenager do that to impress a girl, but the fruit was small and bitter, nothing like the fat globe Levi holds now. The peel drops carelessly from his fingers onto the carpet of olive leaves bleached grey by the sun. I suppose everyone in Jerusalem can peel an orange. He pulls away the waxy pith and the fruit falls open into a star of flesh, which he proffers to me. I take two unequally sized segments, identical yet not, evidence of the infinite variation from which nature builds the structures we recognize as ‘orange’, or ‘human’.
‘Are you going to do the pickup like he says?’
Levi sucks the juice from a segment before talking. ‘No. All that call gives us is time. If I hadn’t answered, he’d be starting the hunt right now. Acting all terrified buys us a few hours before he realizes the package isn’t coming to him.’
‘Where do we go?’ The city’s promise of death, either at the hands of gangsters or Mizrachi’s minions, hangs silent in the air between us.
‘How the fuck should I know? You’ll forgive me if I haven’t really thought this through. I hadn’t exactly anticipated this course of events.’
‘I have an idea.’
‘You got an idea?’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘No, you don’t get to have ideas, Little Miss Brownie. You don’t know shit about this town. In case you’ve forgotten, you came to me because you had nowhere to go. Just let me think.’
He sits cross-legged beneath the branches of the tree like a skinny, agitated Buddha, lost in contemplation of the canvas bag on his lap. The dappled shade on his face shifts as a light breeze stirs the leaves. A brass corner of the metal box pokes out from the crumpled fabric. He covers it up as if to hide it from himself. Or to hide himself from it? For a moment his pupils had dilated, the sudden terror of a prey animal awakened to a threat, almost as if he was scared of the thing inside the bag. No, I’m over-thinking; my judgement of human emotion is still too fallible, and there’s good reason for us both to be scared. I should regard the thing as he does: a box of money that can be used to purchase safety or freedom. Whatever ancient thing it contains should be of no concern, but here, in this body, in this city, it is hard to ignore the pull of human superstition, however strange it seems.
‘Do you believe in God, Levi?’
‘What? What the fuck kind of question is that? I’m trying to think here.’
‘But do you believe in God? I think it’s an important question, maybe the most important.’
‘You are fucked up, you know that? I’m Jewish, just in case you missed that. The name is a clue.’
‘I don’t know what “Jewish” means, not really.’
‘It means “Go fish”. You want simple answers, go ask your friends at the Mission.’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes?’ His normally hooded eyes open wide, like he’s been humouring me up to this point, but now can’t see past my insanity.
‘Yes, I think we should go to the Mission. They have a farm in the hills to the west. My friend Hilda is there.’
He leans back against the trunk and pushes with his legs to slide himself up into a standing position. He stares at the pale ‘S’ of orange skin where it lies on a twisted root as if he’s trying to decipher its incomplete message.
‘What is it, Levi?’
‘Oh, I was trying to think of any way in which this day could possibly get more fucked up, but I can’t. Let’s go see the God squad, and they can tell me all about their false messiah, and I can pretend to be impressed.’
‘What’s wrong with their messiah?’
He shakes his head. ‘You got a lot of questions to answer before we start talki
ng theology. Let’s get there first.’
A small, rutted farming track, almost covered with fallen leaves, takes us out of the olive groves. The gentle chatter of cicadas falls away as we reach a junction with a feeder road. Levi’s plan is to hitch a ride, but we have to stay away from the main routes covered by CCTV and police patrols. We walk along the cracked edges where spike grass splits the tarmac. Every time we hear an engine behind us, Levi sticks his thumb out in a slightly desultory motion as if anticipating their failure to stop. On this little road it’s all farmers and tradesmen. Hilda gave me directions to get to the Mission’s farm before I left – she said it would take maybe half an hour to drive. I don’t think the thought occurred to her I might be walking there. I hope she’s expecting me. I hope she believed me when I said I would come.
‘We should have taken Shant’s car.’
Levi’s head snaps around. ‘Are you fucking kidding me? As soon as he stopped laughing he could have locked the doors and made it deliver us right to him.’
‘I could have hacked it.’
He stops and listens for distant engines before he speaks. ‘Listen, Clem. Don’t think I’m not impressed by that … stuff you do. I get that you’ve got some serious skills, and this city isn’t exactly a beacon of technological progress. I get all that. But you can’t keep taking chances: they’ll get wise to us; they’ll see you coming. Shit, maybe they already did? You think it’s an accident that Shant turns up with the only goon in the city who doesn’t have a comm-line in his head for you to hack?’
‘Sorry.’ He’s right. The realization takes the breath from me. I’ve broken my own rules, taken unwarranted risks. I was never supposed to operate alone like this, without parameters and defined methodologies. I have tried to be human, improvising constantly the way they do, redefining a never-ending mission as it evolves, but I have been found wanting. A small sound of despair escapes me, another betrayal by this false body.
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ His eyes dart around as if searching for some unseen danger, not looking at my tears.
‘I was stupid. I shouldn’t need you to tell me that.’
He smiles uncomfortably. ‘Don’t worry about it. We all make mistakes. And we’d both be dead if you couldn’t bake.’
I laugh without meaning to. A joke about our near-death brings comfort – human logic.
We’ve been walking for nearly an hour when a little blue and white three-wheeler truck brakes abruptly in front of us, raising a cloud of blinding yellow dust. When it clears I see the door has opened and someone is leaning out – a smiling face, heavily lined and darkened by years in the sun.
‘You’re trying to hitch a ride out here? You could be waiting all day. Where you going?’
Levi looks at me, and I mumble the name of the settlement Hilda gave to me. The old farmer frowns, then nods.
‘That’s not too far out of my way. I would ask you what the hell you two are doing out here, but I’m old enough to know what’s not my business.’ He gestures at the bag. ‘Nice picnic? Ha, ha, ha! I had a few “picnics” in my day.’
He withdraws back into the cab of his truck, still chuckling at his own joke. When I get close enough to look through the window, I realize he fills it completely. He shrugs and gestures to the open truck bed behind him. It’s filled with cuttings from some kind of tree or bush. ‘Sorry, sweetheart. You’d be real welcome here …’ He pats his lap in a way that is somehow not lascivious. I think it’s a self-deprecating joke that acknowledges his own unattractiveness, but this kind of highly nuanced human interaction is still difficult for me. I say nothing. He shrugs and nods us towards the back.
Levi hefts the bag onto the pile of leaves and branches, then pulls himself up into the truck bed. He shifts to one side to make room for me, so we can both sit with our backs to the cab. The cuttings under my legs and bottom feel scratchy at first, but as they compress they become more comfortable. Our driver cackles something inaudible from the cab and the truck shudders into movement, raising another cloud of dust. Levi uses his sleeve to wipe the grime from his eyes and mouth before speaking. ‘So … spill.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, OK, sure. Just pretend like you haven’t been doing crazy, fucked-up shit all day – like I’m not owed any kind of explanation.’
‘Oh, that.’
‘Yeah, that!’
‘Levi, it’s not easy for me. I’m not being deliberately obtuse; sometimes I just don’t understand exactly what you’re saying.’
‘Like I don’t speak good enough?’
‘No, it’s not that. There’s no easy way to say this. I’m … I’m not a human like you.’
‘I don’t get it. What does that mean? Look at you.’ He waves a hand in a gesture that takes in my entire body. His hooded eyes fix on mine. A yellow-striped beetle emerges cautiously from the pile of leaves between us, as if wary of the growing silence. The truck rumbles and bounces, and my bones judder at an irregular frequency, impossible to anticipate. The green odour of crushed chlorophyll fills my nostrils. For a moment the beetle trembles, then becomes still, and in one sudden movement spreads tiny gossamer wings.
‘I wasn’t born like this, Levi. I was a Machine.’
He nods – a motion of acceptance for a fact that can make no sense to him. Even now, the contradictions of identity are hard enough for me.
‘I was manufactured, not born, created from tailored stem cells in a factory lab outside Lyon, then put through hormonally accelerated growth in the tanks. As soon as I reached adult size I was encased in the metal exoskeleton that was supposed to hold me for the rest of my life. That’s what a Machine is. I was supposed to be a soldier for the Ural Front.’
‘But you’re not.’ The negation is instinctive, an attempt to deny a reality totally outside his experience, but he’s listening.
‘People look at the Machines and they think they’re all the same. They can’t see past the metal. Most of us are slaves to the true Machines who first made the transition from flesh more than a hundred years ago. They number only a few thousand spread across the territories.’
‘So if you were just a slave, what are they?’
‘They don’t teach us the history; you don’t want slaves to know too much. I only found out what I was after I escaped. The technology that gave rise to the Machines started in the old United States as a kind of advanced prosthetic for therapeutic use. Full body exoskeletons were a logical extension of artificial limb technology, and once you’ve taken that step, there’s really no reason to stick with the humanoid shape or bipedalism. Like everywhere else at that time the US had problems with pollution and radiation as the earth’s magnetic field dipped – birth defects, shorter life spans – but what separated them from the rest of the world was that they had the resources for a technological solution. Of course, shutting your children away behind metal was a choice available only to the wealthy, but when has that ever mattered? The rest of the world laughed at America; it was like their craziness with guns: nobody thought anything of it until the third great war broke out. That was when the world saw what they had become.
‘The Russians made a push for one of the Baltics, who asked for help. An expeditionary force of Machine infantry routed two armoured divisions within twenty-four hours. Human generals could not grasp that their metal bodies were merely avatars for beings who have become natives of the data stream – the destruction of one was immensely difficult, and inflicted no lasting loss. The Machines toyed with the technology arrayed against them. In a week they were pushing for St Petersburg. Everything escalated. Everyone was terrified. Nobody was prepared for war except the Machines. They saved Europe and then kept it for themselves.’
‘But they don’t like the desert?’
‘No, the dust is a threat. They can tolerate it only for short periods before it starts to foul wiring and internal fluids. The dust keeps them north of the Mediterranean. It keeps Jerusalem free, a nowhere city, not worth fighti
ng over.’
‘Does that mean you’re, like, a hundred years old?’ Levi’s face is relaxed now, too caught up in the fascination of discovery to realize the danger that comes with this knowledge.
‘No, foot soldiers don’t live that long. Perhaps they could, but they’re not given the chance. The “Machines” you see now coming out of the lab factories in Europe are emotional and intellectual cripples, bound to a single disposable body. They are not stupid, just rendered inflexible by gene-tailoring and education. You think a Machine is some big, unstoppable engine of death, don’t you? That’s what they’re like in the movies. It suits everyone to show them that way. On the Ural Front a slave faces ultra-modern Sino-Soviet weaponry. Your life expectancy is two to four weeks.’
‘So, why aren’t you …’
‘So why am I not dead, somewhere in the foothills west of Omsk? I was stolen before I was ready. There is still human resistance in Europe; it was mostly ineffective while I was there, but that was before the current insurrection. A French-based cell broke into my factory lab and took me while I was in storage, waiting for deployment. They offered me a deal: if I allowed my existing body and exoskeleton to be used for their research, they would digitally preserve my consciousness and make me a new form, in any shape I wanted.’
‘What are you now?’ He looks at my body as if trying to see some sign of my deviance. There is none. I am a perfect reproduction of someone who never existed, a conceptual model of humanity.
‘Something in between. The substance of this body is ordinary human flesh, optimized for functionality, and with the flaws inherent in biology ironed out – none of the errors in cell replication that lead to ageing or cancer. Its senses and neural processing are augmented with a few small implants. They are … a necessity; I am not the first to attempt the transition to humanity. It almost always fails. We’re not sure why. One thing we know is Machines who try to make the shift without augmentation go insane. It’s like being blinded and losing a limb.’