by Greg Chivers
‘Wait a minute. You’re saying your body isn’t you?’
‘It wasn’t. I’m starting to feel differently now; I’ve spent the last year in this body trying to learn how to be a human woman. It’s … It’s a lot harder than I thought.’
‘A year?’
‘In human terms, I have only been alive six years. Fourteen months ago, I chose to be this.’
Shock slackens Levi’s face. ‘You’re a child … How? I didn’t know … I’m so sorry.’
‘What for? You didn’t do this to me.’
He shakes his head, looking at the sky. ‘I’m sorry the world fucked you over, Clementine.’ His face is grave, a visual key to the nuance of language: apology as expression of sympathy; even the most ordinary humans seem effortlessly to shrug aside these imprecisions of language, while all my gifts leave me struggling to bypass the literal.
‘Thank you. I’m not sure what to say. I’ve never had a conversation like this. I don’t want to get it wrong.’
‘You don’t have to worry about that, not with me. The truth is, we all get “it” wrong.’
‘You’re humouring me. There is no need, really.’
‘I’m not humouring anyone. I’m telling you what being human is. We can’t communicate. What we say is never what we mean. We get it wrong every single time.’
‘Even now?’
A smile banishes the sorrow from his face. ‘Except now, obviously. Consider this the one and only time in your life when the person you are talking to will make any goddamn sense.’ He grabs a handful of leaves from the cuttings beneath us and rubs them between his fingers, caught in an idea. ‘Can I … ask you questions about stuff? Is that, like, upsetting for you?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t always know what upsets me, or anyone else. You can try.’
‘OK, so first thing – how come you found me? Where does a Machine runaway get my name?’
The question summons the memory of a crowded dockside. The insurrection was still only a spark. You could still travel if you had money. ‘I bought passage from a Marseille trafficker called Farouz Mubarrak. He said he was from Jerusalem. He had contacts here who could help me find work.’
‘Ha! You know, Yusuf was obsessed after you came in throwing that name around. He wanted to know your story, and that was the only thing we knew about you. Turns out he has a cousin with a boat who took it west to make money.’
‘And you didn’t know he was flashing your name around?’
‘No idea. I mean, who the fuck would use my name for anything?’
‘It worked on me. I needed to believe there would be a connection where I was going. I needed it to be someone the Machines wouldn’t find.’
‘I guess that makes sense. Anyone who fits that description isn’t going to be someone you can call up to check their bona fides. You had to take a risk.’ He looks hard at me. ‘So tell me this, if you’re a Machine, why were you baking bounce brownies in my apartment?’
‘I want to live, Levi. I want to do human things. You’d been out taking drugs with your friends. People pay you money for it. I thought it must be fun. I tried to put one of the tablets in my mouth but it was bitter and I had to spit it out. I read that sometimes people who don’t like drugs bake them in cakes, so I looked up how to make brownies.’
A barely audible shout from our driver warns us we’re getting near the drop-off. Single-storey, whitewashed houses drift past on either side of the road. This must be the village Hilda mentioned. The truck pulls over in a barely perceptible layby and the old man’s arm points up a narrow track that winds around a parched-looking hill. ‘That’s where your crazies farm for God. Don’t be fooled by that little track – they’ve a big spread up there. Hallelujah, or whatever it is they say.’
Levi climbs out of the truck bed and puts his arms up for me to pass him the bag. Again, his pupils dilate for a fraction of a second when his fingers close around the handle. I don’t know if he’s even conscious of it. As soon as the strap’s around his shoulder he raises a hand to help me out of the truck. ‘Careful, the ground’s loose around here.’
‘Uh … it’s OK, Levi. I can get down myself.’
‘Shit, Clementine. You might be a robot ninja or whatever, but this has been a hell of a day for a six-year-old.’ He bangs twice on the back of the truck and waves as it pulls away with its high-pitched horn tooting. We turn and start walking on the dry path that twists around the hill ahead of us. After a few steps he puts his arm around my shoulder and leans in close. It feels safe. ‘OK, here’s the first Levi Peres lesson in being human. Stay off the bounce, or any other shit that someone like me tries to sell you in a cellophane bag.’
‘But you take it?’
‘Only for business. Bounce won’t kill you, but it messes with your head. You take too much of it, you forget how to be happy.’
‘So you’re happy because you don’t take it?’
‘Welcome to humanity, Clementine.’
21.
Silas
A man with a donkey’s head roams the stage. The spotlight picks out bare patches in the grey fur of the headpiece. The actor totters on his feet as if unbalanced by the weight of the thing; he is supposed to be under the dizzying influence of a magical spell. The character rejoices in the name ‘Bottom’, apparently.
‘Why are we here, Sybil?’
She shifts uncomfortably in the darkness. Her presence at the back of the box keeps her out of view of anyone outside while permitting me to work discreetly. Events are moving quickly, and I cannot afford to waste two hours purely for the sake of making an appearance.
‘You wanted to be seen to engage with European culture, sir, something to avoid being typecast as the xenophobe candidate, you said.’
‘Yes, yes, but what is the point of this performance? What pleasure is any sane human supposed to derive from watching this?’
‘It is a comedy, sir, written by a playwright widely acknowledged to be the greatest of all time.’
‘I know who Shakespeare is, thank you, my dear. I just struggle to see any merit in this. None of it makes sense. It certainly isn’t funny. Wasn’t there anything else we could do?’
‘This was the only window in your diary for a month. Also you’ve got a cultural delegation from Timbuktu coming, and you wanted something to talk about with them “just in case they start banging on about art”. I could have booked us into an evening of slam poetry at the Gala?’
‘Ugh. All right, you’ve made your point. Let’s make the best of it. Give us some privacy.’
‘Of course.’
The sound of fairies singing fades to nothing as she deploys the cancellation field to grant us privacy. Anyone looking from outside will see only the blackness of an empty opera box, a common enough sight. My appearance at the event will have been marked by anyone who cares enough to notice, and most eyes should be on the stage. Freed of the constraints of being observed, Sybil produces a data slate from beneath her seat. The light from discarded messages illuminates her face in a flickering patchwork as she sifts through work put on hold while we imbibe our dose of culture.
‘What news on Amos?’
She listens without raising her head. ‘He’s up to something, but I haven’t been able to get specifics.’ Her finger settles on the slate. ‘He’s being super careful, and his counter-surveillance is good. Bugs are being swept as fast as we put them down.’
‘What about our people in the justice department? They must hear something of what’s going on; that’s what we pay them for.’
‘Glassberg never lets anyone get close. We infiltrated a PA into his office, but he doesn’t even talk to her. Our assets risk compromising themselves if they try anything overt.’
‘I think they’ll find it’s riskier taking my money and not delivering the goods. Never mind. Give me what we have.’
Her hand comes away from the data slate, and she looks up to face me. ‘It’s all bits and pieces. We know from multiple sources
he’s taking an active interest in the investigation into your brush with death, requesting both reports and view of raw data.’
‘Unusual, but within his purview as Chief Justice. The evidence chain we’ve constructed leads unequivocally to the conclusion it was an assassination attempt perpetrated by members of the Mission. It should stand up to scrutiny. What else?’
‘He’s obviously not buying it. He’s requested at least two closed-door meetings with Ayed Khalil.’
‘Why the secrecy? That’s not like him.’ Involving the city’s police commandant is a predictable move on Glassberg’s part; the old chief is the closest thing he has to an ally. Meetings between the two of them are routine. In ordinary circumstances I wouldn’t bother about them. Khalil isn’t dangerous, but he’s a potential conduit for information, and the officers on the street do what he says. If Amos has a plan, Khalil can make it happen.
‘We don’t know. Whatever they discuss is completely off-record. There’s no schedule or agenda registered prior to the visits, and no minutes afterwards. It’s like they never happened.’
A sense of unease pours through me like cold water. ‘That’s worrying: we can’t afford for Amos to go rogue, not at a time like this. What’s he up to? Fill in the blanks for me.’
She sits back in her chair and smooths the disobedient fringe away from her face. It sometimes puzzles me why she chooses to hide her talents behind a mouse-like exterior, but I suppose the anonymity grants a freedom of sorts. In the gloom of the shrouded box, she could be anyone. ‘We know Amos has requested a list of suspects based on motive. The list of people who might want to kill you is a long one, and includes known figures from the city’s underworld, so we wouldn’t expect them to draw any conclusions based on that alone.’ She pauses as if stuck on something.
‘Go on.’
‘The activity of officers assigned to the case indicates they’re working through that list systematically. It’s like they’re starting from scratch – no leads. If they keep going like this, it could be weeks or even months before they uncover a religious motive for the glass-fitters to booby-trap the roof.’
‘We don’t have that much time! This has to hit the headlines before election day or we’re toast. Surely they can’t completely ignore the trail we laid? I practically painted a target on my back for the Missionaries!’
‘I thought dismissing their “Messiah’s tomb” as a Roman sewer was a little over the top.’ She grimaces at the memory of two days of outrage played out in the media. The news cycle moved on. It always does.
‘It worked. I even received genuine threats. The investigation should be all over it by now, and the plods should be high-fiving themselves for being so clever. Why aren’t they doing anything about it?’
Sybil holds my gaze, waiting for a decision. Everything hangs on the investigation. If the plan follows its course, Glassberg will be presiding over the trial of the century on the eve of the election. The web of circumstance we have woven presents him with a devil’s choice: to acquit three lay brothers from the Mission in the face of powerful evidence, incurring the wrath of every hardliner in the city, or to convict three men who are probably innocent. Both choices damn him, one way or another. It was all going to be perfect, but this secrecy suggests he has somehow scented the trap.
‘Let’s say you’re right. Let’s say he sees the frame, and he worked it out all the way through to the endgame – I didn’t think he had the imagination, but you’d be a fool to underestimate Glassberg. What’s his next move?’
She brightens again. ‘Oh, that’s easy. He comes after you.’
‘Us, Sybil dear. He comes after us, and you’d do well not to forget it.’
Sybil is a phenomenon, but, like any employee, she does her best work when provided with the correct motivation. While Glassberg’s development of teeth is inconvenient and potentially dangerous, it provides both carrot and stick for my talented assistant. Her elevation to my ministerial seat, and our continued liberty, both depend on keeping him in check.
She shrugs, undaunted. ‘He can try. He won’t be the first.’
‘Don’t be fooled by the grey exterior. Amos Glassberg is a different proposition to squeezing a few low-rent Armenian gangsters with delusions of grandeur. You should regard him as the most dangerous man in Jerusalem. He is smart, utterly ruthless, and his position as Justice Minister gives him unrestricted emergency powers. We are standing upwind of a lion – a moment’s shift in the breeze could kill us. We need to be watertight. What’s our potential exposure?’
Her nose wrinkles and her brows crease in thought for a few moments before she shakes her head. ‘Minimal. We’ve been careful not to leave loose ends. The only threat is hearsay from a few criminals who’ve been peripherally involved in the antiquities operation.’
‘What about the Antikythera job? It’s ongoing, clients and contractors at large: until the device is in our hands, it has the potential to get messy.’
‘True, but there’s nothing to point Glassberg in that direction. Wait. Oh shit …’ She pauses, biting her bottom lip.
‘What is it?’
Seconds pass while she chooses her words. In a lesser individual, you might take her hesitation as evidence of fear, but Sybil is only ever guilty of sensible caution where I am concerned.
‘Boutros.’
‘What?’ The name means nothing to me: sounds Egyptian.
She sighs, then catches herself and adopts a neutral tone. ‘The curator responsible for the device – you know, the one we found in a pool of his own blood, minus his fingernails.’
‘Oh, him. We didn’t kill him.’
‘No, but we disposed of the body and filed a missing person’s report.’
‘You did what?’
She meets my glare without flinching. ‘We followed procedure. Anything else would have been suspicious.’
Irritation flares briefly within me. I suppress it. She’s right, and anyway, an AWOL curator could draw attention, but is not of itself a crime. Her eyes narrow as she studies me, gauging my mood. In my early days at the ministry, I took great pains to keep my temper in check, conscious of the danger of distracting or upsetting staff I needed to function at peak efficiency. These days I unleash it rarely, but it does no harm to show the lash from time to time.
‘You want me to pull the plug on the Antikythera op? If the Mechanism goes back in the museum, a missing curator leads nowhere. It’s the safe play.’
‘No, money like that doesn’t come along every day, and I might still need the Mechanism to keep the Russians on side. Young Levi has been a pain in the backside, but his discretion might actually prove useful. Nobody knows the thing is gone. We should move it on as soon as it’s in our hands, but delay the announcement of the theft – wait for a big news day when nobody’s going to give a shit about some missing antique.’
‘So what do you want to do about Amos while you’re sealing the deal? We can’t touch him; he’s clean.’
‘We’ll have to give the pieces to someone else and have them draw the picture for themselves. I’m sure one of our pet journalists would love to get his teeth into this.’
‘Sir, if I may?’ The curl of Sybil’s narrow lips betrays pride. If she has thought of something clever, it would be a shame to waste it.
‘Go on.’
‘If something like this came from one of our regular media sources, it might not be given the weight we would wish. If it’s not front page, it’s not going to mean anything and we won’t get another shot at this.’
‘What do you propose?’
‘We leak the data through a proxy to one of your more implacable critics – perhaps Neumann at the Echo? Someone credible will give it weight, make it harder to ignore.’
A smile creeps around the corners of my mouth. Sybil’s mind is the perfect tool for tasks like this. ‘Neumann? That’s a risk.’
‘Yes.’
‘All right, do it. Be sparing, mind. Make sure she has just enough f
ragments to come to the conclusion that the investigation into my attempted murder is being deliberately stalled. And try to make sure she can join the dots between the case and the easy ride Glassberg has given to all the God-botherers who’ve been through his courtroom.’
‘That last bit will be difficult.’
‘But not, I feel, impossible. If the public buys the idea that Glassberg is a closet Mission sympathizer, we might not even need to nudge the poll data, and if one of his biggest cheerleaders delivers the knife, it will go that much deeper. Consider it a challenge. You know the stakes.’
‘I’ll do what I can. Do you want to watch the rest of the play?’ Sybil’s thumb hovers over the activation pad for the shrouding field on her data slate.
‘I suppose I better had. I’m supposed to be seen, and I still need something to talk about with the Timbuktu delegation. How long have we got left?’
‘Hard to say. We should be near the end of the third act, but I wasn’t really following it. I lost the thread when the actors playing the part of actors started explaining the plot of their play.’
‘Yes, that bit was confusing, and I don’t understand why they’re called Mechanicals. It all looks like something out of the Dark Ages, not a Machine in sight.’
A human voice coarsened to imitate the bray of an ass pierces the silence of the box as the shroud disappears. The donkey is singing.
‘Actually, I’ve changed my mind. Turn it off please, Sybil. I think I’ve had enough European culture for one day.’
22.
Clementine
Seven vast, perfect green circles form an incomplete square on the yellow dust of the valley floor, a one-sided game of tic-tac-toe played out in the desert on a giant scale by men and women with hoes and rakes – vegetables for the Lord. Their chlorophyll brightness is an invasion from another world; I haven’t seen that colour since France. Levi walks beside me, paying little attention to the strange vista in front of us, instead looking at me as if I might break.