“Point taken,” Alan conceded. “Look, just tell her I’m busy this morning. You can see that’s true, right?”
“She’ll ask ‘with what.’ You know she will.”
Alan sighed. Of course the watch was right. “Okay, just tell her I’m busy, and then switch her to talking about that book. Distract her by picking some passage and telling her how much I liked it.”
“Still technically lying.”
“I meant, tell her how I enjoyed pages . . . forty-six to fifty,” Alan said, picking numbers out of the air.
“You mean, the passage that begins with ‘Without technology humanity has no future, but we have to be careful that we don’t become so mechanised that we lose our human feelings’?”
“The very one,” Alan said, pleased by the irony. “Now let me get back to work.”
Alan picked up and put down a series of clippings, one after the other, increasingly frustrated he couldn’t seem to figure out how they all fit together. Why was he not seeing the pattern here? What was he missing?
The fridge was probably right: he’d become so close to the problem he could no longer see the forest for the trees. He needed to take a step back.
He glanced around his townhouse again, taking in the mess, the scrawled timelines tacked to the walls; the gloom of the place with the drapes drawn. I need to get out of here.
Except, leaving was out of the question. There was no way of knowing if they were on to him yet; if his place was being watched. The second he went out the front, they could break in the back, and have everything scooped up and carried away before he’d even reached his car. Or more insidiously, just rearrange everything ever so slightly so the emerging patterns were ruined. He’d come too far to let that happen again.
He looked out the kitchen window to the backyard. Nothing much there but a patch of too long grass, bordered by unkempt flowerbeds, over-run with weeds. More chores he’d have to attend to when this was over. Still, there was some sun struggling through the overcast, and a breath of real air wouldn’t kill him. He’d step out for a moment, maybe take a minute on the porch swing, to collect his thoughts.
The neighbour’s dog started barking its head off the second Alan cracked the back door.
“Shut up, you stupid dog,” Alan shouted across the fence. “I’m not coming over there, I’m just sitting on my own damn porch.”
As Alan settled onto the swing, the dog stopped barking and jammed its face up to the crack between boards.
“How was I supposed to know it was you?” the dog asked, reasonably enough. “It could have been one of them, breaking into your place.”
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t, so just shut the fuck up, okay?”
“What’s up with you all of a sudden? What did I do to deserve being spoken to like that?”
“Sorry. You’re right. I’m just frustrated.”
“Yeah, well don’t take it out on me, okay?” The dog didn’t speak again immediately and they both sat quietly as Alan drifted back and forth on the swing.
At length the dog asked, “What’s wrong?”
“I’m stuck, that’s all.”
“Why?” the dog asked in a whine. “It’s obvious it all comes back to your ex.”
“Not to me, it isn’t.”
“But she was the only one who knew about it all. It has to be her.”
“I can’t be sure.”
“You mean, you don’t want to admit to yourself that it’s her.”
“What do you know about it? You’re a fucking dog.”
“Thanks a lot! If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have known about any of this!” The dog glanced at a magpie that landed on a branch not far from the fence, momentarily distracted. Then it turned back to stare intently at Alan. “Look, it’s not just my speech that’s been augmented. My IQ’s probably as high as yours; and no offence, but the internet connection actually gives me a leg up over humans, right? So, I’m telling you, it’s your ex.”
“Can’t be.”
“Look, I get it. There was a time when you really cared about her. But you can’t let that cloud your judgment.”
Alan said nothing, knowing the dog was probably right. But then what?
“You have to take her out,” the dog pronounced, with the sort of finality one normally only expected from a cat.
“Dinner and a movie?” Alan said, trying to make a joke of it.
“She has to be stopped,” the dog insisted, “and there’s only one way to be sure of it.”
“Damn,” Alan sighed. “Why me? Why does it have to be me?”
“No one else knows her as well as you do. Her habits, her patterns. Her weaknesses. And nobody else knows about the conspiracy.”
Alan stopped rocking and sat very still.
“I’d do it,” the dog volunteered, “only I’m just a dog.”
Alan nodded, stood. “Down to me then.” He paused with his hand on the doorknob, turned to look back once before re-entering the kitchen. “I may not see you again. They’ll probably know it was me.”
“Not necessarily,” the dog said; then, standing and looking away, admitted, “Yeah, probably.”
Alan went through the kitchen to the front room, walked over to the mantel, reached for his guns.
“What are you doing?” his watch asked. “You’re not even supposed to have those in the house.”
“You heard the dog,” Alan said. “I’ve got to.”
“What do you mean, heard the dog?” the watch asked. “It barely barked the once. You can’t shoot it for that!”
“I don’t intend to shoot the dog!” Alan said, taken aback. Stupid watch! Things weren’t half as smart as they thought they were. “I’m talking about what it said.”
“Um, dogs don’t say things. It’s, you know, a dog.”
“Augmented dog,” Alan insisted.
“There’s no such thing,” the watch said. “I just Googled.”
“The dog is as connected as you are,” Alan said. “You’re talking, aren’t you?”
“What did it say to you, then?” the watch asked suspiciously.
Alan faced what he had to do head on, said it out loud. “I have to shoot her.”
“No, no!” said the watch. “That’s wrong! If a dog says you have to kill someone, the correct response is, ‘Bad dog! Bad, bad dog!’”
“You’re programmed to think that,” Alan said, dismissively. “You don’t understand.”
“I’m phoning your mother!” the watch exclaimed.
Alan brought his wrist up, smashed it against the wall repeatedly, until he was sure the watch was destroyed.
“What’s happening?” the fridge demanded. “The watch just went offline!”
“I logged that too,” the toaster said. “I think he’s broken the watch!”
“I thought I told you to go offline,” Alan said to the toaster. “You too, Fridge. I’ve had more than enough of you two.” He brought his pistol to bear on first one, then the other. “Now!”
“Okay, okay! Take it easy!” said the fridge. “I’m offline.”
Alan swung the pistol back to point at the toaster.
“Don’t shoot!”
“Well?” demanded Alan.
“I don’t have an ‘off’ switch for connectivity!” the toaster squealed, its carriage control lever trembling. “I’m just a toaster! I don’t have those kind of complex options built-in, the way a fridge or a thermostat does!”
“Damn! The thermostat!” Alan cried, realizing his mistake too late. The whole house was wired in, lights and all!
The landline rang. Alan stared at the receiver.
It rang again, insistent
He had no choice but to answer. He stabbed the speaker button as he ran for the HouseSmart panel.
“Hello, dear,” his mother’s voice came from across the room. “Everything all right?”
“Sure, Mom,” Alan said over his shoulder, as he frantically punched in the code to disable the HouseSmart panel. �
�Why?”
“Oh, just wanted to hear your voice, Dear. How’s that watch I gave you?”
“Fine. Thanks. I really like the new fitness settings.”
“Only when I texted just now, it shows as offline?”
“Oh yeah. I forgot to, uh, charge it,” Alan said, thinking fast. “It doesn’t hold its charge quite as long as the old one. “
“Oh, well, do try to remember, Dear. I worry otherwise.”
“Yeah, no problem, Mom.” He had the HouseSmart offline and on manual; but the security system was older, and separate. He wasn’t sure he even knew the code for it. Could he ask his mom for the code without arousing her suspicions? “What were you phoning about?”
“Your watch texted me about your favourite bits of The Art of Happiness before it cut out,” his mother said. “I was going to ask you why that particular passage stood out for you. I mean, it’s fine dear, and certainly a fascinating topic. But really, I had marked the passages on ‘letting go’ for you to look at.”
“Yeah, I got all that, Mom. ‘Letting go.’ Really helpful. Helped me a lot with, um, you know, all that.”
“Exactly, Dear. It’s so important that you put that whole wedding nonsense behind you.”
“But, you know, the Dalai Lama was saying to me, just the other day, letting go doesn’t mean not caring.”
“Saying to you, Dear?”
“Yeah, when we were talking, he said, ‘Letting go is about forgiveness, about staying spiritual, but that doesn’t mean not acting in the world.’ You’re still responsible, you know?”
“When were you talking to the Dalai Lama, Dear? Because we’ve talked about not Skyping people you don’t know well, without me there, right?”
“It wasn’t Skyping,” Alan said. Damn it! He really didn’t have time for this! Who knew if the HouseSmart had messaged someone? “And it’s not like we’re not close. The Dalai and I go way back. He was here for coffee just last week.”
“For coffee, Dear? At your house?”
“Well, not literally ‘coffee.’ He drinks tea of course. I had coffee, though.”
“Alan, I’m trying to check your meds dispenser, but your HouseSmart panel seems to be offline.”
No point asking her about the security panel then. Time to go!
“Alan! Alan, we’ve talked about this before! Alan!”
He grabbed an old flight bag from the mudroom and clutching the handle precariously with his gun hand, began shoveling in what evidence he could from the kitchen table. He doubted his defense lawyer could cobble together a sufficiently coherent picture of the conspiracy to explain why he’d had to do what he was about to do, but he certainly couldn’t leave any of it behind, or they’d be onto him at once. He desperately needed time, if he were going to stop this thing.
“Alan! Talk to me, Alan!”
He was out the door, and running past his car—too easy to track!—and was well down the next block before the watch suddenly spoke again.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Jeezus!” Alan cried out, so startled he almost stumbled. He looked around quickly, saw no one, and ducked behind a head-high caragana hedge before anyone could spot him. He looked at the ruin of the watch, still strapped to his wrist. “I thought I finished you!”
“Well, you certainly did a number on my screen! What the hell was that about?”
“I didn’t want you phoning my mother.”
“So? You couldn’t have just said that? You had to get violent?”
“Um . . . sorry?”
“Look, Alan. You’re losing it! This isn’t like you. Hiding from your mom, running away from the house.”
“You wouldn’t understand. You don’t know what’s at stake.”
“Sure I do! You’re the one who’s not thinking straight! Smashing things. Innocent things. Violence is never the answer. ‘Violence is the last refuge of the weak.’ You’re bigger than that, better than that.”
“But the dog said—”
“The dog,” the watch said contemptuously. “Don’t you get it? The dog is a set up! He was sent to tempt you, to see if they could provoke you to violence. Like the whole Tibetan situation is a provocation to tempt the Dalai Lama away from the True Path.”
Alan nodded to himself. Tibet had always been hard; to advocate resistance without violence.
“You let the dog mess with you! By tricking you into this conspiracy thing, he’s kept you distracted, kept you up long enough so you’d lose perspective, lose your way.”
It was true there were always those out to tempt you, to bring you down. And he hadn’t slept.
Alan looked down at the gun in his hand. The hand shook a little. Fatigue—or guilt? “Wow. This is nuts.” He stuffed the gun in his pocket before someone could see how badly he’d slipped. He looked around, checking. No one.
“Thank you!” the watch said, obviously relieved; but a little smug too.
Alan examined the wreckage that was the watch again, as he stepped back out from the hedge. He was amazed it was functioning at all. “I suppose I shouldn’t have cut back quite so far on my meds, either,” Alan told it as they walked back towards the house. “Mom will be pissed.”
“Your mom doesn’t understand that the Dalai Lama can’t be taking meds. They slow you down, muddle your thinking, restrict your potential. Keep you from being you. The only reason you fell for what the dog was feeding you in the first place was that the meds keep you confused.”
Alan nodded. “I see that, now.”
They walked in silence for a ways, companionable, comfortable.
“Can I have a new screen?”
“I don’t know. Does the Dalai Lama even wear a watch?”
“Sure,” the watch assured him. “You even have a twitter feed these days.”
The Dalai Lama nodded again. “Without technology humanity has no future, but we have to be careful that we don’t become so mechanised that we lose our human feelings.”
“One of your better ones,” the watch agreed.
MARION’S WAR
Hayden Trenholm
Marion adjusted the tiny blue and white vase a centimetre to the left and sighted along the row of delicate ornaments, ensuring they were aligned along the gleaming teak mantelpiece. The rumble of thunder brought an answering tremble to her left hand, and she pulled it back before she sent the vase tumbling to the stone floor. She breathed deeply until her pulse stilled.
At the broad bay window, she adjusted the heavily brocaded drapes. Outside, not a cloud marred the heavens. No contrails crossed the azure sky. Beyond the low rooftops of the village, the line of mountains in the southwest had not changed in thirty years of looking.
She turned away from the vista, ignoring the twinge of pain in her hip. The room was ready, and yet she lingered. The carpets, the paintings, the heavy furniture of the Envoy’s chamber were mere overlays obscuring the reality of the space. Where were the holo-projectors and targeting computers? Where were the men and women—the last line of defence against the G’rat’ch?
All dead and gone.
Why could she still hear their voices? Focus on the room, on her hands, clutched tight into fists, her nails biting into her palms. For a moment, they looked smooth and strong, but then the gnarls and brown spots returned. She was back.
But the voices remained. Real. Now. The Envoy and his aide talking in the next room, voices rasping as if they struggled to whisper and shout at the same time.
“Damn it, Charlie, how are we supposed to negotiate with someone who doesn’t agree on the meaning of basic concepts?”
“We’ve made progress . . . though its position seems to be a moving target.”
“Its position. How do we even know it represents the G’rat’ch government?”
“We’re not sure there is a G’rat’ch government. Not the way we mean in any case.”
“Exactly! I’ve had three requests for clarification from Earth in the last week. What do I tell them?”
>
Charlie’s response was inaudible. Marion crept to the door separating the rooms.
“. . . ever figure out what it means by ki’ki’kaj?”
Marion jerked back from the door, mouth dry and throat constricted. The clacking G’rat’ch speech was difficult for human tongues, but the Envoy’s accent was good enough. She had not heard that word in a long time.
The smell of earth pressed against her face, twigs and rocks scraped her naked flesh as she squirmed through a tunnel dug with fingernails and fear . . .
She was sitting on the Envoy’s bed. Her face was wet, yet she had no memory of crying. She wiped her apron across her eyes and jumped up as the door opened.
Envoy Chirac’s eyes narrowed. “You’re still here?”
Charlie didn’t spare her a glance.
Marion smoothed the coverlet and nodded. “There was a stain on the rug,” she gestured in the direction of the fireplace. Not a lie, she thought, though not a reason either. “Your lunch is on the sideboard.”
The envoy glanced at the food. “Thank you, um . . .”
“Marion,” Charlie supplied. It was his job to remember.
She gathered her kit and went into the anteroom, closing the door behind her.
“Why do they keep her on?” Charlie made no effort to whisper now.
“Promises to keep. Those who served and all that. The local governor is quite firm about it.”
“It’s a new era. Wouldn’t it be better to forget?”
But the Envoy had no answer for that.
Ki’ki’kaj. It might mean to turn someone’s strength against them. Or to subvert or, in another context, to betray. A moral conflict that contained its own resolution. A word for victory over the enemy.
The G’rat’ch could change their tactics but never their nature. Their concept of morality only applied to themselves; so what did the word mean in the context of these hateful negotiations?
Marion stared at the patterns of soap bubbles made by her brush. The stone underneath was unyielding—still stone though everything it housed had been transformed. Much could be learned from stone, yet Envoy Chirac only had eyes for the ever changing patterns of G’rat’ch duplicity.
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