by Ben Elton
It was the thought of Nathan that made her turn on the LifeCycle. If she loved him, and she knew now that she did, she could wait a year. Where was he, she wondered? In America; that was in the Northern Hemisphere, wasn’t it? Of course, it was. Would he make it into a Claustrosphere? He had faxed her a message to say that Plastic Tolstoy himself had rented him a house off Sunset. It would have a Claustrosphere, surely? Of course it would. There was not a house in the US without one. Flossie tried to think of Nathan, sitting in some American Claustrosphere. She wondered if he was alone. She hoped not, for his sake. Flossie found her own solitary prospects rather daunting. On the other hand, she rather hoped there wouldn’t be any women with him. It could happen, if he had been forced to retreat into an LA municipal. He was a man with a development deal, possibly about to spend a year amongst secretaries, waitresses and wannabe actresses. Flossie decided not to think about it.
The banging.
Flossie drank the rest of her wine and tried to adjust. She stood, she sat, she stuck an old film into the entertainment centre. She could not settle, however, and the moments crept by. Without any light changes she had only the clock to tell her the time and she was sure it was slow. She would look up at it, convinced that an hour had passed, to discover that only five minutes had gone by. Then only one minute. At this rate she felt it would not be long before time would stop altogether and then she would never get out. What if time started to go backwards? she asked herself. Would that mean that she could get out before she got in? Or would it only be going backwards in her world? Would the world outside carry on without her? These were the thoughts of a woman all alone in the universe with only half a bottle of wine for company. They were big thoughts but they did not take long to think. Scarcely any time at all seemed to have passed.
The clock was getting slower. The silence was oppressive. Afters three or four hours, Flossie began to wish that she had not turned on the oxygen.
Then the banging started.
Flossie nearly jumped out of her skin. The banging was certainly worse than the silence. She should have been expecting it, of course, but somehow it had slipped her mind. There could be no doubt that this was the noise of those terrified, dying people trapped outside. Every Claustrosphere brochure warned of this development. It was obvious that there would be those who either did not have access to a ‘Sphere, or who got caught too far away from home and, ignoring the municipals, had tried to make it back. These were the people who were now hammering in terror upon Flossie’s door. But she could not open it. The stern warning given out by the police and the Claustrosphere company alike was that, once you had closed your BioLock, under no circumstances should you open it again. If the poisons which were killing the desperate souls on the outside should once upset the delicate eco-balance on the inside, then no one would survive.
After about twenty minutes, Flossie could hardly stand it.
‘Go away,’ she shouted. ‘I can’t open it! You’re not supposed to! I can’t.’
But she knew they could not hear her. The sound of a voice would not travel through the dome. The banging continued.
Flossie could not bear to imagine the scene which was being played out in her own little back garden. Choking, dying people, gasping their last on her astroturf. It hardly seemed possible. Perhaps there were children? Some of the bangs seemed less hard than others. This thought was too much for Flossie, and she resolved to open the lock. She could not live with herself for a year, imagining the skeletons of tiny children clawing at her door outside. The little Eden Three which she and Nathan had bought could support four people, and she was only one. That was not right. Flossie felt that she must try and share, whatever the risk. Of course, the people outside might be a gang of adults, in which case she would perhaps die. She had no weapon and if a desperate crowd wished to eject her then there would not be much she could do about it. None the less, she resolved to open the door. She could not in all conscience take up four Claustrosphere places whilst people, possibly children, died outside.
BioSting.
As Flossie opened the door of her BioLock, the police officers outside were just fixing a charge of dynamite with which to blow it open. Claustrospheres were extremely tough, but if you had the right explosives, you could get into them.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Hoddy,’ said the head constable. ‘Glad you opened up. You’re not supposed to, you know, but it did save us ruining your Claustrosphere.’
What had happened made the news worldwide. It was a bio-sting. A beautifully conceived and executed crime. Great Pew was a very wealthy village. A couple of rock stars had built studios in the surrounding manor houses and all the residents were London media people. The place simply dripped with money. It was also very self-contained. There was only one road in and out, meaning that a simple diversion sign ensured privacy for at least a little while.
The moment the residents of the village had been hurried into their Claustrospheres, the thieves had removed their army uniforms, switched off the radio jammer that they had used to intrude on the local air waves and robbed all the houses. They were in and out in under an hour; it took another two for anybody to notice anything amiss and it was mid-afternoon before the police began to blast people out of their ‘Spheres.
‘What a beautiful idea,’ said Judy to himself when he heard about it later. ‘I’m amazed that nobody thought of it before.’
Chapter Seventeen
The difference between
Virtual Reality and
actual reality
Delegation.
Plastic Tolstoy made at least a hundred major decisions an hour. His colossal empire required a never-ending succession of split-second judgements. When he moved he had to move fast, and he was always moving. This required delegation. Tolstoy was constantly giving orders. He was a general with a whole army of foot soldiers who scurried about the world, day and night, doing his will. He had development people, money people, management people, marketing people and he was in virtual constant communication with all of them. Just occasionally, though, Plastic Tolstoy put them all on hold and gave orders to his killing people.
Boring door knockers.
The process of prevarication began anew. While Flossie was wandering around her Claustrosphere, Nathan was wandering around the nice little house off Sunset that Plastic Tolstoy had rented for him. He sat down at his computer console. He got up again. He walked around. Had a cup of coffee, played with himself. He flicked through the news input channels. Jurgen Thor had fully recovered from the explosions at the Euro parliament. Hitler’s lawyers had pulled off a plea bargain whereby he admitted to the lesser offence of using intolerant and inflammatory language, and the court agreed to drop the six million murder charges. He got a hundred hours’ community service.
Eventually Nathan wrote something.
‘Scene one.’
It was a start.
Then the prevarication began again. What style of computer font to employ? What type size? Word processing had increased the opportunities for writer prevarication considerably. Nathan was still playing around with his computer mouse fifteen minutes later, when the doorbell rang. He jumped up in delight. Here was a genuine diversion. Nathan had no idea who it might be, for he had told no one of his new whereabouts except Max, and of course Flossie in England, but it didn’t matter. Anyone would do to get him away from his computer.
The world is full of quite awesomely boring people who knock on doors. Often they are religious zealots, sometimes political representatives, occasionally market researchers. Normally, the reaction that these sad door knockers provoke is one of brusque dismissal. Most people make it quite clear that they resent the intrusion on their privacy and that they neither wish to be told what to think, nor asked what they think. Indeed, so thankless is the lot of the average boring door knocker that it is a mystery how they keep going. The truth, of course, is that every job, even door knocking, has its occasional rewards. Every now and then, not of
ten, very rarely, in fact, but sometimes, the boring door knocker knocks on the door of somebody who is pleased to see them. Somebody who, on being asked the question ‘Where will you be spending eternity?’ will actually be prepared to give the matter some thought. Somebody who does not shout, ‘Rover Kill!!!’ when faced with the announcement ‘Hi, we’re talking with people today about faith’. Somebody who is actually prepared to express an interest in current proposals to turn the high street into a one-way system and pedestrianise the north end. It is these seemingly generous, open-spirited souls who keep the boring door knockers going, for in them exists the great door knocker’s illusion. The illusion that somebody out there appreciates them. Appreciates the fact that they have chosen to devote their lives to irritating other people with their fatuous prejudices or public-spirited obsessions. Alas, it is only an illusion. For the people who encourage them do so out of purely selfish reasons. For they are writers merely seeking further justification to prevaricate. Desperate people, every one, who would welcome a burglar into their homes as a happy diversion from having to sit down and do some work.
Welcome visitor.
Nathan was in for a pleasant surprise, for the person at the door was Max, which meant that he could put away the idea of work for the rest of the evening.
‘I don’t know, I just thought I’d come and say hi,’ Max said, walking in. ‘I know you’re working so I won’t stay above a minute,’ he added, putting two six-packs of beer and a litre of Jack Daniels on the coffee table.
‘No, that’s fine, stay as long as you like,’ said Nathan eagerly. The arrival of a superstar definitely absolved him of all obligation to write. Particularly a superstar who was going to star in the film he was supposed to be working on.
‘Nathan,’ said Max, cracking open the beer and the rye, ‘I’ve never felt like this before.’
Max had been thinking about Rosalie. He just could not get the girl off his mind. Nathan was the only person he knew who had met her (unless you counted Tolstoy) so Max naturally gravitated towards him. Besides, Nathan too was unhappy in love, he understood how obsessive it was.
‘I tried to get a lawyer in Dublin to send her a message and it turned out that she’d escaped. Can you believe that? Already! What a woman. I just have to see her again.’
‘Even if you knew where she was, she doesn’t want to see you. She said so.’
‘Girls say stupid things. All I have to do is find a really good reason to speak to her again. I need something to get back in her confidence. Like, if I could do something for her, you know? Like, if I could steal the plans to a nuclear plant or something and place them at her feet.’
‘They have all that stuff already, Max,’ Nathan said sympathetically. ‘That’s part of Mother Earth’s mystery, they’re so well-informed. I don’t think there’s much you can offer in the green stakes that would impress a girl like Rosalie.’
‘How about money? Supposing I got word to her that I wanted to fund all her bombs and shit?’
‘They have money too,’ said Nathan. ‘You know that. Actually, it’s the funding thing that our movie’s going to be about.’
There was an evangelical light in Nathan’s eyes which Max had seen in the eyes of writers before. It meant that they were about to explain their idea.
‘Nathan, I don’t want to hear your movie idea right now. Please don’t tell me about your idea.’
‘All right,’ said Nathan.
But he could not be stopped. Despite Max’s protests and efforts to get the conversation back on to the subject of Rosalie, Nathan explained his idea. It was understandable really, he was far from over the excitement of being green-lighted by Plastic Tolstoy himself. When he had finished, Max could not help but nod with approval.
‘It’s neat,’ he said. ‘And you say Tolstoy liked it?’
‘Well, at first I thought, “Hello, it’s turkey time.” The room seemed to simply reek of Brussels sprouts and gravy. Tolstoy went all thoughtful and didn’t say a thing, which is a bit rare for him, you must admit. But it turned out he was just having a mull, because he’s told me to go ahead and write it.’
‘A full green light?’
‘Absolutely, so I’m holed up here like a monk until it’s done. No going out, no parties. I’ve only told you and Flossie I’m even here.
At the mention of Flossie, Nathan’s face fell. He remembered that he had forgotten to remember that he was unhappy.
Max could see what had happened and tried to cheer him up.
‘Hey, looks like we’re going to make a Tolstoy picture together, partner,’ he said and they chinked glasses and drank. Then they did it again, and again, and for a moment they were both happy. Then the little devils that now lived inside both their stomachs reminded them both that to be happy when you are unhappy is a contradiction in terms.
They both sank back into love sadness and poured more drinks.
‘She’s so strong willed,’ they both agreed. ‘That’s what I like about her, I suppose,’ they both assured each other. ‘Fucking women, eh?’ They clinked glasses in a positive orgy of mutual understanding. The booze flowed.
‘You know something, Nathan,’ Max slurred, ‘you are the greatest guy, you know that? I mean, do you really know that?’
‘Listen, mate,’ the Englishman replied, ‘I love you, no, I mean it, I really do, I bloody love you, mate.’
Where truth and fiction merge.
About two thirds through the JD they decided to have a wrestle. This Was not done in the old-fashioned method of grappling round on the floor and bear-hugging prior to being sick on the carpet. You did it via a Virtual Reality link-up which would even be sick for you if you liked. Max had picked up a couple of disposable helmets at a Hyper-Mart when he’d got the beer and rye.
‘Let’s fight it out, old pal,’ he said drunkenly, handing Nathan a helmet.
The game was called ‘Trial of Strength’ and it enabled a person to find out who was better at fighting, them or their mates, without getting hurt. What you did was put on a helmet that was linked to your opponent’s. These helmets read the abilities of the people wearing them, and your pal’s computerised likeness would become your adversary in a series of combat situations.
Half drunk, they shook hands, put the helmets on and prepared to fight each other to the death from opposite easy chairs.
Inside the helmets they could both see two masked fighters facing each other. One was Max, the other Nathan. The first situation was unarmed combat. There was no contest, Max’s hologram, imbued as it was with Max’s strength and training, utterly pulverised Nathan’s hologram which was, of course, as weedy as its controller. The Nathan figure thrashed about helplessly whilst the Max figure chopped it up, punching it, throwing it, stamping on its head.
From their respective easy chairs the two real people rocked with laughter at the thrashing Nathan’s thinkalike was receiving. The disparity in their abilities was so great it was comical. When the first round was over a little voice inside the helmets announced that Nathan had better be better with a Ninja stick, or his ass was dead.
Nathan giggled, feeling for his drink in the real world, whilst inside the helmet his hologram picked up the unfamiliar weapon of two sticks connected by a chain. Max laughed, because it was clear how reluctant to fight the Nathan hologram was. Max made his thinkalike demonstrate his powers with a stunning display of Ninja training, whirling and slashing the sticks about his head. They both roared with laughter and swigged at their drinks as Nathan’s hologram did the only thing the real Nathan would have been capable of doing, which was to throw his sticks at the Max figure and launch a massive kick at its balls. The Max figure simply avoided the kick, spun round and in a single sweeping movement hit Nathan’s man so hard that the head was actually partially severed.
‘Fuck! I bloody felt that,’ Nathan shouted out loud, laughing, although of course he could not hear himself inside the helmet.
‘Looks like the English guy’s a wimp
,’ the little voice inside the helmet said. ‘Maybe he could use some fire power.’
And inside the helmets the two holograms reappeared in a bar-room situation, both armed with handguns. The two real men laughed as the Max figure raised his gun and fired. The
Nathan figure shuddered with the impact and was propelled backwards over a table and on to the floor behind. Max walked his hologram forward to finish the job as the Nathan hologram screamed. With one hand Nathan’s figure grasped its wound, holding the other one up towards Max’s figure, as if pleading with it to stop.
‘These helmets are fantastic!’ the real Max said into the real world. He was getting a genuine feeling of pain and panic from Nathan’s figure. ‘OK, kid, say a prayer,’ he said, shouting the way people do when they have earphones on.
Inside his helmet Max made his figure raise its gun as the wounded Nathan hologram desperately tried to crawl away, whimpering in agony.
‘You’re really scared, aren’t you?’ Max laughed to himself. ‘Well, I can cure that.’ But as Max’s hologram took aim, the prostrate Nathan figure shuddered horribly. It seemed to be convulsing and twitching with pain. Max laughed hugely at the writhing figure, took another pull at his bourbon and poured computer graphically generated fire into the hologram on the floor inside his helmet, finally putting it out of its misery.
‘Eat lead death, limey redcoat colonialist scum,’ Max laughed. ‘That’s for Yorktown. I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy.’