A Calculated Life

by Anne Charnock

  “So can we meet again?”

  “I don’t know. I have to think…”

  Dave gently touched her arm but the sound of the fast-approaching shuttle obliged her to turn away.

  He waved as the shuttle slid from the station. She didn’t wave back. On the distant edge of the overgrown car park she caught a glimpse of two dogs—a male mounting a seemingly passive bitch. Different for people, she thought.

  And now, she pushed all her confusion aside and reflected on the swirl of information that, earlier in the afternoon, over coffee, had set her a new challenge—one that, rightly or wrongly, she had taken up:

  The sense of smell in mammals, including humans, is linked with the sex drive. Genetic dysfunction in the olfactory system can lead to sexual dysfunction among uninitiated adults. However, in adult mice, this dysfunction has been shown to spontaneously reverse once the mice have been introduced to sexual activity.

  She was clear on the essentials even if the detail eluded her: the first simulants, the Franks and Fredas, were genetically manipulated to exhibit total anosmia, a complete loss of smell—one step, she guessed, in a complex strategy to disrupt the hypothalamic-pituitary axis—the aim being to destroy procreational instincts. More to the point, in advanced simulants such as herself, the degree of anosmia had been lessened to allow a greater degree of emotional development. Hence, we fit in better at work. But now she had a hunch: the Constructor had failed to optimize the degree of anosmia. Just like the lab mice, once the virgin simulant had experimented with sex, the sexual urge received a kick-start.

  The enclave disappeared from view and her thoughts drifted. Could I drop out? Should I run to the hills? But, for once in her calculated life, she could divine no answer.

  CHAPTER 8

  On Sunday morning, Jayna made her breakthrough with the energy studies seemingly by accident. After days of effort, she found it oddly dissatisfying that her insight was precipitated during a momentary loss of focus. It occurred as she withdrew from the construct, as she floated back to the ocean’s surface, when she had almost given up. A bit disappointing, she thought. Though it didn’t really matter how she got there.

  If everything stacked up, Benjamin and Olivia would be euphoric. And the timing was perfect—Mayhew McCline could push out the report just before the half-yearly staff appraisals. Jayna mapped out the next ten days:

  Monday: request extended database searches.

  Tuesday: complete extended research.

  Wednesday: submit research findings to Benjamin in a Draft Energy Report for circulation and comment by board members.

  Thursday: compile the responses.

  Friday: submit Final Energy Report to Benjamin and Olivia for approval.

  Monday next: report goes to production.

  Tuesday next: check press releases.

  Wednesday next: release the report, An Energy Investment Strategy, or some such.

  On the basis of the data currently available, and as a result of Mayhew McCline’s pronouncement on the subject next week, she reckoned that sales of in-vehicle hydrogen conversion systems would increase by between 10 and 15 per cent (a conservative range of values). Share prices for the makers of these complex systems would rocket. Somebody, somewhere, was going to make a great deal of money, she thought.

  Pulling herself out of her recliner, she experienced a heaviness in her body, an ache in her back. She knew she must steady her pace, get plenty of sleep, stay alert. But she couldn’t ease up too much. Standing by her window, she looked out towards Granby Row. Her east-facing room had lost its morning luminescence and Jayna felt the gaucheness of being indoors when the sun beat down just meters away. She assessed her next moves and assiduously re-ordered her research priorities:

  One: Obviously, tidy up the energy research.

  Two: Monitor all interdepartmental communication for key words: Jayna, simulant, Dave, David, Madoc, Constructor, and half a dozen others.

  Three: Create an immediate notification system of any communication between Mayhew McCline and the Constructor.

  Four: Investigate the housing riot stats. If anyone did discover her trip to the enclave, some relevant research would provide some plausible cover.

  Five: Low priority—mental health indicators among the under-fives. (She hoped Dave was right about the baby but she harbored doubts.)

  Six: Finally, and low priority again—continue monitoring the sales at auction houses. There should always be time, she thought, for light relief.

  The voices of the C6 and C7 residents, now congregating in the canteen, favored the drone of conference delegates rather than the erratic buzz of friends hanging out. All the Franks and Fredas stuck together, thankfully. Jayna couldn’t bear making conversation with them; it just didn’t work.

  “Hello, Jayna.” The distinctive singsong voice came from behind her. “We missed you yesterday.”

  Jayna turned. “Hi, Veronica…and Sunjin.” She smiled.

  “So where were you?” said Sunjin.

  “Events conspired. Backlog of work.”

  “That’s a shame. Sounds a little…chaotic?” said Veronica, frowning.

  “Not really. All’s fairly normal except…have your meals been changed recently?”

  “They have, but only for first sitting,” she said. Her friends seemed nonplussed.

  “Seeking redress today, Jayna?” Sunjin had beaten her soundly at the last backgammon gathering. Hardly surprising. He was one of the first of their generation. Of all the simulants she’d met, Sunjin was the sharpest. She always sought him out in a crowd.

  “I’ll not get past you, Sunjin. How are things going anyway? Solved any gruesome crimes lately?”

  “I have. And I’m closing in on a couple of murder cases but my prime suspects are already dead.” His remit at the Metropolitan Police Department was to examine unsolved cases. He had started with police killings, then child murders and, most recently, he was unearthing some race-hate and sex crimes as well as a string of seemingly unprovoked, random cases of murder. Jayna surmised that his initiation had been all-encompassing: an awesome data handling capacity augmented with keen analytical skills, sociological and psychological know-how, demographics, micro-economics…

  “We brought in a serial rapist last week. He’s ninety-seven years old; charged him on scientific evidence. But the case won’t reach the courts, too senile to stand trial.”

  “Disappointed?” said Jayna.

  “No one seems disappointed at the department. In fact, everyone’s celebrating his arrest. Unshakeable attachment to these old cases. Baffles me.”

  “You’d think they would move forward, find out who’s spraying yellow paint on our walls,” said Veronica. Jayna and Sunjin nodded in agreement. “I suppose the detectives want to flex their new capabilities. They want to—”

  “‘Settle old scores.’ That’s what they say,” interrupted Sunjin. “They usually had all the data they needed but they lost track—bad collation, cross-referencing. Tragic all round.” Knowing looks were exchanged and Sunjin turned to Jayna: “Do you still have access rights to Police data?”

  “For the time being.”

  “Seen anything interesting? I’m too tied up with old cases to know what’s happening on the streets.”

  “Which streets?”

  “I mean, what’s happening now.”

  That policing vernacular, she never saw it coming. “Well, I’ve seen one or two things. But I’m modeling, looking for correlations rather than root causes.” She smiled. “And, I’m certainly not trying to bring anyone in. It’s all academic.”

  “Still, you might spot trends that elude the department.”

  “That’s the really fascinating part of our role,” said Veronica. “We really can shed new light.”

  Jayna ignored Veronica. “I suppose I’ve noticed one matter of potential concern but your people will be well aware of it. In any case, Mayhew McCline will inform the Police of any findings related—”

>   “Go on,” said Sunjin.

  “Well, I’ve noticed five instances of hate crime perpetrated by organics against bionics. I came across it quite by accident. I’m not sure I can make any use of it; could be spurious.”

  “From what I’ve seen, hate crimes were traditionally linked with religion”—he counted them out on his fingers—“race and football. But in the case of football it was just an excuse to vent violent tendencies at the end of each working week. Race and religion: those were the issues. But, organics kicking bionics, that’s quite another matter. Crime between the economic classes was rarely hate-motivated. Theft on the one hand, exploitation on the other. In general, of course.”

  With two rounds of backgammon completed, Jayna and her friends from C7 congregated by the tea and coffee urns with Sunjin and his friends from C6.

  “So, who’s still in?” said Veronica. Raised index fingers showed that C7 was holding out well. Sunjin stepped forward, took an institutional cup and saucer, and held down the lever attached to the urn spout. He released a lukewarm surge of coffee-flavored water that swirled and over-topped the cup rim, settling into a murky moat.

  “You usually serve plain water.” He was irritated.

  “Another alteration to the menu, I suppose,” said Harry.

  “What do you know, Sunjin, about these menu changes? Is there a link to the recalls?” said Julie. “It’s something I’ve been thinking about.”

  “Recalls? Plural?”

  “Yes, we’ve heard of two recalls. Which one do you know about?”

  He hesitated. “A simulant, one of our generation. He went day-tripping beyond the city limits without authorization.” Jayna’s grip on her cup and saucer tightened. “You know about that one?”

  Julie responded: “No. We’ve heard about a simulant at the Liverpool Tax Office who had a curry at a private restaurant. And someone else at the Institute of Forensic Accountancy who was late for meetings. That’s all we’ve—”

  “How could it be related to the menu change?” Sunjin barged in.

  Julie seemed taken aback. “Well…it was a matter of coincidence, with the curry incident. Very spicy food. Do you see?”

  “Maybe.” Sunjin seemed to calm himself. “In any case, I’m sure they know what they’re doing at the Constructor. A simulant has probably analyzed the situation for them. I think we can trust one of our own.” He laughed politely and the others followed suit. Jayna faked a broad smile as best she could and, attempting to extract herself from the discussion, looked down at the tips of her shoes.

  “Jayna says the Constructor can’t risk any damage to the brand,” said Julie.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” he said looking across at Jayna. “The corporate world’s your specialist subject.”

  Their eyes had to meet but she conceded only a glance. Instead she looked around the group. “I think Sunjin knows as much as I do on any subject.”

  In the third round, competing for a place in the semi-finals, Sunjin and Jayna were thrown together. He was playing well but whereas he normally fixed his attention on the board, he now frequently stared into the middle distance. She, too, was making her moves on automatic and found herself imagining Sunjin naked. Was Sunjin capable…? Would he respond…?

  “Jayna, do you think these recalled simulants will be sent back to their previous work?”

  She shook the dice and made her move. “Depends on the nature of their transgressions. We don’t know the full stories.”

  “If simulants are faulty as a result of the Constructor’s error, then they ought to be reinstated and allowed to continue with their work.”

  “It would be a shame to lose their experience.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I think, Sunjin, the pressure would come from the lessee. If Mayhew McCline were getting excellent results from my work, for example, they wouldn’t want to risk losing their competitive advantage just because I exhibited a minor glitch, if that were to happen. After all, they contend with mildly disruptive behavior from their organics and bionics.”

  “So you believe there would be an element of negotiation.”

  “Most likely.”

  “I suppose the simulant would have some say in the matter.”

  “Possibly not. Think about it.”

  He shook the dice. “You’re right. Their evidence would be tainted by the very fact that they had transgressed.”

  “Yes. It’s an interesting conundrum. And…it looks like you’ve won again.”

  He was gracious in victory. “Well played.”

  As they stood to make way for the next duo, Sunjin said, “Let me know if you hear of any more recalls. But don’t bother going through Mayhew McCline channels. Just tell me down at the Domes. I don’t want anyone misinterpreting the department’s interest.”

  “Okay. Whatever you think.”

  Over dinner that evening they pored over the competition results. C6 had suggested handicapping the event but C7 had politely declined their offer.

  “The point is they acknowledged the inherent unfairness,” said Lucas. “They’re all at least six months older than us.”

  “The gap is closing though,” said Harry.

  “Anyway, so much depends on the fall of the dice,” said Lucas. “That’s why we can’t take it too seriously. If we were playing chess, that would be another matter. There would be far more at stake, a true battle of wits.”

  “Even then, it’s not as though we have anything to prove. It’s the bionics who become agitated about chess. And they wouldn’t stand a chance against any of us,” said Harry.

  “Not in a month of Sundays,” said Lucas.

  “Not once in a blue moon,” added Julie.

  Jayna slipped away from the canteen ahead of her friends just as second-sitting residents gathered at the entrance. Lucas was over-excited about the backgammon results and she couldn’t bear any more of his chatter. She pushed through the Franks and Fredas and made her way to the top floor of the rest station. She paused by the No Access sign then climbed the two flights of stairs leading up to the roof. While taking off her right shoe, she pushed the emergency door’s opening bar and then wedged the shoe between the door and door frame.

  The slated main roof was set back from the building’s perimeter and Jayna took short, deliberate steps along the access path to an open area at the western end of the building. The strength of the breeze surprised her. She sat down cross-legged and, closing her eyes, she allowed her hair to blow unchecked. It licked and whipped her face but she didn’t care. The city hummed and honked below her.

  Late afternoon had softened into early evening when a man’s voice reached her from below. She knelt up, peered over the parapet, and saw a lorry being reversed into the storage yard opposite the rest station. A man shouted and banged the side of the lorry as the driver maneuvered ridiculously close to the pillared gateway. The iron hinges of the gate scraped along the side of the vehicle.

  On the far side of the city, the low spring sun reflected brilliant orange off a single tower block in the suburbs. It must be positioned at the perfect angle to the sun’s rays, she thought. Surely, she was one of many people seeing this explosion of color. And maybe Dave was checking his beehives. Was he looking across the enclave rooftops at the sunset? She felt warmer towards him now, she realized, but even so…

  She imagined an orange fog flowing out from the dazzling tower block. It seeped, slowly, through the streets of the metropolis. And she decided to mimic Dave; she imagined herself flying high. She saw the metropolis now as a low-lying, lumpy scab causing a minor, almost imperceptible, drag on the shifting air masses that crossed farmland and the enclaves, sweeping on and on, across other scabs to other continents.

  The orange reflection burned her eyes and she looked down. At the foot of the parapet wall she noticed bits of detritus, leftovers from previous maintenance work, nuggets of congealed tar. How many years had it been lying around? Slowly, she teased out individual pieces from the
pile and tossed them one at a time across the street towards the neighboring roof. They didn’t all reach.

  Evening slipped into night-time. She stood up—no one could see her now. She looked across at the apartment blocks on the opposite side of the shuttle lines. Lights were on in nearly all the apartments and several blinds were open. Lights flickered from consoles. People walked around. Some seemed to be cooking. She imagined that a woman in one apartment was talking through solid walls to a man in the adjacent apartment. Many of them seemed to be alone.

  Back in her bed, she held the bedclothes tight around her and came to a conclusion. For, in her mind, she’d skimmed a series of flat pebbles that made contact with her memories almost at random. She pinpointed a Saturday afternoon, in week ten, when she’d bought the stick insects on her way to the Repertory Domes. That’s when this journey began, she told herself. The ladybirds made me stop—on a screen in the shop window. So perfect. And then I went inside. It wasn’t the ladybirds, though, but the stick insects in the next tank that I couldn’t resist. They almost weren’t there. I had to have them.

  CHAPTER 9

  Early mornings at C7 were fine-tuned, as in any home, to minimize the time spent on the aggregation of minor but essential acts of preparation. Nevertheless, Jayna incorporated one unwarranted performance in her own morning rituals, namely, brushing her straight and obedient hair, because it allowed more time for her deodorant to dry. Putting on her blouse, then, became a far more satisfying experience: minimal contact between cloth and damp underarms. So, the full process comprised undressing; wrapping a towel around her torso; washing at her small sink; drying herself; applying deodorant; cleaning her teeth; donning underwear, trousers, or skirt; brushing her hair; and, finally, the blouse.

  What occupied her thoughts as she ambled through this procedure was how she could alter her behavior, further than she had already, without attracting attention. While fastening her shoes, she also wondered if she could make changes to her own person. She ruled out anything that would be noticed at work or at the rest station: cutting her hair, painting her nails, customizing her clothes. Reluctantly, she also ruled out making any discrete skin markings; someone would notice in the showers. So, no home-made tattoos or body painting. Decorating her scalp—now there was a possibility.