A Calculated Life

by Anne Charnock

  Jayna pursed her lips as though this alone might stem the persistent urge to vomit. They walked a full block without saying a word.

  “I have the names already,” she said.

  “What?”

  “There’s some cash but it’s mainly stocks registered under false names.”

  “You’ve already done it?” He laughed. “But why bother with stocks?”

  “I like stocks. Anyway, it’s a sure thing…So, let’s get on with it. Listen up.” And she told him the names with perfect recall. He listened intently and kept in perfect step.

  “Unbelievable. You’re way ahead of me,” he said when Jayna had finished. “Leave it to me now. I’ll go into HQ over the weekend; mornings are quiet. I’m pretty sure I can work it out.”

  “Sunjin, you know we can’t trust anyone else.” But she knew she was stating the obvious and, indeed, he ignored the remark.

  “Do you know any more about the recalls?” he asked.

  “Yes, I do. The woman at the IFA—Nicole? She was recalled for having sexual contact with another member of staff, an organic as it happens.” He turned sharply towards her. “Surprised, Sunjin? I thought you might be. Anyway, I’ve been doing some research. The recalls are only affecting our generation so obviously it has something to do with our enhancements. The earlier simulants, I reckon, had their olfactory senses stripped down genetically to suppress their libido. But the olfactory stuff has been reinstated, to some degree, in our genetic makeup. Which accounts for the Lamb Biryani in Liverpool.” He was transfixed. “You see, Sunjin, the olfactory thing is tied up with emotions and our ability to empathize. The Constructor wants us to melt into the workforce.”

  “Slow down. I don’t really follow.”

  “Something’s gone wrong with this fiddling with the emotions, I think. We’re not as compliant as we ought to be. Or at least some of us aren’t. I think the modification is unstable.”

  “How did you work all that out?”

  “A hunch.”

  “Have to admit, it sounds plausible. But you might be completely wrong.”

  “Well, whatever the fundamental reason, the Constructor wasn’t expecting all this odd behavior.”

  They crossed the Rochdale Canal and she knew he’d need to peel off soon.

  “By the way, the graffiti sprayers were arrested this morning,” he said. “I saw them being taken to the interview rooms.”

  “And?”

  “They’re American. Can you believe it? American Rightists.”

  “But America doesn’t have simulants. Why come over here bothering us?”

  “Trying to spread the word. Or protect American jobs.”

  “That sounds more likely. Most corporations have upped sticks.”

  It was time to split their journeys.

  “There is something else,” Sunjin said. “Julie sent me a fairly strange communication today, at the department. Checking I’m going to the Repertory Domes this weekend. She shouldn’t be communicating with me at all.”

  “That’s funny we were chatting the other night…Oh, never mind…I’ll try to say something to her, if you like.”

  “Don’t just yet. She’d know we’d been talking.”

  “Okay. Look, I’ll try to see you on Sunday at the Domes, late afternoon. But don’t be concerned if I don’t make it.”

  “And I’ll get to work on the bio data tomorrow.”

  “While you’re at it, Sunjin, strip out that message from Julie.” She sighed heavily. “I can’t believe we’re talking like this.”

  “Well, we either take what’s coming to us or we don’t. What can happen that’s worse than a recall? I mean, who the hell do they think they are?”

  CHAPTER 12

  A hot southerly wind blew through the city as she waited at the main C7 entrance for Mayhew McCline’s chauffeur. All week she’d assumed she would take the metro to Benjamin’s home. At the last minute, however, he booked the company limo to take her the short distance to his inner suburb. This caused a slight perturbation among her friends when Jayna mentioned the change of plan over breakfast; no one expected such privileges. She admitted to herself that corporate life had its upside: canapés in the boardroom, champagne celebrations in the office to toast a new deal, a marriage, a new arrival. Mayhew McCline even had a low-key celebration when Jayna turned up; no champagne but a light buffet with a few words of welcome from Olivia. It seemed they could not stop themselves. Added to that were the day-long brainstormers with senior management, and show-and-tell sessions within her department—showing and telling about favorite films, books, games. And team building. When times were good, corporate bosses were free to splurge time and money. They knew their shareholders all too well; they would refrain from micro-interference as long as the bottom line looked good. It had always been so. Her friends, by contrast, realized that their own paymasters, the English taxpayers, would not countenance such excess within the public sector.

  And now, the chauffeur-driven limo. Somehow Jayna’s world was a little more charmed than theirs; a suggestion of the exotic, which they could not touch. They all knew that from time to time she would rise above the mundane. But this was not to say they felt envious. It was simply noted, observed. In any case, she would bring home stories to tell over the dinner table. She knew they’d want to know everything about this trip to Benjamin’s home. There was a carnivorous and undiscerning interest in all experiences.

  She hadn’t been sure what to wear to the barbecue so Julie, as if taking part by proxy, had scanned dozens of films for outdoor entertainment scenes. Her favorite was the final scene in an old 2D in which everyone danced to live fiddle music. It was all denim and checkered shirts. Even accounting for the lapse of time since the film’s production, Julie advised that over-dressing was a bigger risk than under-dressing.

  So, there she stood, wearing a simple, white, sleeveless T-shirt with straight-cut, knee-length shorts and sandals. It was difficult to fine-tune her appearance with her limited accessories. Plain but relaxed and self-consciously empty-handed. Was she supposed to take something with her?

  The limo turned into Granby Row. She hoped the chauffeur would drive past the entrance and pull in discreetly at the parking bays just thirty meters down the street. He stopped at the entrance. Perfectly. He walked around to the nearside rear passenger door and opened it wide. She descended the rest station steps, crossed the pavement, and stepped into the vehicle without any deviation from a line perpendicular to the steps. Without doubt, someone in the rest station had witnessed this scene and would recount the incident over lunch. Already, she wished she had never made this plan with Benjamin. She would be wiser to slip along quietly and unnoticed rather than placing herself at the center of other people’s conversations.

  She took up so little space on the expanse of pale blue leather she felt impelled to say something, anything, to magnify her presence. But she could not be bothered. The chauffeur—she knew his name was John—glanced in his mirror and saw she was looking intently out of her side window. He took the hint and as they journeyed through the city center, together but isolated, the only sounds were a purr from the car’s inner workings, a tiny amount of friction noise between the tires and tarmac, and the occasional intrusion of sound-verts triggered by the passing of their vehicle. John evidently found these irritating and eventually he cracked.

  “Music?” he offered. She shook her head. The informal vow of silence was lost and, as if his single shattering word now needed company, he started the relationship afresh. “Have you been to Mr. Slater’s before? It’s a lovely place inside.”

  “No, I haven’t. How long will it take?” She knew the answer but it was an easy line.

  “Fifteen minutes at the most. I’ll drive past the Prince Will Playing Fields and his house is not far from there. Overlooks—” she tuned out for awhile “—two adjoining semis and had them knocked down, saving part—” tuning out again “—rebuilt behind. Funny though, no one used to like t
hose houses.”

  “Where do you live, John?” she said, with an effort.

  “I have a company grace-and-favor. I’m on twenty-four-hour standby so I’m allocated a small bed-sit in a block near the office.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “Suppose so. It’s just a room with a bed. I’d have to give it up if I married. But, the way I see it, I get to drive this car all day and there’s no real hassle. And I avoid living in the enclaves.” She didn’t want to be sucked any further into conversation. She’d done the bare minimum to avoid impoliteness. The fewer people she spoke to, the better. So, she looked out of the window once again.

  John took a sharp right from the Southern Expressway formerly known as Princess Parkway. Why, she wondered, would any committee name a road after no particular princess? Why so generic? Why not Patriot Parkway or Royal Parkway? Or, if that were too nationalistic, then why not Democracy Driveway or The People’s Avenue or, if that were too inclusive, why not…? The list could go on. She’d always assumed the metropolitan authorities had re-named the major roads in some sort of efficiency drive; self-explanatory names did make sense. Maybe, from now on, she should resist the obvious or the most convenient explanation. Changing a name, she thought, made the past less easy to visit; names tied people to specific places. Most likely, the name-changes played some role in the Great Relocations to the orbital towns. There was such momentum for radical re-thinking. They must have considered everything. She imagined the one-time coalition ministers weighing up their options. Anything to avoid another major depression; they must have said those very words, or something similar: Never a fourth! And it all coincided, fortunately or otherwise, with the lobbying for cognitive implantation. Did they do the right thing, she wondered? Pumping money into a near bottomless pit. A two-generation master plan guaranteeing full employment and cheap labor for every metropolis. Was segregation inevitable, she wondered, or was it the easy option? And at what point, exactly, did the orbital towns become known as enclaves?

  In any case, here was the result, she thought, as the car slowed to a stop: only the likes of Benjamin could afford to live in the inner suburbs. And only the highest earners could afford the pretty villages, haunts for the truly successful.

  “Here we are, Miss Jayna.” He was out of the car as the final syllable left his mouth, for he was intent on reaching her door before she made any move towards the release. She would prefer to open the door herself but she knew it would be mean-spirited to deny John his finale. This might be the measure of his professionalism: a certain number of steps around the front of the limo, at a certain pace, his body bending awkwardly at each 90-degree turn. It was, she felt, a hurried, ugly movement. She didn’t flinch until the door was fully open but she sighed inwardly. She swung both her feet out of the car, and John timed his remark to occur precisely at the moment when she stood fully erect. “Have a lovely afternoon, Miss. I’ll collect you in two hours unless I receive other instructions.”

  At such moments, she felt the lack of a surname. She turned her head through 35 degrees towards John, enough to acknowledge his presence without actually looking him in the face. This was the correct form and one that he would recognize. “Thank you.”

  As she walked through the front-garden allotment, she assessed Benjamin’s home; it was symmetrical, doll-like. John swung the car around in the street. He did so with unnecessary theatricality as though making the point to any onlookers that he was connected to a young woman who was so singular that she deserved only the best of cars and only the best of drivers. How silly, she thought.

  Each bay on the double-frontage comprised tall panels of dark glass, jointed in an arc-like arrangement. No trace remained of the original front doors, which presumably had been located side by side so that the hallways lay alongside one another. The two houses were now united by a new entrance lobby—a large glass box that projected into the front garden and maybe penetrated the internal shell of the building. She stiffened at her reflection in the blackened glass; Benjamin’s family could be looking at her right now, whereas her gaze could not penetrate the interior life of the house. It was, she felt, a particular type of rudeness; an architectural discourtesy. She listened hard in the hope of hearing some unrehearsed, carefree talk on the other side, of hearing family members at ease with one another, so familiar that their actions were instinctive, knowing how to make one another smile, knowing how far they could push. Reluctantly, she took a short step forward, realizing that the family within would alter themselves as soon as they knew of her presence.

  The doorbell should have triggered by now, she thought. And, in that moment, she sensed that inner sliding doors were opening, allowing a fuggy brighter light to reach her from either the interior lighting or from a garden beyond. Moving matter, the familiar shape of Benjamin, partially blocked this light.

  “Hey, Jayna. You’re the first to arrive. That’s great. We can have a chat and you can meet the family before it gets busy.”

  “Who else is coming, Benjamin?” She was startled; she’d failed to anticipate this possibility. Why hadn’t he told her other people were involved? He’d given her no indication that she’d meet anyone other than his wife and daughter.

  “Just a few neighbors and their children. No point lighting the barbecue if we don’t fill it.”

  “I suppose not.” But she was thrown. Benjamin had misled her. Did his wife take charge of the arrangements? She heard voices coming from the back of the house, and when Benjamin’s wife and daughter arrived in the hallway, laughing—the young girl half walking, half sliding over the wooden floor—Jayna glimpsed an intimacy, just momentarily, that they now surrendered. It was a subtle adjustment. The incised laughter wrinkles on his wife’s face faded to leave a gentler expression that still disarmed her. Any annoyance with Benjamin evaporated.

  “Meet Evelyn, and our daughter Alice.”

  “I’ve heard such a lot about you, Jayna,” said Evelyn. But the introductions were interrupted by scuffling noises as five White Terriers slid into the hallway, falling over one another. Alice shrieked with laughter.

  “Switch them off, Alice,” said Benjamin. She grimaced and her shoulders slumped. “House Rules. Not when we have visitors.” She knelt down and the dogs jumped around her. “Go to sleep,” she said to them. And they vanished.

  Evelyn guided Jayna with a gentle touch towards open double doors and the rear of the house. An aesthetic of rigid simplicity pervaded the interior, a style she recognized from advertisements. Here was simplicity in its idealized form; the polar opposite of her own quarters with its pared-back utility. It felt like a walk through a dream, for the hallway was virtually bare; so little for her eyes to fix on. She was only aware of the geometry of the space and the character of the finishes, and the way the falling light revealed the different reflectivity of the cream and white surfaces. She suspected the subtlety of the color scheme was far from accidental, that some historical reference had been carefully considered and adapted. The original interior must have been ripped out long ago and it was difficult to imagine how it might have been. Still, it would be interesting to understand how Benjamin and Evelyn had created this home from a knowledge of past mores and their own personal tastes.

  “Come through and I’ll fix you a drink. Benjamin needs to tidy the garden canopies and I’m just finishing the salads. Come and sit with me.”

  Jayna had to reconfigure; her boss fixing things, doing chores. She stretched to sit on a bar stool by the kitchen worktop and, while Evelyn prepared drinks, she watched Benjamin move along the garden, turning the handles that tautened the overhead black gauzes. Alice insisted on helping her father and Jayna could see the job would be completed sooner if he were left alone. “Alice seems to like helping,” said Jayna.

  Evelyn pushed a drink towards her—lead cut crystal, sparkling water, slices of lime. “She’s always under our feet like that. She’s a very practical little girl, wants to be involved in everything. That’s why
this salad isn’t finished. She wanted to help with the chopping.”

  “I thought Alice would be playing with toys.”

  “She’s one of those children who skips the whole toy thing.”

  “But I thought all children played with toys.”

  “Well, not Alice. Not much anyway. She’s happier with a ball of string.”

  “What would she do with it?”

  “Tie the whole house up.” Evelyn laughed. “She’s done that before.”

  “I don’t really know much about children. I’ve only met Jon-Jo, Hester’s son.”

  “I don’t expect you have much opportunity,” said Evelyn, adding after a pause, “You probably don’t realize it, Jayna, but you’re making a big difference to our family life. We’re seeing a lot more of Benjamin and he’s like his old self, when I first met him. A lot more relaxed.”

  “That’s good to hear. It would be a shame to miss out on family life.”

  “We could do with someone like you where I work.”

  “Where’s that, Evelyn?”

  “In town, at a law practice. But we’re not big enough yet to afford…your skills.”

  Jayna smiled. Evelyn could have referred to leases. Time to change the conversation. “Does your salad have a name?” Which to Evelyn seemed a comical way of phrasing the question, as though Jayna were asking about a family pet. A broad smile kept a rising giggle at bay. “It’s a Mediterranean Salad.”

  “I guess that’s a misnomer?”

  “Quite right. The ingredients are all from the garden…Why don’t you mix the dressing for me?” And she pushed across a collection of bottles, salt and pepper mills, and an empty jar.

  Jayna raised her eyebrows and smiled. “I don’t cook, you know.”

  “Well, it hardly counts as cooking. You’re just throwing a few things together. To be honest, that’s the best kind of cooking in my book. Good ingredients, lots of chopping.” Jayna lifted a jar of English mustard. What should she do with this? “Just mix a few things together in the jar and shake; more vinegar than oil. Then dip a piece of lettuce to test it. Decide yourself.”