One time I thought I may’ve seen a glimpse of Tuesday, reflected in the water, beckoning to me.
Jump in, Mira A!
Follow!
Follow me!
But I couldn’t be really certain. It may only have been a synapse re-firing. Or my Sensor reconfiguring.
There is no need to worry. Because we are The Young.
And everything is Perfect and everything is Known.
Even The Unknown.
Even that.
The Unknown. The unmentionable. The unspoken contents of Tuesday’s straight look.
The Unknown.
A tiny, blanched corner of our dear Mother, Earth, where the Imperfect are still permitted to wander and war and squawk. That place of immense filth and degradation, inhabited by the sordid, deluded and diseased remnants of shattered mankind. Watched and guarded by our Neuro-Mechanicals. A smudge. A violence. A contradiction. A horror.
Something The Young never speak of.
It must not be spoken of. The Neuro-Mechanicals have everything under control.
Because we are The Young and we are Pure. So we could not destroy them. We could only stand back and allow them to destroy themselves. We must permit all sentient creatures their own humble freedoms. And this is theirs. To live in misery and squalor.
They would not send me there.
Would they? To fail and age and die?
Why did she create this neural pathway?
The System says that for Perfection to exist it must have its opposite.
It needs its opposite.
There can be no Balance without imbalance.
The tuning fork is in your heart!
I must turn away from these thoughts.
These sudden fears.
But what if . . . ?
Might The Banal be a way to save me from this horror?
From this place of age and pain and death and filth and war and rage? This place of no-sense. This place of prejudice and tribe and warped ideology. This place of violated gender. Littered with false Gods. The home of the jealous lie. The home of delusion and stewing resentment. The home of greed and lust and hunger.
A place of furiously turning towards (never away). A place of hate.
This small corner of our dear Mother, Earth, given over to bile and envy and confusion. Perfectly free to destroy its own freedoms. Fighting for them. Killing for them. Dying for them.
Ravaged. Transitory.
I must not tell the story of The Unknown.
The Unknown tells its own story.
The Unknown is entirely constructed out of false narratives.
Layer upon layer upon layer of them.
A million contradictions.
Wounded. Raw. Hopeless.
Would The Mechanics – The Technicians – send me there?
Because of the oscillation?
Oh what is this flaw in me?
Am I not Perfect?
Is this all just a trick?
A lie?
Are The Banal my answer? Can they resurrect me? Save me from The Unknown?
Is this how the narrative ends? Lost in The Unknown? Is this how the narrative expands and then poisons? From within? A small gap that becomes a slight oscillation, then a brief confusion, then a gradual infiltration? Then a lie?
Every word, another nail in my coffin. Every word, a small shove towards imperfection, towards The Unknown.
must. stop.
I must enter The Banal. Surely? To save myself?
Oh let my dreams return!
Let the darkness fade! So I may hunt for clues! A way out of all this dreadful indecision. This monstrous story. These toxic words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and . . . and . . . and . . .
sacred hymn . . . Having created, in his solitude the origin of human speech; Having created, in his solitude, a small portion of love, Having created, in his solitude, a short, sacred hymn, He pondered deeply . . . and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and words and . . .
What?!
There are gaps . . . spaces. I can feel them. Strange spaces pushing their way in between the language.
What?!
A space.
And another space.
Blackness and whiteness collapsing each into the other . . .
A knock!
She turns from the light, blinking.
Was that . . . ?
She glances towards her Sensor. It reads:
‘word’ and ‘soul’ are synonymous in the Guaraní language.
Guaraní?
She blinks. She looks again. A second knock (or is it a third?). The Sensor vibrates slightly and then her Stream tells her that it is Kipp. It is Kipp come calling. To exercise Tuck. He offered. Even though he had strongly advised her to return the dog (did he not? And that was the source of the . . . that was the beginning of the . . . ).
Because the new clamps will take a while to establish themselves comfortably in her head. To embed themselves into her skull. Of course this process can – in some circumstances – be instantaneous. But hers is a special case. So the technique has been gently modified.
They are going to great lengths to rectify this problem. Even the Neuro-Mechanicals are surprised by the extent of it.
She is an anomaly.
Something in her is resistant.
Something in her will not give.
Something in her . . .
Something in her . . .
Something in . . .
Something in me . . .
In me . . .
In me
Something in me will not give.
Something in me refuses to oblige.
And the narrative.
That too.
It persists.
I . . . I . . . I . . . I am happy to see Kipp. Kipp is wise and Pure and good. Kipp is admirably Non-Attached. He asks m . . . me about ****’s new harness. ‘Tuesday made it for m . . . me,’ I stutter, seeing ****’s name pinkening on my Stream, ‘and . . . and his name is . . . is Tuck. The canine’s name is Tuck.’ Kipp frowns for a moment, then he shrugs. He turns away from the situation. I see it on his Stream. He glances towards his Graph, then mine, and detects a pinkening. He turns away from this, too. He does not question or fly into a panic or call up earlier information to try and validate himself (or invalidate me). He just turns away, as we are meant to do. Because he is Good and he is Humble and he is Modest.
He quietly places the harness down on the table – he rejects the harness – and instead calls Tuck to his side with a low whistle. Tuck trots over and sits compliantly at his feet, looking up at him, tail wagging. Tuck trusts Kipp utterly, implicitly. Then Kipp asks me – out of politeness – about my recent procedure. I am struggling to focus. I am afraid. Because everything is so precious and so precarious. There is not pain, no. Not pain. But there is the idea . . . the idea of . . .
‘Mira A? Mira A?’
Kipp is proffering me a glass of water. I am slumped over in a chair. Kipp is kneeling down in front of me.
‘Mira A? Hello? Mira A?’
‘What happened?’
‘You collapsed.’
‘Is she all right?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Am I all right?’
‘Of course.’ Kipp nods. ‘I checked the information on your Hard Drive. There was a risk of dizziness. After the procedure. That’s why you are being told to rest.’
‘Is that really the reason?’ I wonder.
‘Did I say that out loud?’ I wonder.
‘You did say that out loud,’ Kipp confirms.
‘I wanted to return the canine, Kipp.’ I reach out for the glass of water, but my hand is shaking too much to hold it without the risk of spilling it, so Kipp gently places it down on the nearby table.
‘I wanted to return it, Kipp,’ I repeat, ‘but The Young have been so good. The CT have been so kind with all their offers of help and support . . . ’
‘The . . . ?’ Kipp is scowling.
‘And then you . . . ’
I can’t mention it. I can’t mention the you-know-what, can I? Or how my mistake has been the source of such . . . such kindness from . . . from him, from so many of the others.
Kipp says nothing. He seems concerned.
‘I heard about your lecture,’ I continue, somewhat haltingly, somewhat hopefully, ‘your lecture on The Banal, and I was planning to attend because I thought it might be a . . . a . . . ’
Clue?
I dare not say it.
I glance over at my Stream. And there it is. Betraying me. Gently purpling. But Kipp does not look at my Stream. Kipp looks directly at me.
‘There is no need for you to attend the lecture,’ he says. ‘There is nothing in it to interest you, Mira A. Nothing at all.’
‘Oh, but I think there will be . . . ’ I insist.
‘No. No. Trust me when I say that there is nothing – nothing – in my lecture to interest or concern you. My lecture will be very dull – almost bland. My lecture, like its subject, will be trite and meaningless. In fact you should avoid my lecture at all costs.’
I frown, slightly startled by his sudden emphasis. Kipp is not given to emphatic statements. Kipp is always measured, always calm.
‘Do you hear me, Mira A?’ he continues. ‘You should avoid the lecture at all costs.’
‘Perhaps we need to shed some more light on this,’ I murmur, reaching for the window blind.
‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘It is bright enough in here already. Stay in This Moment, Mira A. Turn away from doubt.’
Then he pauses before adding, ‘We must believe in The Young, Mira A, because The Young are Perfect. You cannot improve on Perfection. You must turn away from anything – or anyone – who encourages you to think otherwise. You have been experiencing some problems with your Oracular Devices, but soon that will be rectified. Then everything will return to normal again. Don’t be impatient. Be Hopeful. And be Happy. Just be Happy. In This Moment.’
‘Perhaps it is too late,’ I whisper, wishing for the light, yearning for the light. For the chance to speak freely.
‘Turn away,’ Kipp persists, ‘just turn away from the things you don’t understand. Trust in The System. The Young can only remain perfect if we are completely trusting.’
‘But what about all the’ – I clear my throat nervously – ‘the neural pathways which I . . . I cannot . . . ?’
‘You have an excellent battery of techniques, Mira A.’ Kipp smiles. ‘Remember? You have been taught them by The System. Use them. And if you feel especially challenged, then . . . ’ – he glances around the room – ‘then play a tune on your guitar. Improvise. You are musical. Lose yourself in a melody. Follow that. Trust in that. Then the problematic Pathways will fade. And always remember: the tuning fork is in your heart. The Perfection of The Young is in you – only you. It cannot be found elsewhere.’
The tuning fork is in my heart!
My Stream echoes his words in desperate italics.
I want to believe . . . I do . . . I do . . .
And now, at last, Kipp is inspecting my Stream. ‘Without the italics,’ he says, chuckling wryly, ‘and the exclamation mark. Because everything is easy. Everything is calm. There is no need to stress. There is no need to worry.’
After a thoughtful pause he adds, with a slight frown, ‘There is still a tiny tremor, I see. But it is less. It is much better than before. The new clamps are definitely beginning to stabilise.’
I smile back at him, hopefully.
Kipp is such a good person. He is such a positive example. He is so generous and so kind. She must not demand anything more of him. No. She has been silly and greedy. She . . . she . . . I . . . we have taken up way too much of his precious time already.
Oh . . . Oh . . . Oh . . . ! If only I could escape the narrative I might save myself! The narrative is ruining me! The narrative is consuming me! And what will remain thereafter? Just two new clamps and a small pile of tinder? And a slight oscillation? And a gap? A hole? An echo? A question?
I am staring into the light.
Because I need to think. I need to weigh things up. I need to find out more and then decide what to do, once and for all.
Tuesday says there is a problem in my essential composition – a kink. Tuesday says – and it is something I have long suspected – that I am not Perfect, that I am imperfection.
A flaw.
A mistake.
The tuning fork is in your heart.
It’s in your heart!
Your heart!
But if I am not Perfect, then why would Tuesday invite me to join The Banal? Is The Banal full of imperfection? Because surely to embrace imperfection would be to declare war on The Young? To form an organisation that wants to improve on Perfection? There is something odd and strange and illogical about that. Unless, of course, The Banal can cure me, can iron out my kinks, can smother the narrative and make me Clean and Fresh and Pure again . . .
Because I am not Perfect.
And if I am not Perfect, then . . .
Then what else is imperfect?
Who else?
Am I the nexus?
The first standing domino at the head (or the back) of a giant legion of others? The wobbling, unsteady, tipping domino threatening to take down everything with it? The whole edifice?
If I am that domino . . .
If I am that domino then I will sacrifice myself for the others.
I will sacrifice myself for The Young.
In a heartbeat.
Because I believe in The Young!
I trust in The System!
I do! I must!
But Tuesday . . .
Tuesday suggested that **** may have used me – may have planted the kink into me – as a way of gaining access to The Banal.
Is **** the nexus?
Is he the flaw?
The rot?
And if this is so (if . . . if I am the plant, the dummy, and **** is the nexus), then why would Tuesday still embrace me and bring me closer into Her Orbit?
Surely she would feel obliged – compelled – to push me away?
Because I am flawed and she longs for Perfection.
But perfection never rejects.
Although it does turn away.
Doesn’t it?
Doesn’t it?
And Kipp? Kipp is delivering a lecture on The Banal. But he tells me not to attend. Yet Tuesday has instructed me to keep a look out for clues.
But Kipp is decent and honest. He would not look into the light. Perhaps Kipp is secretly at war with Tuesday because Tuesday is secretly at war with The Young?
And Kipp came to warn me. Because Kipp – not **** – is the person who is gaining access to Tuesday, but without creating any ripples, any fresh neural pathways. Smoothly and honestly and quietly. Legitimately. He is fighting a battle without casual
ties. Because of his lecture. Which gives him access to ideas that he opposes – and which he will discredit – without the threat of bruising and infiltration.
This is a strange narrative.
Kipp’s is a strange narrative.
It makes my mind
I trust Kipp. But I trusted **** at first – and look where I ended up: in an EOE! In the Kora Group. With a Neuro-Mechanical canine I didn’t even want who filled the others with envy.
Caught in a lie that may yet implicate Kipp . . . A lie spreading, every second, within this narrative, like a bruise.
I do not know what to do.
I can only spew out words and words and words and words.
And to fuel the words I crave still more information.
Clues.
I am hungry. I am ravening. How might this craving be satisfied?
Perhaps I should follow their Streams? I could hunt for the answers there. But it is risky. Because if I follow their Streams there is the possibility that my lie, my bruise, my narrative, my gap, my pinkening and purpling, will affect them inadvertently.
They will know that I am watching them. The Stream never lies. At least . . .
It will seem odd. It will seem . . . inappropriate.
Intrusive.
But what other choice do I have?
The tuning fork is in your heart.
If only I could dream. I might follow them there . . .
Turn away, Mira A!
TERRIBLE DISCIPLINE
Perhaps the oscillation will protect me. Mask my interest. Be my armour.
Or perhaps . . .
What?
What?
What?!
The guitar?
Enough!
Enough!
ENOUGH!
Mira A inspects this word – enough – and is astonished by its strangeness.
The curious sneeze of defiance that is enough!
She scratches her head, perplexed.
She glances around her.
Mira A picks up her guitar. She finds that she is perspiring uncontrollably. Her hands are bathed in sweat. She tries to play, to hold down a note – any note – but her fingers keep slipping off the strings. She is disabled by an intense – a burning – feeling of anxiety.
H(A)PPY Page 8