‘She was staff.’ My father interrupts. ‘And so was your beloved cyborg.’
‘We’re all cyborgs.’ I answer, clenching my jaw in anger as well as pain. The comment was intended to rile; payback for my mother defending me.
‘Some more than others. When a man contains more manufactured parts than not, and uses software that he doesn’t own, he becomes machine and therefore somebody’s property. Technically, Horatio was ex-military hardware.’
I decide not to rise to it. It’s not as if I haven’t heard it before. Hero was not his favourite person after he failed as my mentor. I became a journalist and not a doctor; apparently that’s Hero’s fault. He nurtured my curiosity and tendency to rebel, and my mother permitted it. At least, that’s how my father sees it.
‘Evelyn belonged in this house.’ I assert. ‘I never once heard her mention family in Spain.’
‘Belonged Inigo? That word implies ownership; possession.’
‘That’s not what I meant…’
‘In which case’ he says over me ‘Evelyn is no different to P400 - or Hero for that matter. Except that the Bug does not require food, wages or sick leave and will not one day decide to hand in its notice and emigrate to Spain to be with relatives it neglected to mention.’
‘Edward, that’s enough!’ cries my mother.
The room falls silent. My head is throbbing. Even the dim dining light now seems far too bright. My father is looking for a fight; but only one he can win. It’s probably wise to appease him, as I have for the past twelve weeks.
‘Do you have something against Bugs Inigo?’ he asks, sitting back in his chair and folding his arms.
‘No.’ I reply, pouring myself another glass of water. ‘I just prefer people. I can’t relate to robots.’
‘You’re not supposed to. Emotional attachment is the reason why the humanoid model was abandoned. Imagine a scenario where a person finds themselves attracted to a robot and begins to see the AI as self aware when it is anything but, simply because it looks and behaves like a person. Would we then be forced to accept a relationship between a human and a household appliance posing as life, as legitimate? If so, we might then be made to consider the rights of a man wishing to marry essentially his washing machine. Then before we know it, humanoids are accepted as citizens - not by way of some miraculous development of consciousness, but as a result of human weakness; by people projecting their emotions onto them and convincing themselves that the responses are genuine thoughts and feelings.’
‘Didn’t citizen rights already happen, at the start of the century? I stutter towards the end as a sharp pain in my right temple causes me to flinch.
‘Are you alright?’ asks my mother, suddenly standing.
‘I’m fine.’ I reply, recovering quickly.
She sits back down again. My father carries on as if nothing happened. ‘Those early pre-programmed puppets were created for entertainment and promotional purposes. No one in their right mind considered them anything other than clever toys. Emphasis on right mind.’ I’m not so sure. However I continue in agreement: ‘Yes, that’s why AI regulation stipulates that aesthetics must comply with the 2046 laws relating to their manufacture and design.’
‘Precisely Inigo.’ He says, seemingly impressed by my understanding. ‘You only need to look at the spate of legal cases relating to pleasure dolls before that law was passed, to realise that people are stupid.’
‘Enough robopsychology.’ Says my mother, wrapping up the conversation. ‘So what did you do today Inigo?’
‘Not a lot. Work is quiet.’
‘And likely to stay that way.’ remarks my father, standing and pushing in his chair. ‘Journalism is dead.’
Chapter 4
Ten hours after finding the diary, I still couldn’t remember everything that had happened. There were glimpses of the real past but it was still mostly just a story; a drama in which I’d played a part but could not recall all of my performance. I needed to remember it all as soon as possible so that I could start to unpick the knot; unravel the plot within the government and identify those involved.
My headache intensified as the evening wore on. The pain surges became almost unbearable. The implants were ineffective. My chip reading showed heightened anxiety levels and raised blood pressure. Notwithstanding the risk of being examined, I considered that I might actually be damaging my brain by backpedalling at such speed, so decided to try to forget about the diary for the time being. I watched old news footage about Health Farms instead, hoping that my memories might all come flooding back without me having to try. I listened to the Prime Minister reassure the public about LOSERs, then read a past article I’d written about one of these suiciders entitled ‘Society's Silent Sufferers’. It didn’t help to relieve the pressure behind my eyes and my fear of LOSERs remained despite knowing that I was never attacked. But it did distract a little from my mounting sense of helplessness.
Still, I couldn’t relax. My thoughts raced ahead to the dilemma we now face. I knew we couldn’t simply accuse the head of state of poisoning people through a secret organisation. One contaminated pill was not enough to bring a case against The Future party. We needed more - names, locations of labs, someone willing to talk. A weak link. A whistleblower. An insider with hard evidence of PEACE’s existence, prepared to leak the details to a member of the press. To me. I would be that journalist credited with exposing the slaughter and bringing Myers II to justice. I was certain that locked away in my consciousness were clues to finding a key player. But with Hero gone for the next forty eight hours, and picking my father's brains about his high ranking associates absolutely out of the question, I’d have bide my time and suffer the frustration of my impotence.
It was too early for bed and my mind still wouldn’t settle on anything other than the present matter. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I lay on my bed, willing the headache to go away, until eventually deciding to bring up a screen and catch up with current events. The hologram on my wall showed political correspondent Linden Rush in a dark grey suit and a red scarf, standing outside the houses of parliament earlier today. It looked cold and blustery but his dark hair remained fixed as the scarf blew against him in the strong wind.
‘Last night the government declared a state of emergency in four coastal districts following further outbreaks of the flu virus sweeping the nation that experts have described as ‘possibly the worst since the pandemic of 1918.’ Just under an hour ago, we received confirmation of the Minister for Health’s decision to put forty-five beehives under quarantine, and she has not ruled out the possibility of more in the coming days. We’re going to speak with Miss Chambers in just a few moments. But twenty minutes ago, a spokesperson for the Minister released this statement:
The screen text changes to 3D:
‘The decision to minimise exposure through quarantine was not taken lightly and we appreciate that not all occupants of these Hexagon Homes are contagious. However, we believe it’s in the public's best interest if residents in the blocks with the highest rates of infection remain indoors. The most severe cases, mainly elderly citizens, will be taken to Health Farms. Govco has increased the number of delivery Bugs in anticipation of higher demand for food deliveries. Anybody caught attempting to leave the ‘red’ blocks and endangering their local community will face the full force of the law. Infection control is now our priority.’
Linden Rush returns:
‘Questions are already being asked about the duration of these quarantines and what, if any provisions are being made for those employed outside their homes….’
I couldn't keep my eyes open. The need to sleep was instantaneous like being knocked out by a sedative. My brain went into shut down and before I knew it, two hours had passed.
At 9.00pm, somewhere in the far off distance, I hear my chip bleeping. By the time I realise what’s happening, the bleeping has stopped. A few seconds later, it comes again. I hesitate, trying to decide if I should take the cal
l from Heather. I resolve that I need a break from churning over the same thoughts; inevitable now I’m awake. And in the interest of courtesy, she really needs to know that we are not an item and never will be.
‘Heather.’ I answer groggily, pulling myself up straight on the bed.
‘Inigo. I haven’t disturbed you, have I?’
‘No. I was sleeping, but it’s fine.’
‘Is that why I can’t see you? Turn on your eyecam.’
‘No, really Heather. I’m not looking my best right now.’
‘Fair enough.’ She replies. ‘I hadn’t heard from you so thought I’d call to arrange our next date.’
I grimace as a muscle in my neck goes into spasm. ‘About that Heather…’
‘I really enjoyed the weekend.’ She cuts in.
‘Yes, me too.’ I answer, after a delay.
She giggles girlishly, seemingly oblivious to the lack of enthusiasm in my voice. I check her location on my eye. She’s at her London apartment.
‘I’m having a party on Friday evening. I know it’s short notice but I’d really like you to be there.’
‘I’m afraid I won’t be able to make it.’ I reply in a deadpan voice, as if cancelling a dental appointment. ‘Perhaps another time.’ It’s best to be firm from the outset. I need her out of my life as soon as possible.
‘You have other plans?’ She asks, with a hint of sorrow.
‘Yes, sorry. I have other plans.’
‘Oh. Well in that case, we could meet sooner? How about the Cibo Vecchio, eight o’clock tomorrow?’
Damn. I love Italian food. ‘No Heather.’
‘Oh? Why not?’
‘Look, you really are a great match and I don’t want to upset you but…’
‘You’re going to anyway.’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t see you again. The weekend was really good but it wouldn’t be fair to lead you on. I’m just not ready to date yet.’ I wait for a response and silently berate myself for describing our fleeting liaison as ‘really good.’ It’s a gross overstatement. She must know it.
She sighs loudly. ‘Honestly Inigo, I’ve never been in this situation before so I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.’
‘That’s fine. You don’t have to say anything…’
‘But as I understand it’ she interrupts ‘you’ve made a full recovery from your injuries.’
‘Physically, yes…’
‘But you feel vulnerable in public, which is why you don’t like going out. But you were fine at dinner on Saturday once you’d relaxed. And you know as well as I do that the odds of getting attacked twice by a LOSER are about the same as a snow shower in July.’
‘Which means there is still a chance…’
‘Look, the fact that you had fun last weekend is clearly an indication that you are ready to move on from your experience. So here’s the thing,’ She continues bossily. ‘you need to get out of the house and I really like you. So in both our interests, I’m going to insist that you let me take you out to dinner again.’
I can’t find fault with her on the spot reasoning. Or perhaps she pre-empted the rejection and had the answer prepared. Either way, getting rid of the Genie date is proving much harder than I thought it would to be. ‘Fine.’ I say, defeated. ‘8 pm tomorrow at the Cibo Vecchio.’
‘Great!’ She exclaims. ‘I’ll see you there.’
I end the call and immediately resolve to cancel by noon the following day. My excuse? Work commitments. I’ll assign myself a stack of essential articles to write in the morning and anticipate not getting finished in time.
I suffered the pounding in my head well into the early hours. Unsettling thoughts about the coming days and partial recollections of conversations with Hero and Sam Steele prevented me from sleeping soundly. In one semi conscious scenario, Sam was the victim husband of Elaine, in possession of a vintage mobile phone sewn into a white bear, and subsequently murdered for selling me the intelligence the phone contained through the online network ‘The Grapevine’. In another, he was the angry LOSER with a made up terminal illness who attacked me with a hammer before being admitted to a Health Farm where he was murdered by an agent. I struggled to separate the truth from the lies, and wore myself out trying.
Eventually I drifted into a deeper sleep. But the dreams that came were bizarre, surreal episodes. At 4 am, I woke in a pool of sweat with the realisation that my mind had been making connections. Afraid of losing the information that had apparently ordered itself as I’d slept, I stumbled out of bed in search of a notebook and a pen. Hero was gone; it would be hours before we could discuss my ideas. I had to write them all down. It was late and dark, but I believed that I was thinking clearly. I was convinced that I’d untangle the web of lies and identified the perpetrators within the Future party. I wrote down as much as I could. Finally exhausted, I tucked the notebook under my mattress and fell soundly back to sleep until woken by daylight streaming through the curtains as they automatically opened.
‘Good morning Master Inigo.’
I sit up and squint at the bright light and the outline of P400 standing at the end of my bed. Despite lacking a face or the ability to change the tonal quality of its voice, I sense disapproval from the robot.
‘It is 9.40am. I was alerted to your condition when you failed to respond to your alarm.’
‘My condition? You mean I was asleep.’
‘Yes. Today is a work day.’
‘I’m well aware of that P400.’ I reply, throwing the sheets back crossly. I walk naked to the bathroom and splash cold water on face. P400 follows. The headache has gone but my shoulders are stiff and achy. Another hour in bed might have helped. I resist the urge to press into the knotted muscle tissue either side of my spine, under the watchful eye of the blasted AI.
‘How did you sleep Master?’
‘Great. Thanks for asking.’ I say, inspecting the bags under my eyes in the mirror. I never have bags under my eyes. It makes me look old. I don’t like it.
‘Your twelve hourly biometric report suggests that you experienced insomnia during the night.’
‘Does it really.’ I reply as cool air from the blower dries my face. I pay particular attention to my eye bags, in hope that the cold might shrink them.
‘Your heart rate was elevated eight times and you displayed three of the main symptoms of anxiety. The data indicates an emotional disturbance resulting from negative thought patterns. I recommend a full cognitive behavioural assessment.’
‘No. Thank you.’
‘Evidence shows that anxiety can be relieved if the cause is identified and behaviour altered through therapy or an implant.’
‘P400, can I ask you something?’
‘Of course Master.’
‘What else can cause the heart race?’ I say, walking back to the bed and finding my dressing gown that the robot has laid out for me.
‘Increase in heart rate, common causes; increased activity, excitement, sexual arousal, change in body temperature...’
‘Have you considered any of these possibilities?’
‘All other factors have been eliminated Master Inigo.’
‘All factors?’
‘Yes Master.’
‘P400; on Saturday night I left the house for the first time since the incident, without a bodyguard.’
‘A replacement shadow was assigned but you declined protection.’
‘I know. I don’t want a new shadow.’ I reply firmly. ‘The only person I trusted to watch my back was Hero and now he’s gone.’ I take a certain degree of satisfaction in saying this because the robot does not know that he’s alive. Continuing where I left off: ‘Last night was only the second time I’ve slept alone since I left the house to go on my date. If you want to know why I’m suffering from anxiety, how about the fact that despite my desire for Heather Rhodes, I’m still terrified of LOSERs and panicked at the very idea of stepping out that front door again? So unless you can access my thoughts and feelings too
- I suspect it’s only a matter of time - you only have half the story which is not much use.’
‘You have not overcome your agoraphobia associated with your recent trauma.’
‘No, I haven’t. Just because I went out once, it doesn’t mean that I’m cured. In fact, I’m worse. I tried it and it didn’t work out. What can I say? I’m only human. You wouldn’t understand because you're not human. You’re a machine. People are more complicated.’
‘But the solution is not complicated. Would you like me request a therapy session? Based on the information you have imparted, there is a 97% probability that you would be a suitable candidate for a phobia implant.’
‘I’m dealing with it.’
Nothing. Not a flicker (literally). Just when I thought it was starting to learn. ‘That means no, robot. End of discussion.’
‘Very well Master Inigo.’
I despair at having to explain myself to this calculating non-lifeform. I tap my fingers and check my chip for work updates whilst P400 starts to make the bed.
‘Do you require the breakfast table to be laid?’
‘Are my parents here?’ I say, looking past the non-urgent notices.
‘No master. Mistress Zara is meeting with a friend in Glasgow. Master Edward is lecturing at Cambridge University hospital.’ It replies, rearranging the pillows.
‘Then don’t bother. What I require is a full English breakfast brought to my office.’
‘Full English breakfast; recipe 726401. This meal contains…’
‘Please; spare me the list of scary ingredients. Call it breakfast and lunch if want. Brunch. I have a lot to do today and intend to work through all other meal breaks.’ I say, tapping my fingers to exit the messages.
2079- Beyond the Blue Page 5