Because why would they even tell him about Max, supposing they know? Considering that the whole point of Consilience is for things to run smoothly, with happy citizens, or are they inmates? Both, to be honest. Because citizens were always a bit like inmates and inmates were always a bit like citizens, so Consilience and Positron have only made it official. Anyway, the point is the greatest happiness all around, and telling Stan would mean less happiness. In fact it would mean more misery. So they won't do it.
Already she can picture, no, feel Stan's arms around her; and then the way he nuzzles the side of her neck and says things like, Yum. Cinnamon. How's my little bun? Or he used to say things like that, comfort-food kinds of things, though he was slacking off lately. Almost ever since she got tangled up with Max, come to think of it. But he'll say those things again, because he'll have missed her and worried about her. How's my cherry pie? Not like the things Max says, which are more like, I'm going to turn you inside out, after this you won't be able to crawl. Beg me for it.
Stan maybe isn't the most...well, the most. The most of whatever you'd call Max. But Stan loves her, and she loves him.
She does really. That thing with Max was only a blip, it was an animal episode. She'll have to stay away from Max in future. Though it might be hard, because Max is so passionate about her. He'll try to get her back, no question. But she'll have to put her fingers in her ears and grit her teeth and roll up her sleeves and resist temptation.
Though why shouldn't a person have both? says the voice in her head.
I'm making an effort here, she answers. So shut up.
--
She looks at her watch: two-thirty. Half an hour to go. The waiting is the worst thing. She's never been so trembly before a Procedure.
She smiles her I-am-a-good-person smile, the smile of an absent-minded angel with a childish lisp. That smile has seen her through many difficult places, or at least it has since she's been grown up. It's a Get Out of Jail Free card, it's a rock concert wristband, it's a universal security password, like being in a wheelchair. Who would question it?
To give herself confidence she applies blush all over her pale face, then a thin coat of mascara on the eyelashes: nothing too overdone. Positron allows makeup in jail; in fact it encourages makeup, because looking your best is good for morale. It's her duty to look her best: she's about to become the last thing some poor young man will see on this earth. That's a big responsibility. She doesn't take it lightly.
Charmaine, Charmaine, whispers the small voice in her head. You are such a fraud.
So are you, she tells it.
HEADGAME
Stan must have drifted off, but he comes awake with a start. That fucking fly is walking all over his face, and he can't get at it.
"Fucking fly," he tries to say. Fuuuuuh. Fluuuh. Nope, no speech functions so far. Drug's got his tongue. He hopes this isn't permanent: he won't be able to buy anything except with little notes. Hi, my name is Stan and I can't talk. Gimme ten bottles of booze. He won't care what kind, he'd drink elephant piss. After what he's been through he'll want to get falling-down blind drunk. Oblivious.
It will make a good story though. Once he gets out. Once he hooks up with Brother Conor and his band of merry men, and erases himself from the radar of everyone and everything to do with Positron, because what rule is there that says he has to be Jocelyn's flunky and mule boy once he's out? Let her handle her own weird shit. He'll have to get Charmaine out too, of course. Maybe. If possible.
Now the fly's trying to get into his eye. Blink blink, turn the head: it's not very scared of eyelashes, but it moves. Now it's going into his nose. At least he has some control over his nostrils: he blows it out. His back is terminally itchy, he has a cramp in his leg, his diaper is sodden. More than anything, he wants this to be over. This stage, this phase, this powerlessness, whatever it is. Let's get this show on the road, he'd shout, if he were capable of shouting. Which he isn't. But he hopes he will be soon. He has a lot of shouting to catch up on.
--
Charmaine makes her way through the familiar corridors to the Medications Administration reception area, where three corridors come together. She's wearing her green smock over her orange boiler suit; her latex gloves are in her pocket, as well as her face mask in case of germs. She'll put it on before she goes into the room - that's the rule - but then she'll take it off again, because why should anyone's last view of a human face be so impersonal? She wants whoever it is to be able to see her reassuring smile.
She's a little nervous; probably they're monitoring it, this nervousness of hers. And most likely it counts in her favour, because during the training course she took they'd put some electrodes on you and then showed you pictures of people undergoing the Special Procedure and measured how you reacted. What they were looking for was a certain amount of jitteriness, but not so much that you'd lose control. They'd weeded out the ones who stayed totally calm and cold, and also those who'd showed too much eagerness. They didn't want people who got pleasure out of doing this - they didn't want sadists or psychopaths. In fact, it was the sadists and psychopaths who needed to be - not euthanized, not erased, those words are too blunt. Relocated to a different sphere, because they were not suited to the life of Consilience.
Maybe that's what will happen to Sandi, but in a nicer way. Maybe they'll just take her someplace else, like an island, with the other people on it who are like her. People who don't fit in, but not criminal elements. Surely that's what they'll do.
--
Now she's reached Reception, and there's the check-in box with the flatscreen on the front. The head is already there: it must be expecting her. Today it's the woman with the dark hair and bangs. It's the same woman who was with Ed when he'd visited the knitting circle the night before, the one with the hoop earrings and the grey stockings. Someone important. Charmaine feels a slight chill. Yogic breath, she tells herself. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
The head smiles at her. Is it only a recorded image this time, or is it a real person?
"Could I have the key, please?" Charmaine asks it, as she is supposed to.
"Log in, please," the head says to her. It's still smiling, though it seems to be looking at her more intently than usual. Charmaine presses her thumb to the pad, then gazes at the iris reader until it blinks.
"Thank you," says the head. The plastic key slides out of the slot at the bottom of the box. Charmaine puts it into her lab coat pocket, waits for the slip of paper with the details of the Procedure printed on it: room number, name, age, last dose of sedative, and when administered. It's necessary to know how alert the subject may be.
Nothing happens. The head is staring at her with a meaningful half-smile. Now what? thinks Charmaine. Don't tell me the dratted databank has messed up my identity numbers again.
"I need the Procedure slip," she says to the head. Even if it's only a canned image, her request will surely register.
"Charmaine," the head says to her. "We need to talk."
Charmaine feels the hair stand up on the back of her neck. The head knows her name. It's talking to her directly. It's as if the sofa has spoken.
"What?" she says. "What did I do wrong?"
"You didn't do anything wrong," the head says, "yet. But you're on probation. You must undergo a test."
"What do you mean, probation?" says Charmaine. "I've always been good at this job, I've never had any complaints, my job assessment score has been..." She's twisting the latex glove in her right-hand pocket; she tells herself to stop. It's bad to show agitation, as if she's in some way guilty. She's up for their darn test, whatever it is: she's willing to bet her technique and fulfillment against anybody's. They can't fault her, except for not wearing her face mask, but who in their right mind would care about that?
"It's not your competence that's in question," says the head. "But Management has had some misgivings about your professional dedication."
"I've always been extremely dedicated!" Ch
armaine says. Somebody must have been gossiping about her, telling lies. "You have to be dedicated to do this job! Who says I haven't been dedicated?" It must be that sneaky Aurora, from Human Resources. Or someone in her knitting group, because she wasn't peppy enough about those darn blue bears. "I love my job, I mean, I don't love having to do what I do, but I know it's my duty to do it, because it has to be done by someone, and I've always taken the best care and been very meticulous, and..."
"Let's call it loyalty," says the head.
Why did the head say loyalty? Is loyalty about her and Max? "I've always been loyal," she says. Her voice sounds weak.
"It's a matter of degree," says the head. "Please pay attention. You must carry out the Procedure as usual today. It is very important that you complete the task that has been assigned to you."
"I always complete the task!" says Charmaine indignantly.
"Today, this time, you may encounter a situation that you find challenging. Despite this, the Procedure must be carried out. Your future here depends on it. Are you ready for that?"
"What kind of situation?" Charmaine asks.
"You have an option," says the head. "You can resign from Medications Administration right now and go back to Towel-Folding, or some other undemanding form of work, if you feel you are not up to the test." It smiles, showing its strong, square teeth.
Charmaine would like to ask if she could have some time to think it over. But maybe that wouldn't be taken well: the head could see it as a flaw in her loyalty.
"You must decide now," says the head. "Are you ready?"
"Yes," says Charmaine. "I'm ready."
"All right then," says the head. "You have now chosen. There are only two kinds of people admitted to the Medications Administration wing: those who do and those who are done to. You have elected the role of those who do. If you fail, the consequences to yourself will be severe. You may find yourself playing the other role. Do you understand?"
"Yes," says Charmaine faintly. That was a threat: if she doesn't eliminate, she'll be eliminated. It's very clear. Her hands are cold.
"Very well," says the head. "Here are the details of your Procedure for today." The slip of paper slides out of the slot. Charmaine picks it up. The room number and the sedative information are there, but the name is missing.
"There isn't any name," Charmaine says. But the head has vanished.
CHOICE
Stan lets his mind float free. Time is passing; whatever will happen to him is about to happen. There's not a thing he can do about it.
Are these my last minutes? he asks himself. Surely not. Despite his earlier moment of panic, he's now oddly calm. But not resigned, not numbed. Instead he's intensely, painfully alive. He can feel his own thunderous heartbeat, he can hear the blood surging through his veins, he can sense every muscle, every tendon. His body is massive, like rock, like granite; though possibly a little soft around the middle.
I should have worked out more, he thinks. I should have done everything more. I should have cut loose from...from what? Looking back on his life, he sees himself spread out on the earth like a giant covered in tiny threads that have held him down. Tiny threads of petty cares and small concerns, and fears he took seriously at the time. Debts, timetables, the need for money, the longing for comfort; the earworm of sex, repeating itself over and over like a neural feedback loop. He's been the puppet of his own constricted desires.
He shouldn't have let himself be caged in here, walled off from freedom. But what does freedom mean any more? And who had caged him and walled him off? He'd done it himself. So many small choices. The reduction of himself to a series of numbers, stored by others, controlled by others. He should have left the disintegrating cities, fled the pinched, cramped life on offer there. Broken out of the electronic net, thrown away all the passwords, gone forth to range over the land, a gaunt wolf howling at midnight.
But there isn't any land to range over any more. There isn't any place without fences, roadways, networks. Or is there? And who would go with him, be with him? Supposing he can't find Conor. Supposing, unthinkable, that Conor is dead. Would Charmaine be up to such a trip? Would she even want him to smuggle her out? Would she consider it rescue? She's never liked camping, she wouldn't want to do without her clean flowered sheets. Still, he has a brief flash of longing: the two of them, hand in hand, walking into the sunrise, all betrayals forgotten, ready for a new life, somewhere, somehow. With maybe some strike-anywhere matches, and...what else would they need?
He tries to visualize the world outside the wall of Consilience. But he has no real picture of that world any more. All he sees is fog.
--
Charmaine keys herself into the dispensary, locates the cabinet, codes open its door. She finds the vial and the needle. She pockets them, snaps on her latex gloves, then walks along the corridor to the left.
These corridors are always empty when she's on her way to a Procedure. Do they do that on purpose, so nobody will know who has terminated which person? Nobody, that is, except the head. And whoever is behind the head. And whoever may be watching her right now, from inside a light fixture or through a tiny lens the size of a rivet. She straightens her shoulders, adjusts her face into what she hopes is a positive but determined expression.
Here's the room. She opens the door, steps quietly in. Removes her face mask.
The man is lying on his back, attached to the gurney at five points, as he should be. His head is turned a little away from her. Most likely he's staring at the ceiling, whatever part of it he can see. And most likely the ceiling is staring back at him.
"Hello," she says as she walks over to the gurney. "Isn't it a lovely day? Look at all the lovely sunshine! I always find a sunny day is really cheering, don't you?"
The man's head turns toward her, as far as it can turn. The eyes meet hers. It's Stan.
"Oh my gosh," says Charmaine. She almost drops the needle. She blinks, hoping the face will change into the face of someone else, a total stranger. But it doesn't change.
"Stan," she whispers. "What are they doing to you? Oh, honey. What did you do?" Has he committed a crime? What kind of a crime? It must have been very bad. But maybe there was no crime, or just a little one, because what sort of a crime would Stan have done? He's sometimes grumpy and he can lose his temper, but he's not mean as such. He's not the criminal type.
"Did you try to find me?" she says. "Honey? You must have been crazy with worry. Did you..." Has his love for her driven him over the edge? Has he found out about Max and killed him? That would be terrible. A fatal threesome, like something she'd see on the TV news, back at Dust. The sleazier news.
"Uhuhuhuh," says Stan. There's a trickle of drool coming out of the corner of his mouth. Tenderly she wipes it away. He's killed for her! He must have! His eyes are wide: he's pleading with her, silently.
This is more horrible than anything. She wants to rush out of the room, run back to her cell and shut the door and throw herself onto the bed and pull the covers over her head, and pretend that none of this has ever happened. But her feet don't move. All the blood is draining out of her brain. Think, Charmaine, she tells herself. But she can't think.
"Nothing bad is going to happen to you," she says as she usually does, but it's as if her mouth is moving by itself, with a dead voice coming out. Though the voice is trembling.
Stan doesn't believe her. "Uhuhuhuh," he says. He's straining against the bands that hold him in place.
"You're going to have such a great time," she says to him. "We'll have this done in a jiffy." There are tears running out of her eyes; she blots them away with her sleeve, because such tears won't do and she hopes no one has seen them, not even Stan. Especially not Stan. "You'll be home really soon," she tells him. "And then we'll have a lovely dinner, and watch TV." She moves behind him, out of his line of vision. "And then we'll go to bed together, the way we used to. Won't that be nice?"
The tears are coming harder. She can't help herself, she's flas
hing on the two of them when they were first married, and planning - oh, so many things for their new life together. A house, and kids, and everything. They were so sweet then, so hopeful; so young, not like the way she is now. And then it hadn't worked out, because of circumstances. And it was a strain, so many tensions, what with the car and everything, but they'd stayed together because they had each other and they loved each other. And then they'd come here, and at first it was so lovely, so clean, everything in its place, with happy music and popcorn in front of the TV, but then...
Then there was that lipstick. The kiss she'd made with it. Starved. Her fault.
Get hold of yourself, Charmaine, she tells herself. Don't be sentimental. Remember it's a test.
They're watching her. They can't be serious about this. They can't expect her to - not kill, no, she will not use the kill word. They can't expect her to relocate her own husband.
She strokes Stan's head. "Shhh," she says to him. "It's okay." She always strokes their heads, but this time it's not any old head, it's Stan's head, with his bristly haircut. She knows every feature of his head so well, each eye, each ear, and the corner of the jaw, and the mouth with Stan's teeth in it, and the neck, and the body that's attached to it. It's almost glowing, that body: it's as clear to her as anything, each freckle and hair, as if she's looking at it through a magnifying glass. She wants to throw her arms around that body to hold it still, keep it in this present moment, because unless she can stop time, this body doesn't have a future.
She can't do the Procedure. She won't do it. She'll march out of here, back to Reception, and demand to talk with the woman's head in the box. "I'm not falling for this," she'll say. "I'm not doing your stupid test, so just take a flying leap."
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