IVON

by Michael Aylwin

  Had he a future. Were he as responsible. He does not and he is not. These memories are all that is left to him.

  He runs again. Across the road. These memories are not all he has. He has Ivon. He has a future in Wales. And he has, yes, he has, a part of him is…there must be a way of expressing it that justifies his delinquent longing to make contact. There are in Regent’s Park, exercising in the elite training corridors of London Cricket, examples of Dusty’s progeny.

  Along Park Road, through Hanover Gate and onto the Outer Circle, he scuds across the sky-blue roads. He is Dusty Noble. He is off to see his progeny. To do so is a thought that has occurred to him, an urge that has visited. He will not dismiss it as an irrelevance; he will not belittle the impulse. Here is the possibility to – what? – meet, touch, look at his progeny, which arises from his knowing about them, from his living in the same city. It is as simple and as innocent as that. Through the tree grid he pounds, left over York Bridge, until he reaches the Inner Circle and the high conservatories of London Cricket’s Elite Centre for Batting.

  For a moment – for more than a moment – it’s as if he’s never been away. He strides through the doors of the ECB with the air of a man who has done so for more than thirty years, head high, back straight, arms swinging naturally.

  ‘Hello, Todd,’ he says to the secondary at reception as he sweeps past.

  Todd does not reply.

  On Dusty strides, into the grand central corridor. The skies above are clear, and the gills are tilted to diffuse light throughout the height and length of the gallery. Off to the right are the portals for the training corridors, but Dusty turns left, halfway down the hallway, into the recovery lounge. Men and women in the green of elite wander and recline across the lounge. Dusty makes no eye contact, heading directly for the notice-face. He scans the training schedule. Who did Garbo say were his progeny? Marius Amstrad was definitely one of them. Percy Sabatani another. Dusty racks his brain and scans the names. Jake George? Was he one?

  He notes Marius’s corridor.

  ‘Dusty?’ says a voice behind him.

  It is Patrick Desolay, opening bat. Dusty cannot hold his gaze. He looks past him and catches sight of Miranda Leaf with her hands in her hair, then back at Patrick and down to the curve of his bicep, which seems more pronounced than it should be. Losing streaks – why do they send rational athletes straight to the multi-gym?

  ‘What you doing here?’ Patrick’s tone is not unfriendly; neither is it welcoming.

  ‘Appointment. I have an appointment.’

  ‘Oh? Strange place to have one.’

  Dusty moves away, back towards the training corridor. ‘You keeping productive, Patrick?’ he says over his shoulder, without quite turning his head.

  He doesn’t wait for the reply, slipping into one of the training portals and up the off-white moulded steps to the viewing gallery. The air hums with the arrhythmic clicks of bat on ball and the sighs of ball along simu-wall. Dusty marches along the gallery, flicking through the batsmen in their corridors as through the pages of a book. Marius Amstrad is in 1-23. Dusty can see him now and in a few more strides is over his corridor.

  This is his progeny. Of course. How had he not seen it before? Dusty is bewitched by the young lad’s elegance and economy of effort. The balls fly from his bat with speed and deference, again and again. The authority of movement, the grace, the sureness of shot. The sureness. It is Dusty looking at Dusty, at how Dusty was, at how Dusty can be again through this progeny of his. He can feel the tears prick at his eyes. He wants to claim ownership of this boy. Is he not his? Reared by London, yes, born of its breeding programmes – but made in the image of Dusty Noble from Dusty Noble’s seed. Dusty can perceive the link now, direct and timeless, between progenitor and progeny. He can appreciate the individuality of it. He wants to know who his progenitors were. He wants to know who Marius Amstrad’s other progenitor is. There is somebody else in the boy. He is in the image of Dusty, yet not. But how to draw out the strands that are his and those of someone else? He watches him as if in strobe lighting, snatches of mannerisms and bearings and angles of profile flash across the boy’s body like the projection on a simu-wall, each speaking anew of an influence or trait that is Dusty’s, someone else’s, familiar, on the tip of his tongue, just out of reach. Dusty knows his co-progenitor but cannot identify her. Of all the girls he successfully applied for a procreation certificate with, which are you?

  He wants it to be Dee, but he can’t remember if they ever applied. If they did, it might explain his tempestuous relationship with Ricky. But, no, he cannot see Dee in Marius Amstrad. Lana Defoe, Manager for Cricket? The authority of stroke would be consistent, but, equally, none was more authoritative than Dusty’s. Sonya Trick? Teresa Southfield?

  Marius ties his feet up facing a leg-side delivery and offers a catch to short leg. A chink in his technique. Amid the masterclass it is a sudden and surprising flaw. Dusty had trouble with the very same shot! He knows exactly what Marius is going through. He understands! A warm surge overtakes him, tenderness, empathy, a hint of melancholy – confusing new conditions for a Perpetual citizen, but Dusty feels alive with them. There is hope and excitement too, the prospect of a connection, the opportunity to help.

  He bounds down the stairs and scans his way into the training corridor. The simulation powers down, the bowling aperture suspends operation. Marius and Dusty stand face to face in a blank oblong box. Dusty’s momentum wavers as the young man’s eyes turn from surprise at his arrival to suspicion.

  ‘Dusty Noble,’ Marius murmurs, as if to confirm it.

  Dusty’s son is taller than he is. He knew that already, of course. Now it strikes him as overwhelmingly significant. But, no, it is not that. It is the word ‘son’ that is overwhelming, ancient, obsolete, discredited and suddenly in his head from nowhere, a smithereened relic from deep within the human registry, rising up and coalescing to form a new star in Dusty’s firmament, a new body of gravity to order himself by. He looks down, away from the intense focus of his son’s gaze. His eyes settle on the forearm, then the gloves, the latest generation of intelligent cricket suit. Dusty suddenly remembers the last days of pads and guards. Batting was harder then with all that extraneous weight about one’s person, but wasn’t there something noble about it too, nobly inefficient? Isn’t there something noble about this – memories popping through into his consciousness like an infestation, impossible to contain, the overrunning of a neat, future-leaning mind?

  He focuses on the bat, which Marius holds so effortlessly, as if it too were an intelligent extension of his very person. Dusty reaches out for it. He thinks he wants to offer Marius a few tips, but he is reaching out as well for his past, for his purpose on Earth, for his son. Like the teeming memories, tears burst forth from his eyes as he holds out his hand. He is not bold enough to take the bat; he is not bold enough to look anywhere else.

  ‘Are you crying?’ says Marius. The contempt is unmistakeable. He takes a step backwards. The bat is whipped away.

  ‘Dusty Noble!’ says another voice from the aperture end of the corridor. It is Anthony Penn, Head of London Batting, a former comrade. ‘I heard you took a post at ReSure. You having second thoughts?’

  Dusty is stranded, unable to look at his son, unable to look at Anthony Penn. The tears have marooned him. He pulls his hand back in and bolts for the exit, his head half-turned against Anthony, in full against Marius, his son and heir.

  ‘Get yourself on a coaching programme,’ says Anthony, as Dusty sets off. ‘I’ve always said it.’ Then he pauses. ‘Are you…?’

  ‘He just walked in here, Head,’ says Marius. ‘Walked in and started crying.’

  ‘Crying?’

  Dusty plunges on through the grand central corridor and away.

  Ivon opens his eyes. He sees whiteness, of course. He sits – no, he lies – in a featureless, infinite expanse of white. The whitest yet. He can make out no ceiling, no walls. No corners, no edges. The
light and white hang perfectly around him, so intimate with each other as to dissolve all points of reference.

  His body stretches out, held in a half-mould that could have been custom made. The smooth edges of the casing – he immediately thinks open sarcophagus – are all he can make out of any substance. He thinks he is lying down in it, but he could be vertical, he could be on an angle. His torso must be raised slightly – or his head – for he can see the extent of his body. He is naked. His body hair has been removed. He tries to lift his head, but he cannot move it.

  Something else is not right, and when it dawns on him he is sick with terror. There are no visible restraints binding him, so he tries to lift his arm. He cannot. He tries his other, then his legs – to no avail. He tries again. His fingers and toes too. There is no response.

  He is paralysed.

  He gasps.

  ‘No need to panic,’ says a voice behind him.

  His eyes flit to all points in their sockets, desperate to lock on to something fixed in the outside world. He strains again to shift his position.

  ‘We have placed a hiatus in your somatic motor neurone network for now,’ the voice continues, undulating, with a faint lisp. ‘Your peripherals have been disengaged. Full function will be restored once the procedure is complete.’

  A figure steps into his field of vision. Ivon is able to orientate himself – he is lying down – but this man, in the black suit of security, remains discrete in a void of whiteness. He is smaller than the men of his class Ivon has encountered so far, and when he turns towards him Ivon can see that he is younger, too, possessed of a lively, impish face and movements that are swift and precise.

  ‘Your limbs are immobile, but they should retain full sensation.’

  Pain swells in Ivon’s thigh as the man presses down on a bruise. His fingers are thin and strong. Ivon seethes; then, when his tormentor turns to look him in the eye while digging his fingers in deeper, he cries out. In his mind he is thrashing about, in his mind he is breaking free, protecting his thigh. But Ivon’s body does not respond, save for transmitting its pain.

  ‘Good!’ says the man, jerking up to full height. ‘It is all in order.’ He smiles sharply. ‘Forgive me. My name is Ignatius Andrew. I am an Assistant Director of the Institute of Correction. I shall be assimilating you today. Call me Nate.’

  ‘Where am I?’

  ‘In the IC.’

  ‘Where is that? I want to see the outside. I want to see something.’

  Ignatius sucks in through pursed lips. ‘That will not be possible, I’m afraid. We are some way under the ground. You will see the outside again in time.’

  He studies Ivon for a moment and cocks his head, then brings it in nearer, studying Ivon’s nose. The skin of his face is without blemish, without stubble or discernible pore. He tuts. ‘That nose of yours is a mess. Quite broken.’ He inhales, as if a thought occurs to him. ‘Let me straighten it for you.’

  A big fat pain erupts across Ivon’s face. The fingers are nimble and, yes, immensely strong. His head must be held in a vice, for it does not move as his nose is repositioned. A hideous crunch and grind releases shockwaves through his cranium, as tectonic plates might across the Earth. Ivon bellows with the pain and helplessness.

  Ignatius stops suddenly and holds his palms up to his handiwork, as Dad used to after he’d balanced the bails on the wicket. ‘There. I think that’s better.’ He winces. ‘Or is it? Maybe we’ll leave it to the experts. Sorry.’

  Tears are streaming down Ivon’s face. The iron tang of blood is in his mouth again. He is desperate to bring his hands up to his nose, but they lie uselessly by his side. The pain pulses round his face and into his head.

  ‘What are you doing to me? What is this?’

  Ignatius eases one buttock onto the side of the casing and lifts one knee to rest there. He holds his chin between his thumb and forefinger, as if in mockery, his other arm across his midriff. He pauses for effect.

  ‘This is your Assimilation, Ivon. You’ve been heading here for a while. All three degrees, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It’s a question of how deeply into the strata of your consciousness we need to delve. In your case, we cannot hope to undo the damage to your personality wrought by a lifetime in the Lapsed Era without removing the entire register.’

  Ivon is exhausting himself with the mental effort to move. He strains every neuron in his head, and when his body yields no response he breaks out into a roar of frustration. He hurls abuse at Ignatius, every violent imprecation he knows. Ignatius jumps to his feet, a look of horror on his face.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard such aggression from an assimilee!’ he says. ‘You speak of fucking and the cunt as if they are bad things. Really, I think gratitude the more appropriate response. We’re going to provide you with the mindset to become the best you can be. I’ve seen fear in a subject before; I’ve seen tears. But I’ve never known anyone rail like this against their own improvement!’

  ‘You’re going to wipe out my memory! That’s what this means, doesn’t it! Destroy my mind!’

  ‘Oh, dear joules! No, of course not! Everything removed will be reinstated. You’ll feel very different towards it all once the procedure is complete, but we will take nothing away.’

  Ignatius turns away and walks purposefully to the fringe of Ivon’s vision, where he stops to perform a task. Ivon strains frantically to see what he is doing, but it is hopeless.

  ‘First of all,’ Ignatius continues, ‘a distinction. We are not talking about your conscious memories, although it is true they will come out with everything else. This is third-degree Assimilation, Ivon! We will be delving far deeper than the surface. Your memories are superficial, malleable, a conversation between your conscious and unconscious minds, with the conscious always in control, bending and shaping the details of what actually happened to fit its ever-shifting requirements. No, we will be removing the very seat of memory itself. The register of everything that has ever happened to you, as experienced by you. It is rooted in the unconscious. The human mind is incapable of retaining such data on a conscious level. Can you imagine being able to replay in your head every second of your life to date? Or, worse still, being unable to change the details of any of it? It would be intolerable! Which is why the human mind keeps the seat of memory well away from the conscious. But it is all in there.’ He has returned to be by Ivon’s side and leans in again to his face, tapping him playfully on the forehead. ‘And that is what we shall be removing. For now.’

  ‘For now.’

  Ignatius straightens up and begins to peruse what looks like an opaque sheet of glass in his hand. ‘Yes. It is temporary. We need to wind the scoreboard back to nil–nil, as it were. Once we have removed the register of what has made you you, we can start to tinker with the hardware. We will install the Perpetual Starter Pack.’ He shrugs and cocks his head. ‘It is a bundle of hormones and regulators that helps to foster a personality consistent with Perpetual values. All citizens are fitted with it upon emergence these days.’ He laughs. ‘It is true that in a few years we shall have little need for the IC! Our juveniles are reared so meticulously under the new technology that we expect Misalignment variance to be all but eradicated in the latest generations. But you represent a very different case. We will not know the extent of the underlying faults in your circuitry until we have removed the seat. Then we shall to work. Once we are satisfied that the necessary adjustments have been made, we will replace the register in its entirety. Your personal history will remain unaltered. But, of course, it will now be repellent to you, as it should always have been. Indeed, I doubt you will care to summon it to consciousness at all. You will be set free from Wales! Free to focus on your productivity!’

  Ivon screws his eyes shut. He is no longer taking in what the man is saying. If only he could move. If only he could be home.

  His breath quickens to a pant. His mouth is dry, his nose a wall of blood
and swollen tissue. He cannot move. Hatred burns inside him for the spineless English who have rendered him thus. For those who made him stop just short of the line. For the computer. The cunts who let the computer do that to him. He roars again.

  Stop. Breathe. Persuasion. Persuasion is all he has left. He tries to calm himself.

  ‘OK. OK. I’ll change!’

  Ignatius looks up from his glass tablet, his eyebrows arched, his head cocked again, a half-smile on his lips that gives Ivon a fleeting sense of hope. ‘You’ll change?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I’ll change.’

  He tucks the tablet across his midriff and brings his other hand up to his chin again, spreading forefinger and thumb across the front of it. He is listening.

  ‘I will control my individualism. I will stop making decisions that do not conform to the game plan. I will place my abilities in the hands of…of ProzoneX. I will be guided by…by…him. It.’

  A new voice breaks into the conversation. It is loud, it is strong and profound. Ivon cannot tell if it is in his head, or in the room, or on the air, or up on high.

  ‘These abilities ARE NOT YOURS!’ it booms.

  Ignatius brings his shoulders up to his ears, as if to take cover. He winces at Ivon, but it is in mockery, cowardly, contemptible mockery.

  ‘You betray your on-going delinquency when you speak in such terms,’ the voice continues. ‘You are no more than what has happened to you. You are no more than what you have been given.’

  Ivon’s breath quickens again. He closes his eyes and wrestles with the instinct to scream. He tries to remain onside; he tries to imagine what they want to hear. But the will is too strong in him.

  ‘No!’ he cries. ‘No! I have been given nothing!’

  ‘You are a bundle of genetic instructions to which things have happened,’ rejoins the voice. It is calm, but it fills the room completely. ‘That is all. The genes are an inheritance from your progenitors and the rest a function of what has happened to you. You have been shaped by the Lapsed Era, but you cannot claim responsibility for that, any more than your progenitors can for the organised programmes they came through.’