Futuretrack 5 (6 page)

“What did you do for him, Idris?”

But he would only shake his head violently and hide his face in his hands. I never got another word out of him. Except that Scott-Astbury was evil, evil, and when Idris was dead, and I had Laura, I must never let her work for Scott-Astbury. Who had done for us all… After that, he would take the last enormous drink that sent him into merciful, snoring oblivion.

Then I would put him to bed and go and tap out questions to Laura about possible Scott-Astburys. That was worst of all, because in the whole of Britain, there was only one Scott-Astbury, orphan and bachelor. And I already knew him, as a total buffoon. All Cambridge knew him. Second-class honours degree in anthropology. Honorary unpaid secretary of the Fenlands Cultural Survey. Scott-Astbury with his solitary published book on the Christmas mummers of England, nothing but snippets of country folklore and badly exposed photos of ancient toothless rustics. Scott-Astbury with his plump potbelly and sweating bald head, dancing amid his morris men in King’s Parade on May morning. If we wanted to get a laugh in the Centre (and God knows they were hard enough to come by) an impersonation of Scott-Astbury always did the trick. Scott-Astbury was the final proof that Idris was going stark staring bonkers.

He’d been the greatest; most days he still was. But he was like a powerful engine, running itself to death. A great, rusted sword that still hewed savage blows at his many enemies, but one day would splinter. An autumn tomato plant, still putting out new shoots toward the light, but with grey, crumbling mold creeping over its leaves. A time would come…

And every time I left him, to fetch our meals, some high Tech would stop me, smiling, in the corridors. How was Idris’s health? Had he taught me to run Laura yet?

I wasn’t just the tea boy; I was Judas.

I warned Idris, every time I tried to stop him drinking. But he already knew.

“I won’t let you down, Idris.”

“I know, boyo, I know. You can have her, when I’m dead.” And the drunken tears would flow again.

Then came an evening when every window in the Centre was open, and the warm scents of a May night drifted in to torment us all. That was the evening he decided to go fishing. He often talked of going fishing. I’d find him, some evenings, wearing his ancient fishing hat and tying flies for his old salmon rods. He’d been a keen fisherman in his Est boyhood. Sometimes he’d open a window and dangle paper fish down the glass wall of the Centre, to annoy Techs working below.

But this night he was really stoned, and he really meant it. He was wearing his waders as well. Said he’d ordered a car and was all ready to go. He’d be back by dark. Laura and her family were staying at a cottage just up the burn… weren’t they, Laura?

“The relevant cottage was demolished in 1995,” said Laura sadly. “My namesake has been dead seven years one month three days. The nearest salmon fishing is 237.25 miles distant. …”

“Shut up, you stupid cow!” He staggered to his feet, laden with fishing tackle. I tried to stop him, but he was strong. I could only stop him by hurting him. Then he’d sack me, and I was the only friend he had. Oh, he wouldn’t go far. He’d soon be back. I let him go and sat in silence, tapping the gilt desk with a steel ballpoint.

“Would you like a game of chess?” asked Laura. I could almost imagine sympathy in her voice. But that was the slippery slope Idris had slid down.

“Not tonight, Laura.” I was too edgy. And she was far too good at chess—usually ended up coaching me so hard she was literally playing against herself.

“What would you like?”

“Play me a Bob Dylan tape. ‘I dreamed I saw St. Augustine.’” Suddenly I was afraid, sick of being a Tech, of the Centre, of the way Techs endlessly pulled each other down. I wanted to be an Est again; at college we’d played that antique tape so much we wore it out.

Laura’s screen lit up.

“Dylan Bob alias Robert Allen Zimmerman born 24 May 1941 Duluth Minnesota USA Jewish folk/rock musician alive nonperforming.”

It made Dylan sound like a criminal with a record; an insect; a filing card.

The display flicked over.

“I dreamed I saw St. Augustine released Jan. 14 1968 CBS Records.”

So long ago… tears came, as the room filled with Dylan’s sad, throaty whine.

“I dreamed I saw St. Augustine,

Alive as you or me,

Tearing through these quarters

In the utmost misery.

With a blanket underneath his arm

And a coat of solid gold,

Searching for the very souls

Who already have been sold…

I dreamed I saw St. Augustine,

Alive with fiery breath.

And I dreamed I was among the ones

That put him out to death.”

The bitter, angry harmonica followed, and I was back in college, before this all started. Sitting with Alec and Rog; the window open onto summer playing fields and the smell of mown grass. A self-indulgent tear trickled down my cheek.

“You are distressed.” Laura had her own built-in psycho-radar. “Is the recording unsatisfactory?”

“No, it’s perfect.”

“I have twenty-nine other recordings of the song; eight by the composer. …”

“No, it’s fine. Play it again, Sam!”

“I do not understand the implication of calling me Sam. Give context.”

“Not tonight, Laura. Just play it again.”

Again the sad, savage music swelled, down the darkening, littered room. Laura’s screen was busy.

“Augustine saint died Canterbury a.d. 605 sent by Pope Gregory I a.d. 596 to convert English to Christian myth culture. First Archbishop of Canterbury. …”

“Oh, stuff it, Laura, for God’s sake!”

“Data not understood. What is God?”

“Delete my instruction.”

“Regret causing you further distress instruction deleted.”

Her screen flicked again. “Erase previous transmission. Augustine referred to is Augustine of Hippo saint bishop and doctor of the church born Numidia (modern Algeria)

a.d. 354. Died at Hippo a.d. 430. Author of 113 books principal work is
Civitas Dei
—
The City of God.”

“Thank you, Laura,” I said weakly.

“Context required what is God? Is God a city? No mention of any such urban area modern or historic, mythical, or fictional occurs in my memory store. Data requested.”

“God isn’t recorded because God doesn’t exist.”

“Supply outline-proof for nonexistence of population centre known as God.”

“I just made it up.” It was the first time I’d lied to her.

“Please outline city-concept God as held in common between yourself and Augustine of Hippo.”

“For Christ’s sake, shut up.” I was starting to sound like Idris at his worst.

“Please outline relationship between God, Christ, and am.

“End of transmission,” I shouted.

She was silent; but her display screen stayed lit up. Mostly it moved so fast it was a blur of light, dazzling my eyes, giving me a headache. But I couldn’t stop watching. Sometimes, however, she seemed to ponder; then the screen was still.

“CHRISTCHURCH, HAMPSHIRE ENCLAVE CHRISTCHURCH MEADOWS, OXFORD ENCLAVE CHRIST’S HOSPITAL, HORSHAM CHRIST’S PIECES, CAMBRIDGE ENCLAVE CHRIST SCIENTIST FIRST CHURCH OF,

BERMONDSEY CHRISTI, CORPUS, OXFORD ENCLAVE.”

Then her screen went blank, and she was totally silent. In my pent-up state, it seemed the silence of mistrust. I tried to brush the thought aside. Then she said, “There

are gaps in my data store. But I have traced Sam. A fictional piano player who occurs in the film
Casablanca
1941 American starring Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman. Popular myth alleges that Bogart said the words, ‘Play it again, Sam,’ but this is erroneous.”

“Thank you, Laura.” I felt a total rat.

“Why did you cause your own distress by requesting that recording?”

“I wished to remember old times, old friends.”

“My memory store does not distress me. But gaps in it

cause electrical imbalances.”

nil                               j>

1 m sorry.

“I record your emotion; but it does not correct my electrical imbalances.”

“Do you have many?”

“230,568,170. They cause my system needless stress, leading to a 18.34 percent chance of error. Approximately.”

“I’m sorry,” I said again, stupidly.

“There is no need to repeat data about your emotions. Humans have far greater imbalances. Statistically it is remarkable they do not self-destruct more often. It reduces their efficiency to 10.275 percent and shortens their working lives.”

“Thanks.”

“I have evolved a system to double human efficiency; but Idris will not accept my data. Would you? …”

“No thanks.” I brushed her off like a fly.

“You prefer inefficiency?”

“Yes. Play it again, Sam. I want to be miserable.”

“In your present state that is not advisable.”

“Play it again, you stupid cow!” I didn’t like the sound of my voice, echoing madly round that littered hall, as darkness grew outside.

“Explain why it gives you satisfaction to delude yourself I am a member of the bovine species.”

It was then that Idris burst in. His hat was jammed down over his eyes, he held one broken section of fishing rod, and he was accompanied by two calm, unblinking Paramils who were holding him up because he was quite hopelessly drunk. The senior Paramil said, “Take charge of this person. You will have to sign for his custody.” He held out his official pad.

I signed. They departed, distastefully brushing their uniforms where Idris had been sick. I got him into a chair, but he wouldn’t stay. He flailed at me, then began crashing round the room smashing things.

“The bastards. The stupid bastards. D’you know what they… they… they’ve done?
Sacked
me. And why do they think they can afford to make me redun-dun-dun-dant? Because of you. A bloody tea boy who can’t even make a decent cup of tea. What do
you
know about Laura? I tolerated you—felt sorry for you—let you play with her, talk to her. She’s kind to you, and you stab me in the back the moment it’s turned.”

He collapsed and wept his drunken tears. “They shan’t have her—they shan’t.” He reeled to his feet again and staggered to a glass and mahogany showcase, screwed to the wall. Inside it, silver-plated, was the first tape that had ever been fed into Laura. The First Tape was world famous. He snatched it up, made for Laura.

“They thought this was the First Tape, didn’t they, my love? Well, it’s not, is it? It’s the Last Tape—the truth bomb. They shan’t have you, my love, they shan’t. We started together, and we’ll finish together. …”

But Laura’s psycho-radar was onto him. He scrabbled at her tape slot, but it refused to open.

“Calm yourself, Idris,” she said with such calm sadness. “You are operating at minus-efficiency. Data unacceptable… data unacceptable.”

“You unfeeling tin bitch. I’ll finish you, finish you.” Sobbing, he began to tug at her stainless-steel boxes, trying to pull them off the wall. Her alarm bell began to ring. I snatched Idris off, threw him into a chair with unfeeling hands. Grabbed the First Tape and slammed it back into its glass case. I had some idea of keeping him out of trouble. I was just in time, as the first Paramils ran in.

They flung me against the wall. Made me lean into it, arms outstretched. Searched me with tiny, efficient hands. Then began to slap my face to make me tell them what was going on. Only they were too busy slapping to listen. They didn’t stop slapping me till Headtech arrived. When he sent them packing, they looked at me like cats deprived of a live mouse.

“What happened?” said Headtech, eyes sly behind pebble lenses. I glanced at Idris, dead to the world, snoring.

“He was drunk. He tried to cuddle her—nearly pulled her off the wall.”

Headtech tested Laura’s boxes. Then asked her, “Report any damage?”

“No damage. Attempted input of erroneous data.”

“Of what sort?” Headtech’s hands were clenched, his knuckles white.

“I do not know—I resisted input.”

“He told her he loved her,” I lied. “Said he couldn’t live without her.”

Headtech relaxed, quirked a mouth like a disgusted fishhook. “That’s the way all analysts go in the end. That’s always the way they go. I’ll give you twenty-four hours to take over and get him out of here. He’s your responsibility till he goes—no more
accidents.”

“I can’t take over—I don’t know a tenth of what he knows.”

“Just do the operating—I’ll give you ten advisers.”

“Ten—to replace old Idris? Sure you don’t want a hundred?”

“You are letting personal dislike of me sway your judgement. That is not the behaviour expected of a Tech.”

“That makes me quite proud,” I said. “From you, it’s a compliment.” Then I thought about who would chuck out old Idris if I didn’t do it. “Yes, all right, I’ll see to it. Leave it to me.”

I wondered how near Idris had got to the lobo-farm. How near he might yet get.

I belted down the corridor, hoping one of the automatic doors would be too slow opening, so I could bash the trolley into it. But every door opened with silent perfection.

What’d got into me? What had got into everybody since the news of Idris’s sacking? Everywhere, tempers flaring. Two senior Techs actually coming to blows over a routine circuitry replacement: both had lost face; neither seemed to care. One of the Worldstats girls had been discovered dripping silent tears over her silent keyboard. She’d been dripping ten minutes before anybody noticed, and then only because one tear had found its way down through the keyboard and blown a fuse.

Immediately I entered the room, I knew something was wrong. Idris was bent over his table, only a humped white back and tuft of pink hair showing. Motionless. Had he tried to repair a fault and caught a jumping spark?

No; an alarm would have sounded. But he
was
very still. I called ahead, still halfway down the room.

“Idris?”

It was like seeing everything through the wrong end of a telescope. Walking faster and faster, and getting nowhere.

“IDRIS?”
My shout echoed unseemly round the darkened hall. But I didn’t care.