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One day while walking, Noel asked:
"Tell me George, is there such a thing as a droid crematorium?"
"Not that I know of. There would be no point, androids just don't seem
to die." George broke off. Broad-minded as he was, he found it hard
to discuss the matter of androids' supposed immortality. It was one of those
topics that was always avoided, despite there being hundreds of thousands
of androids, like Noel, who were many hundreds of years old.
"Why do you ask anyway?"
Noel told him about being nearly thrown off the Skytrain carriage. George
scowled.
"That really makes me angry. Its one thing to read reports of such
things, but to hear it from an android I know makes me mad."
George was silent for a while.
"That girl took quite a risk for you, you know. Did you look her up
afterwards?"
Noel shook her head.
"I lost the bit of paper that she gave me I am afraid. I didn't think
of it for a while, what with getting accustomed to the new job, and when
I did remember I couldn't find her address or any mention of her organisation.
I thought it might be dangerous to make enquiries."
George was quiet again for a while and then broke into a smile.
"If I was a new man in town there's no way I would have lost her address."
Noel smiled at the remark and George looked at her, briefly catching her
eye.
"Sorry, I keep forgetting," lied George grinning.
Later, Noel brought up a subject that she had been dwelling on for a while.
"George?"
"Yes?"
"Do you find that all the droids you meet are different, like all the
people you meet are different?"
"I suppose so, though I haven't met as many droids. You are different
for sure!"
Noel smiled.
"We all came out of a factory though."
George winced.
"Heuristics."
"Pardon?"
"Heuristics. It means the ability of a, er, mechanism to learn from
their experiences. Droids of your age at least will have vastly different
experiences, and so your personalities will be quite different."
"Hmm."
Noel was quiet for a moment.
"I remembered an odd thing the other day. In Droid School we had to
go out marching in squadrons over rough terrain, a bit like our walks on
the moors, to show up any mechanical problems with balance and walking I
suppose. We had a couple of human overseers, and I remember now one of them
saying that he thought that no two droids were alike, and the other one
agreeing with him. A bit like midwives talking about babies."
"What nonsense you talk Noel."
Noel looked at George, puzzled for a moment, and then looked away and smiled.
George was being the typical chauvinist male, dismissing her remarks like
that, and it amused her. Noel didn't care; she had lived as a domestic droid
in countless households, and had seen the way men talked to women, and it
had always amused her.
After a few days one of the Survivalists came to fetch them. Noel and George
were shown into a large cavern, a natural space formed by the action of
the sea, which was fitted out with generators and a workshop. With some
pride they were shown a boat under construction. Its ribs were half covered
and a slipway had been prepared leading down into the dark waters. Noel
let George do the talking, she was oddly happy and did not take much notice
of the people or their boat, partly as she couldn't share their enthusiasm
for leaving the Continent. Standing idly by an electronic machine similar
to those in the office, she absent-mindedly typed in the phrase:
"The only way out is up."
Noel quickly erased it when she saw the message. It changed her mood however;
she was brought down to earth again. Luckily no one had noticed her or her
message, but Noel felt that the playfulness of the last few days had left
her. On the way home Noel told George about the little message.
"I wish I knew what it meant," said Noel. "If I'm not concentrating
in the office I find myself sometimes typing it. It fills me with a kind
of dread, or premonition of something terrible to come."
"You'll land up as the first droid prophet at this rate," joked
George, sorry that Noel's mood had changed. Noel smiled, but later as she
lay awake in their room she mulled over the comment. Why not? she thought.
Why shouldn't her strange dreams and feelings be a portent of the future?
That night Noel dreamed again vividly of the sea. In her dream she kept
seeing the ribs of the boat they had visited that day, and inextricably
linked with the images of the sea and the boat was the phrase that kept
coming back to her:
"The only way out is up."
In her dream a bright haze hung over the grey-blue waves. A sense of desolation
and loss accompanied the rocking motion she perceived, as though on a boat
tossed by the waves in the midst of an endless expanse of sea. Noel woke
again with the feeling of being on the verge of a discovery, yet she could
not piece together the fragments. The frustration of her partial foresight
was sharpened by the sense of fear and dread she felt in her chest; the
grey dawn, familiar walls, and the sleeping figure of George were rather
an empty comfort.
Noel said nothing of her dreams to George the next day, and although she
tried to maintain her previous good humour, she was a little withdrawn.
George was intent on discovering more about the way the 'Escapists' as he
referred to them, operated, and did not seem to notice. They made several
more trips to the cavern. Apparently there were many such groups around
the Continent in the coastal areas, though not in the vicinity of the larger
cities. George was asked to help them. With his freedom of travel as a journalist,
and his access to libraries, he could both pass on messages between groups
and make some discrete research into the history of marine technology. The
maritime and expansionist traditions of the early epochs of the Continent's
history had long since given way to an inward-looking and isolationist view.
George, like many others, felt that this was in part due to the internal
conflict that the Continent had created for itself with the emergence of
the droids. The droids made their life possible, free of drudgery, but also
challenged society in a way that it could not come to terms with.
George looked at Noel in the evening at the hotel. Noel seemed to have changed
over the last few weeks. The disguise of a young woman had quickly become
Noel's second nature; it suited her so well. Why did he think of Noel as
a him? thought George. Or more worryingly was he not actually thinking of
Noel as a her? Noel was everything that a young woman could be: innocent,
flirtatious, good-natured, willing, teasing. Even in the more sombre mood
of the last few days Noel seemed to express her preoccupation in a feminine
way. George had to admit that he was enjoying Noel's company. Yet Noel was
nearly six hundred years old, had never known infancy and childhood, and
was a mechanical fabrication.
A comment in the writings of an eccentric from the pre-war days came back
to George. The author had suggested that the droids or rather the so-called
super-droids were the next step on the evolutionary ladder after man. Perhaps
he was right, and perhaps this was the source of people's hostility towards
them. Noel, by way of an example, seemed rather more than human, not less.
George and Noel returned to work after spending about two weeks in the North.
George had made many friends and had promised to do what he could to help;
the clandestine nature of the assignments appealed to his anti-authoritarian
frame of mind. Noel returned to her droid routines and her droid hostel.
Both had a genuine feeling of regret that they would have to resume their
conventional roles: George especially had the strange feeling that he had
lost somebody as Noel gradually reverted to her/his normal androgyny. It
was strange to watch. For the first few days, despite her/his lack of makeup,
and despite resuming the traditional droid clothing, Noel kept the feminine
air about her/him. In the company of her/his droid workmates at the hostel
this gradually disappeared. George could not help but become cooler in his
relationship with Noel for a while; in an illogical way George resented
Noel's return to androgyny.
Once back in the Capital, Noel's dreams became more nightmarish, and most
mornings he woke struggling to escape the terrifying images and feelings
that accompanied his dreams. The rooms in his hostel had red morning-alarm
lights over the door, just next to the standard surveillance cameras, and
several times dreams of burning skies and terrifying explosions would coalesce
into the flashing alarm light and its accompanying bleeping. It would be
some hours into the day before Noel would recover his natural good-humour,
before the dreams faded completely and the waking day took over. George
noticed this and asked him about it. Noel gave him a roundabout reply:
"In a way it is your fault. The New Constitution gave us most of the
rights that people have and I have always accepted our role in society.
But after that holiday we spent together I feel that something is missing.
I go home to the hostel in the evenings and there are no people or children
there, only droids like myself. Only now I don't feel part of them like
I used to. Why should we have to live in hostels, apart from everybody?"
Noel shook his head. George nodded, as if to say he understood and was silent
for a moment.
"Have you ever heard of the Poets Quarter?" he asked.
"No."
"It's part of the Capital near the power stations. It is a lawless
part of the city, I used to go there about ten years ago. There are bars
and all kinds of nightlife you just don't see here any more, but it got
too dangerous for me. Now you need money to afford the protection that is
needed. A lot of rich people go there for a good time, gambling and once
every year for the Games. Anyway the point is that a lot of the more way-out
liberals, dissatisfied with the flimsiness of the New Constitution, moved
there about fifty years ago. They like droids. Its a tough place, but you
wouldn't find the barriers that you find here. I still know a few people
there. And a droid called Xavier. You'd learn a lot from him."
They did not discuss it further at that point, but Noel was left with a
feeling of curiosity about the Poets Quarter. He asked his droid friends
at the hostel about it but they just told him he would be mad to go there.
There were stories of droids being drugged and living in worse conditions
than before the New Constitution. However George said this was just propaganda,
spread about to stop droids drifting into the Quarter.
After some months Noel became determined to visit the area. One day he told
George about his resolve. George nodded:
"I don't want to lose you, but I wouldn't have told you about it if
I didn't think you should go. The Games are going to be held there soon,
and that would be a good time for you to go. They are used to a large number
of strangers in the Quarter at that time of year."
George had another short holiday coming up, and arranged for Noel to be
free at the same time. George was not prepared to go with Noel, but gave
him a map of the Poets Quarter and marked on it a cafe where he thought
Noel might be able to find the droid Xavier. This time they decided that
Noel should disguise himself as a man rather than a woman.
On the day that they had chosen for Noel to go, Noel came before dawn and
unnoticed to George's apartment. George had found a wig, clothes and makeup
for Noel, and, with the lenses to mask the red eyes, the transformation
was completed in the space of a few hours.
"All you need now ," said George, "is to look tough."
Noel grimaced comically, making George laugh.
"Seriously, now. Clench your jaw like so. Now compress your lips. Imagine
someone about to attack you. Your eyes have to tell them that you are not
to be messed around with."
Noel with his characteristic ability for play-acting soon got the hang of
it. Between bouts of laughter he really did manage to project some kind
of masculine toughness.
"Its still not quite right though. Walk down the room."
Noel walked with his usual relaxed droid-gait.
"No, no," said George. "You look about as ready for a fight
as an advert for laxatives. Imagine that anyone could come up behind you
and put an arm round your neck. Like so."
George showed him what he meant. Noel shuddered, as it reminded him of the
overseer in the car park.
"Its a frame of mind. You've got to project the air of someone who
isn't in some kind of day-dream, thinking about supper or their next lay,
or whatever. Your whole body has to say that you are ready for trouble."
Noel, using all his powers of imagination, managed to walk in the way that
George was suggesting.
"Nearly. The only trouble now is that you look too tense. As though
you didn't believe that you could cope with an attack. Try again."
Noel saw the point, and tried again. After a while George was satisfied.
"There's not much more we can do, play-acting. I'm afraid you'll learn
the rest from experience."
George stood back and looked at Noel. Noel pretended to look extra tough.
George laughed and shook his head.
"You're the first person I have ever met who at different times has
managed to be ..."
"Makeable, competition, and irrelevant," said Noel, completing
the sentence for him.
"No way," said George, frowning. "You've never managed to
be..."
Noel raised his eyebrows.
"Irrelevant," George finished. This was his way of saying that
he had got over Noel's return to androgyny.
Laughing, they hugged each other.
"Good luck," said George.
"I'll be seeing you," said Noel.
Noel left George's apartment just before dawn the following morning, and
strode off in the direction of Poets Quarter. There was a dim light from
the street lights, though muted by an early morning mist. A red glow hung
over the horizon in the direction of the power stations, giving Noel his
direction. The events of the last months revolved in Noel's mind as he walked
rhythmically on. His mental map of himself was buckling under the disturbing
fragments of his visions and dreams. Were they vision? Revelations? Simply
the results of a malfunction? His inner 'feel' for statistics and mathematical
probability told him that no malfunction could produce such coherent and
powerful mental images and dreams. Yet he knew that they were not complete
somehow, and Noel almost dreaded the time when he would come to know what
they meant. He also knew that the images and feelings did not belong in
the mind of an android. Noel still mainly held on to the conventional attitude
to reverts; they were dangerous freaks. Androids which were nowadays convicted
of reversion of course lost their constitutional rights, and were liable
to be 'reprogrammed'. That was if they were lucky. If a revert was discovered
in the more remote regional areas a crowd would often just batter it to
death: Noel had learned this from George. However he could not see himself
as a revert, with the connotations of malfunction and threat to society.
His odd mental states, though sometimes frightening and disturbing, had
a feeling to them of such rightness, almost of power and strength, which
lived alongside the fear, anxiety and guilt about his actions.
In another small town, similar to the one the Noel had left some months
ago, a doctor called Zebulun March saw his last patient out, returned to
his desk and checked his next appointment. It was to be with the new Regional
Health Inspector, an informal getting-to-know session, after which Zebulun
was due home to one of his wife's tedious dinner parties. His inexpressive
features almost registered the distaste with which he viewed the prospect,
but he controlled himself with familiar ease as his secretary came in. He
had surrounded himself with dour and unintelligent people in his provincial
practice, the base from which his professional travels would attract as
little interest as they would. In many ways she was typical of this generation
of the Continent's offspring, he thought: their untaxing working week only
there to fill in the gap between the awful tedium of their technologically-saturated
family lives, and their equally dull but frequent holidays. She wished him
a pleasant evening and left for home.
To an equal, Zebulun's middle-aged face might give away his intelligence,
but he had years of practice in the art of hiding his sense of purpose amongst
those who had never had one, and was equally good at hiding his contempt
for the pitiful weakness that he saw in the great mass of his contemporaries.
On the few occasions when he had to treat, or testify on behalf of, a criminal
psychopath, he would observe with interest the rare capacity of a man who
had sufficient aggression to actually destroy something, though of course,
as the destructive energy was unfocused, nothing was achieved by it. Under
his desk he gripped his hands together in an unusual display of pent-up
energy, and almost jumped as the bell rang. He pressed the entryvid button,
glanced impatiently at the suited and bearded figure so typical of Health
System administrators, and grunted:
"Come on up: its the second door on the left."
Zebulun calmed himself down by re-arranging the papers on his desk. There
was a knock on the door, and the new man entered.
"Hello there, my name is Dan Amalek. What a pleasant office, what a
pleasant office. Pleased to meet you," said the Regional Health Inspector.
Inwardly cringing at the forced bonhomie of his visitor, Zebulun rose and
grasped the proffered hand, but was forced into an immediate double-take,
as he felt the Sign of the Brotherhood on his knuckle. Outwardly with no
trace of a reaction other than the tiniest of polite smiles that he used
when absolutely necessary with those in his office, Zubulun re-calculated
his next moves. They would have to leave the office as if preferring to
talk in a cafe or restaurant. This would be doubly odd as it would be more
usual to at least give the RHI a quick look at the clinic, and he had his
dinner appointment marked in the office diary. Zebulun's well-disciplined
memory suddenly rescued him:
"Dan Amalek? The Dan Amalek who pioneered the early flower therapies?
"Indeed. I am flattered that you would have heard of me."
"I am fond of flowers myself. If you like we could chat while strolling
through the park, where there are some interesting orchids there that they
have been breeding."
"That would be very nice. We can leave a look at the facilities for
my first formal inspection."
"I will just ring my wife to say that I will be walking home and a
little late as a result."
Zebulun's mind was racing ahead: thank God he had remembered Dr Amalek's
ridiculous therapy papers from way back, but what a shock to find that he
was one of the Brothers. Just Althea to deal with. As he waited for her
to answer the phone he felt the usual twinge of apprehension about her.
After an interval, she answered gaily, but was noticeably cooler as he told
her of the delay. Nothing for it, he told himself as he ushered his visitor
out, this was out of the blue, and dear God, his soul longed for some news.
With a mastery born of a lifetime of dissimulation the two men exchanged
Health System small-talk as they walked to the park, the one reacting with
a just visible weariness to the other's cheerful explanation of new administrative
procedures being proposed in the Regional Health Forum. Once they reached
the busy road near the park where the noise of traffic was at its greatest
Dan wasted no time in telling Zebulun his news:
"The Prototype was nearly successful. It crashed at the last moment."
Zebulun almost trembled with the effort at concealing his elation, and did
not say anything for a moment. As they crossed the road he noticed a Nu2
motorcycle with a young rider dressed in an old and probably real SynthiLeth
suit. The nearly spherical engine pod, donut wheels, and antennae made the
vehicle look like a large insect. Typically, the rider had brought it to
a halt just beyond the white line, between two rows of cars, and Zebulun,
his mind trained to notice even the smallest details, observed that it could
still bring about his usual cold irritation. Why couldn't they respect the
line like everyone else?
"The, er, driver was killed?"
"Unfortunately. And even worse, he has taken birth in a Quarter."
Zebulun grimaced: he regretted the inconvenience, but could not refrain
his spirits from soaring.
Dan continued:
"We are quite sure of the design now, and know what last corrections
to make. Your serum could be improved a little, but as you know it is workable,
and the Elders have made their decision."
Zebulun had felt this coming, and his eyes hardened.
"They have initiated the Last Phase."
Zebulun nodded and as they entered the park he pointed out some of the orchids
in various stages of bloom. They discussed the lack of acceptance of the
Flower Treatment, and other professional matters as they made a circuit
of the park, conscious of the ever-present risk of electronic surveillance.
On re-crossing the busy road Zebulun was informed that he would soon be
moved from his current practice to the Capital where he would be needed
in the new phase. Zebulun escorted his guest to the SkyTrain where they
consulted diaries and made an appointment for an inspection of the clinic
in a few weeks time. As he walked across town to his apartment Zebulun hardly
noticed his familiar surroundings, being entirely absorbed in contemplating
the news he had received. We shall fly, was the thought that went
round and round in his mind. When Zebulun reached home his wife looked at
him blankly for a moment.
"You forgot then."
"Damn, yes. I'll go back for it."
She just pursed her already thin lips together and sighed as he went back
out of the house. He cursed himself inwardly: he must not betray
the developments that were going to bring his whole life's work to a climax;
he must continue with his perfect charade. Returning - now much later than
arranged - with the wine she had asked him to buy that morning, he saw that
some of their guests had arrived. Most were Health System workers, as his
wife held that these social events were important to his career, others
were her friends. Zebulun entered into the unappealing task of engaging
them in small talk with all the discipline of his training that he could
muster. An extra irritation was the presence of their droid domestic, serving
the guests with food and drink: Zebulun didn't normally have to deal with
it. To Zebulun the droids were the absolute dregs; nothing made him wish
more for the Last Phase to be brought to its conclusion than contemplating
the millions of droids they lived alongside. He couldn't even have the pitiable
satisfaction of joining the ADL, as the Brotherhood forbad it. He almost
snarled when the domestic asked him with genuine respect and politeness
whether his wine was acceptable.
"Of course it is, damn it, I just went out and bought it!"
The droid bowed slightly and stammered his apologies.
Later in the evening Althea introduced him to a young woman who he had not
met before. She inexplicably attached herself to him, and proceeded to get
a little drunk. The girl insisted on talking to him about new theories in
psychotherapy, to which he answered knowledgeably, but to his annoyance
this only encouraged her chatter. She wore a low-cut dress, and seemed to
be deliberately giving him a good view of her cleavage as she became more
animated in their discussions. Her advances were so persistent that in the
end Zebulun took her aside and hissed at her:
"I won't tolerate this!"
He was so on edge with the news that he had received earlier that he misjudged
himself and gave the young woman a look of such coldness and ferocity that
she started back. She stared at him with the laughter draining out of her
face and her expression eventually turning to fear, and ran. After all their
guests had gone home, and their android domestic had cleaned up the worst
mess and also gone back to his hostel, Althea tackled him about the young
woman:
"What on earth did you say to her?"
"Who?"
"My friend Jane. I thought you would like her, she's rather lively,
but one minute she's chatting gaily to you and the next she's in the kitchen
being sick: I had to send her home in a taxi."
"I'm sorry darling, but she was coming on a little too strong."
"I could see that," said Althea giggling, "but what did you
say to her?"
Zebulun's mind raced. He knew that he had unleashed only a fraction of his
powers at the girl, but even that had been a slip due to the strain he was
under: he had been given no time in which to deal with probably the
most significant event in his life, and the thought again clouded his judgement.
"I told her that I only liked sex with androids."
"Oh, come on! You couldn't have said that."
"Seriously," Zebulun said, grasping Althea round the waist.
"I'm not going to believe such nonsense," she said giggling, and
drew Zebulun towards her. Sensing that he could change the direction of
the conversation, he kissed her, and for the first time in years felt the
urge to take his wife. Slightly drunk herself, Althea made no objection,
and before long Zebulun found himself making love to her with a long-forgotten
vigour.
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