The Thinker

[Pericles]

I think, and my thoughts cross the barrier into the synapses of the machine, just as the good doctor intended. But what I cannot shake, and what hints at things to come, is that thoughts cross back. In my dreams, the sensibility of the machine invades the periphery of my consciousness: dark, rigid, cold, alien. Evolution is at work here, but just what is evolving remains to be seen.

Commissioner Pravin Lal,
"Man and Machine"

**********

It was raining again. Between the great glass and concrete spires, sheets of dirty water fell. A couple of the streetlights worked. Not enough though, the alleyway was filled with shadows. Unfortunately, there was enough light to see the street. The potholes and low spots were filling with muck and water. Hundreds of tiny puddles, each different, each unique, formed in the dirty street. Then like cannibalistic amoebas, the bigger puddles rise and swallow their compatriots. Gradually the level rose until one huge amoeboid filled the street. Splashes of oily colour danced across its surface. The one had replaced the many.

It's not like I really had all that much to do. Sculpture was just not an appreciated art anymore. There had been a time when the fickle finger of fashion had pointed at sculpture, but that brief era was over. The time of sculpture and all the arts was past.

"It's the war, you know."
"I would buy one of your lovely pieces, but with the war, things are just too tight."
"It's nice, but for troops, I should buy another bond."
"Maybe next month, if the war goes well."
"That crap stinks!"

So with no real market or prospects, I wander the lower levels contemplating the nature of puddle-eating amoebas. Really, I'm not that much of a lost cause, but when you're broke and short of ideas, what else is there to do?

Well, eating maybe. Unfortunately, I can't really afford that. Money is tight. I did sell a nice piece on Progress Way a few days ago, and had one good meal. But then I saw a great piece of real marble in the supply house, a slab I just had to have. Ten minutes later I was back in my "studio" working away. It is a great piece. Within its milky coolness is a face of a beautiful woman just aching to be released. All I need to do is expose the work of art that is already there. You see, I believe that the role of the artist is to expose and release the beauty that is already in the raw piece. Slowly, chip by chip, and with my help, she is finding her way out.

Except that I can't go any further with it. Something is blocking my way. I am just not quite sure about the shape of the eyes, the curve of her nose, and the look of her teeth. I need inspiration. I need to study the piece some more. All of the information is there. I just need more time. There is no hurry, she will emerge.


Luckily for her, she doesn't need to eat. I, however, am hungry. That means it's time to head over to Progress Way. If I can find a good spot, maybe I can sell a piece or two. I always carry a couple of small ones in my pockets, just in case. They are not really very good ones, but sometimes they sell.

The rain begins to let up. Sometimes there is a rush of people moving around just after the rain ends. And sometimes they buy.

*****

Prospect Way has no puddles. The plasticrete is smooth and utterly without cracks or potholes or puddle-eating amoebas. The streetlights work and they banish the shadows to the alleyways. And far more importantly than the absence of shadows and street amoebas is the presence of people. People with money. People who might buy my pieces. People who may allow me to eat.

As I suspected, the rain drove all of the street vendors inside. There are a few good locations here, and I busy myself setting up my stock. Four small pieces. Well, I'm an artist, not a business tycoon. But I do have to eat.

As the rain stops, people begin to move outside again. As they walk by, I cultivate my detached but interested look. I concentrate and send out good thoughts.

"Check out the art."
"That would look great in my place!"
"Talented work."
"Excuse me, are you selling this stuff?" Wait, that is not one of my usual thoughts. The world rushes back into focus. And there is someone standing in front of me, looking at my wares.
"Um, hello, are you allright?" she says.
"Uh, yes, sorry, I'm fine, just uh, daydreaming," I stammer, staring at a beautiful young woman. She looks vaguely familiar.
"Is that one for sale?" she asks, with a smile, pointing at one of my flower sculptures.
"Yes, certainly, it is a beautiful flower, eclipsed only by the beauty of your face."
She smiles, "Meaningless compliments aside, how much?"
"For you," I think frantically, ‘How much can I get from her?', "Seventy-five."
"Done."
I wince. I should have asked for more. "Well, ok, for you, seventy-five."

That is when it hits me. Now, I know why she looks familiar. The shape of her eyes, the curve of her nose, the hint of perfect teeth, she is the woman in my marble. Yes, it must be her. Somehow, the shape jumping out the stone is her. The hair, her chin, the flawless cheekbones, the alabaster beauty before me is the alabaster beauty in my studio.

"Um, but, could I have your name, just for my records?"
"You keep records?" "Your ‘store' is a space on the sidewalk."
"Well, I do keep informal records." "Please, I do like to know my satisfied customers." "My name is Wesley Decker, just so you know."
"Well, ok, I'm Melinda."

Melinda. Now my sculpture has a name. As I watch her walk away, it seems so clear to me. There is a link between her and the piece of stone. Now I can finish it, and maybe use it to meet her again. I know, I'm a dreamer.

Suddenly, I see some people moving down the road toward me. Hmm, I know that there isn't too much traffic on this road at night, but why are there so many people on the street. That isn't a good idea. If the hoverfreights don't get them, the police will. Unless. . .

Then my brain kicks in. They are the police. Streetsweepers. Troops in black, both police and paramilitaries, charged with keeping the streets safe for decent folk. They make sweeps of the streets and detain all undesirables. I start to shake. I know into which category I will fall.

Frantically, I gather my pieces, stuff them into pockets and start to move. Head to Low Town. Keep your head down. Walk with purpose. Blend into the background. Don't run, if you run, they will shoot. Almost to the corner. Ten more steps. Five more. Two more.

I round the corner and relax. I'll be okay now.

Then I see the other line of Sweepers, right in front of me. A black-shirted gorilla raises his truncheon. He smiles. The baton falls. The world explodes and goes black.

[Pericles]

"Wake up!"
Something is slapping at my face.
"C'mon, wake up, Decker. We don't have much time."
The black turns lighter. A face swims into view. He is slapping me.
"Stop it, I'm ok, I'm ok."

Pushing the hands away, I struggle to an upright sitting position and look around. I am sitting on a hard grey metal bench. In a grey room. With no windows or natural light of any kind. Only a fluorescent strip running the length of the ceiling. And someone is staring down at me. He extends a hand.

"Vincent Tarnel, your AA."
"My what? Who are you? What am I doing here?"
He seems harassed and looks very tired. "I am your AA, your Advocate for the Accused, I speak to the Judge on your behalf. And you are here because you broke the law."
"You mean I'm in jail!" I squeak.
His look changes. He seems disgusted. "Well, of course, you are. What does this place look like?" He leans forward slightly.
"You have got to wake up quickly now. We are heading into court in ten minutes. Now, do you have any money?"
"Um, no, not really," I reply.
"Family with money, genebrothers with money, rich friends?" He seemed to be reciting from a mental checklist.
"No."
"Eidetic witness certification?"
"I have a good memory," I say hopefully.
"But not certified."
"No."
"Holovideo analysis and interpretation?"
"No."
"Free access to anyone with the training?"
"No."
He straightens up slightly. "Well, then that simplifies matters."
"Oh," I say, somewhat relieved, "So then, everything is ok?"
His face twists in anger. "OK! OK! FOR YOU? YOUR LIFE IS OVER. You messed up big. Understand that."

I shrink back.

"You were on High Progress Way without a license. How did you expect to cover that up? Don't you know that all licenses send out a recognition signal? Without that beacon, you stand out like a University Provost in New Jerusalem. So you were trespassing. For that, a fine, maybe a short involuntary service. But instead of cooperating with the police, you attacked them. One officer in the regen tank. You're lucky you didn't kill him."
"But, I didn't do anything, a Sweeper attacked me," I plead.
"Sure, whatever. Now do you want to know what happened."
"Well, yes, of course."

"Then watch." He mutters something into a comm on his wrist. The wall in front of me then bursts to life. Colours and shapes swim across it as the picture slowly comes into focus. I am looking at myself. I am angry, shouting, swearing, screaming at an officer in a clean, pressed uniform. The officer is speaking slowly in a calming manner. I see myself appear to relax. The officer then turns away to speak to a colleague. His back is to me. I pull a knife. As someone off camera begins to scream, I grab the nice clean-cut officer from behind by the hair. I yank his head back. Then, I slash his exposed throat.

The vid ends. My AA turns away from the wall and smiles weakly.

"You see, with that vid clip and the testimony of twelve officers, you have no chance. Maybe if you had a good job or money or powerful friends. Maybe if you were an eidetic witness. Maybe if you could prove that the vid is a fake. But you can't."

I hardly hear him. I just watched myself try to kill a police officer. I know that the vid is a fake. I know that I would never do such a thing. I couldn't. No civilised person could. But I just watched myself try, and try very hard, to rip the life out of another human being. By the throat.

My AA is talking.
". . . be out of the regen tank in a tenday or so. So I would say, get sentenced now, before he can testify against you. Your best chance is to enlist."
"What!"
"Yes, if you plead guilty, apologise, make restitution, blah, blah, blah, you'll get twenty-five in a forced labour camp. But, if you enlist, you could be out in five years."
"Five years!"
"Better than twenty-five. And think of the conditions in a labour camp. I doubt that you would survive a month. Even the Army is safer."
"But, I didn't do anything!"
"That, my dear sir, is irrelevant. You don't have a shred of evidence that you didn't do it, and you are too poor and too unimportant for anyone to find new evidence."
"But, I've been framed! Isn't there anything I can do? Can't you help me?"
"Help you? I'm sorry, but no. You are my twenty-fourth case today, and I've got a least six more of you. I'm too busy to give you any more time, and with that evidence you have no options."

For a moment, he almost looks sorry for me.

"If it makes any difference, Decker, I am pretty sure that the vid is a fake. Maybe someone is out to get you. I mean, your psych record is clean. You've never done anything really wrong before. At worse, you're a shiftless dreamer. I don't think that you would ever slash a cop. But."

And the "But" hung in the air.

"You have only one choice, twenty-five years or five years. Decide."

So, I'm joining the Army.

[Pericles]

Ten minutes, or twenty minutes, without a chrono it's hard to tell. Anyway, shortly after my AA leaves, the door swings open again. A red-faced gorilla charges into the room. He is shouting before he's fully in the room.

"ON YOUR FEET, TRAINEE PRIVATE WESLEY DECKER!"
I remain seated. "Don't I need to appear before the judge first?"

With a stunning blow to the jaw, I am catapulted off the bench and onto the floor. And he is still screaming.

"DON'T YOU EVER QUESTION ME, YOU WORTHLESS PIECE OF DRONE CRUD. ON YOUR FEET AND MOVE!"

Still reeling, I stagger to my feet and lurch out into the corridor. Luckily, I have full choral accompaniment.

"I SAID RUN, FUNGUS-BOY, MOVE, MOVE, MOVE!"

Two other soldiers are in the hall. One motions to me to follow and starts running. Still dizzy, I stumble along behind. The two leading say nothing. I can't say that for the one following.

"RUN LARVAE-BOY RUN, EYES FORWARD OR I'LL RIP'EM OUT! FASTER, MOVE, MOVE, MOVE!"

After a short run, with a mind spinning and ears ringing, I see a door ahead. Still moving at dead run, we are all charging straight at the bare metal of the closed door. Instinctively, I slow.

"RUN MAGGOT, RUN, RUN, RUN!"

We all charge insanely into the door. And. . .it opens.

And I'm staring into the sun. The light is blinding. I can't see a thing. I stop dead, trying to get my bearings. Unfortunately, Sargent Gorilla does not. He rams into me so hard I bounce straight forward. And down a flight of stairs. And for the second time today, into unconsciousness.

*****

I can hear voices. Bits of conversation. But muffled, like I'm far away.

". . . sure this is the one. He's a dreamer and a screw-up and anyway he fell down the bloody stairs."
"Just a concussion."
"What! You hurt his brain!"

This voice is furious but somehow familiar. Like I've heard her before.

"Of course he fell, you ran into him and pushed him down the stairs, you microcephalic ape. If his brain is damaged . . . "
". . . be ok, I'll just sedate him . . . "
". . . at Camp Currie. Are you sure he's asleep?"
". . . no Basic. The brain cannot be rigidified. I don't care what your . . ."

The voices seem further and further away.

". . .perfect. No family, no friends . . ."

And they fade out entirely.