Dreambox Junkies 3 страница

Ontotechnology.

He had forgotten, here, in this thirtieth, fortieth world. It was so easy to forget, to misplace things in your mind as you climbed, up and up, to each higher world in turn and stayed awhile, awaiting the incredible news. The news that had never yet broken. After a time, you forgot what it was you were waiting for. You waited and waited, disoriented, muzzy-headed, but still aware that you had a job of waiting to do. So many levels, all indistinguishable. Your mind, seduced by the boxworld's subrealitude, would relegate such knowledge as you arrived with to the status of mere passing notions. But a part of yourself would still know, would find ways of reminding you why you were there. Sometimes the message from your mind to itself would make no immediate sense, would take hours, days to get through. This time he had been lucky; the word had worked its magic straight away.

You were warned about all this in the Dreambox instruction manual, right at the beginning, in Section One: Dreambox Basics. After thanking you for purchasing your Shintube Dreambox, clean with a damp cloth, NOT furniture polish, and wishing you many, many years of trouble-free use, the manufacturers saw fit, on that very first page, to advise:

The attainment of your PERSONAL HEAVEN is a GRADUAL PROCESS. It is a characteristic of the human psyche that WE OFTEN DO NOT CONSCIOUSLY KNOW WHAT WE MOST DESIRE, and, furthermore, WE ARE, DEEP DOWN, EXTREMELY FEARFUL OF HAVING THESE INNERMOST DESIRES ACTUALLY GRATIFIED. Therefore, do not be surprised if your first, second, tenth, or possibly even hundredth attempt at gratification by means of your Shintube Dreambox results in a seemingly infinite regression of dreamworlds quite indistinguishable from the original Groundworld. (i. e. THIS, THE TRUE AND REAL AND ULTIMATE WORLD. ) You must persevere! It may well take a good many levels and dreams-within-dreams-within-dreams, but, by degrees, your underlying fear of gratification WILL diminish, leaving you free to enjoy your very own PRE-IMAGINED UTOPIA—thenceforth, access will be INSTANTANEOUS.

As a defence against possible PROGRESSIVE MEMORY DETERIORATION associated with this initial induction process, you may find your mind sending itself small reminders, helpful signs to guide you on your way. Sadly, Shintube Corp. cannot guarantee that this assistance will be in every case forthcoming—each Dreambox user's psyche is unique.

The Dreambox was no crude feelgood machine. What it gave you was contingent upon the character of your mind. Part amplifying mirror, part virtscape generator, part Aladdin's lamp, it furnished you with the starting point of a fully interactive Groundworld simulacrum, its pseudoanimate populace rendered subliminally subordinate to your whims by the painfully abstruse workings of the quantum compliance effect named with a wry nod to the good Bishop. The Berkeley Effect had been predicted and then finally, three years ago, isolated and demonstrated by the physicist Erland Zeller at Stanford University. Commercial exploitation, lucrative licensing, had come hard on the heels of scientific discovery; Zeller, sponsored by one of the electronics giants, had been asked to deliver the ultimate gaming deck.

The computer-constructed boxworld, ‘real’ to all perceptual intents and purposes, served as the raw material for the user's psyche to shape to its taste, under the organizing supervision of what amounted to an additional cortical lobe generated by the Dreambox, a sympathetic, symbiotic ally in the task of selecting from a field of anything up to 1014 neural connections at a staggering theoretical maximum of 1027 operations per second at full microtubular efficiency—and all the while maintaining full quantum coherence in cytoskeletal activity, as the specifications opaquely informed you.

And yet, such is the human mind that, even with the additional influence exerted by dethanatizing agents, the ultimate result was never quite so controllable as the impressive figures cited in the manual would have you believe. It was said that no single human being, anywhere in Groundworld, had a comprehensive grasp of Dreambox mechanics. Not even Zeller himself.

“Ontotech, ” Paulie said.

“What? "

“Ontotechnology. "

GroundRuth shivered.

“What's wrong? ” he asked her.

“I... don't like the sound of that word. "

“Why? "

“I don't know, I just don't. Something about it. What does it mean? "

“It's just a word, ” he told her.

He saw that it had gone, now, had concealed itself again, could no longer be read in her tattoo.

Paulie picked up his Dreambox.

Forcing a smile, GroundRuth said, “Happy dreams. "

* * * *

Ruth showed little Kali her Daddy, lying on the bed beside his Dreambox. If things went on like this, he'd be missing her first words, her first steps, everything. He would miss them just like Mum was missing them. This wasn't the kind of life they were meant to be living, with Paulie absent so much of the time like some city workaholic. They had come here to the craft village to get away from all of that.

The box was more a big black plastic pebble type thing, all smooth and roundy, than an actual box shape; it was a lovely design, the nicest-looking Dreambox they'd had in the shop. But she hadn't gone on looks alone in deciding to buy this one. You couldn't ask a neighbour for advice; if people found out you were buying a Dreambox you'd probably get kicked out of the village. So she had checked out the Which? magazine product reviews

. The Shintube box came out equal tops, along with the Sony and the Bengt & Anderssen. All three were really gentle at fetching out the user at the end of the boxtrip; a bad fetch, a really bad one, could bring on a heart attack. Ruth's research had revealed that, in lots of different ways, Dreamboxes could be dangerous; you heard of people getting strokes, going mental, even dying. And it wasn't good to be taking all those hair tablets and that much Vitamin C. But loads of people did, and things always got exaggerated by the media, and they were still allowing the boxes to be sold, so surely they couldn't really be that dangerous, any more than, say, jetbikes, or those noisy flying cars? And besides, Paulie wasn't an idiot.

While the Bengt & Anderssen Dreambox was a bit too expensive, the others, the Sony and the Shintube, were both the same price; however, Sony, in an attempt to start a design craze which Ruth hoped wouldn't catch on, had given their box a really macho, military-equipment kind of look—not Paulie at all.

Ruth stood and hugged Kali and looked at Paulie as he lay there with this box, off away in his dreamworld. If you went up close you could see movement under his eyelids, just like he was sleeping and dreaming; although she knew that being hooked up to the box wasn't quite the same as being asleep. Ruth wondered what he was dreaming about, what kind of adventures was he having? Or was it right to call them adventures; would it be more like work? For he wasn't just pissing about on there, he was conducting what might be called a scientific experiment. His explanations, the whys and wherefores, were difficult to follow, but Paulie had a brilliant mind, and—all right, so call her soppy, and yeah, it would probably make people throw up—but she loved him and trusted him and believed in him.

* * * *

Along with everyone else, Paulie Rayle heard the incredible news.

An end to suffering. Perfect justice for all. The absolute triumph of Goodness.

Every being that had ever existed, every organism, right down to amoebae, could now be revived ontotechnologically; come to that, even every potential organism that had lost out in the lottery of conception. Because absolutely anything was possible. Ontotechnology was on the point of providing humanity with the power to solve every conceivable problem. History could be modified without destroying the present, its darkest episodes ontodemoted, with the result that they only took place, as it were, at an academic level. The Holocaust? Still of sufficient realitude to stand as a terrible lesson, but no longer any more concrete than the Wandering Jew.

The most fundamental laws of existence could now be amended, even repealed. Gravity could be controlled, the speed of light surpassed, the laws of thermodynamics tweaked and tinkered with. Absolutely anything was possible. All contradictions were resolvable, all antinomies amenable to synthesis. And the question of whether or not Goodness was a mere human invention mattered not at all.

Humankind had suddenly found itself all-powerful.

And yet, everyone had voted to hold on to one problem, purely on account of the sheer enjoyment it generated: the problem of how to have the most fun in bringing about Utopia. They had decided that things should be done not instantly but by degrees, stage by stage. At nine o'clock tomorrow morning all the world's illness, mental and physical, would be promptly, immediately cured. The day would then be given over to celebrating universal health. And then, the day after that would be Resurrection Day. There would be room for all, the once-dead, the never-alive, with no deference to what had formerly been recognized as brute fact. All the necessary amendments to the scope of the feasible would have been made.

And, amid all these wonders, Paulie Rayle would take particular delight in witnessing Ruth's exultation on being reunited with her mother. Of all the myriad miracles, that one would mean the most to him, being there at that moment; even more than would meeting his own deceased parents again. For he knew that Ruth's mother, who had not lived to see her only child had, in Ruth's mind, become identified with the Goddess, The great Mother Of Us All. Ruth had confessed to him her fears that she too would die young and leave Kali motherless.

Ruth saw his welling tears and hugged and kissed him.

She said, “I'm trying to picture Mum's face when she sees Kali. ” And there were tears in Ruth's eyes too, now. “I can't believe this, ” she said. “I won't believe it till I see it. "

They took a walk down by the river. The water sparkled. It was so nice, having time together like this, with someone else looking after Kali. Wasn't it wonderful that Kali would grow up now in the best of all possible worlds? No, not just possible worlds—impossible worlds, too.

The best of all worlds.

They came to their special, secret place under the willow, near the river. They might have made love, but they merely held hands. For what else was it but a return to their childhood?

“I shan't believe it till I see it, ” Ruth repeated.

How could anyone believe it?

Paulie hugged her—how he loved her.

What, he wondered, what would happen when it came to the Ultimate Decision? Would the people vote in favour of ontosupplantation? Could they comfortably take it upon themselves to wrest ontoprecedence from a priori realitude, that thin grey Groundworld in which ontotechnology was nothing more than a figment of Paulie Rayle's imagination?

Imagination, Paulie thought. The only limitation is your own imagination.

And here they stood, at the limit of his.

He felt suddenly cold.

There was no coming Utopia.

This was Utopia.

This moment. Now. Today. Not tomorrow. This moment of triumph, held in perpetuity, replayed ad infinitum for his eternal delectation. Better to travel in hope than to arrive.

The insight blighted his joy. For this was it. This was as good as it got, the best his imagination could do.

Another level, Paulie thought desperately. There has to be another, higher level.

* * * *

Along with everyone else, Paulie Rayle heard the incredible news.

The absolute triumph of Goodness.

Every organism that had ever existed, right down to amoebae, could now be revived ontotechnologically, because absolutely anything was possible. Ontotechnology was on the point of providing humanity with the power to solve every conceivable problem. History could be modified without destroying the present, its darkest episodes ontologically demoted, with the result that they only took place, as it were, at an academic level. The most fundamental laws of existence could now be amended, even repealed. Absolutely anything was possible. Humankind had suddenly found itself all-powerful.

And so, everyone had voted to tear down, dismantle and erase, irrevocably, the omniverse in its entirety. Life, matter, energy, time—all would be no more. For what else was perfection but nonexistence, that state wherein the very concept of existence did not exist? That state of perfection which can only be hinted at, since even the word ‘nothing’ implies the existence, if only as a concept, of its opposite. And there would be no opposites, no logic, no illogic, no existence, no nonexistence.

Accordingly, the omniverse began to unstitch, until all that was left was the belly, taking him into itself. Only this time it wasn't soft or sweet or blissful. It was upset, dyspeptic, churning angrily. And the noise wasn't helping.

Noise. Noise. NOISE.

Whirring, whistling, resonating through his bones as he lay there panting on the bed, shivering, shuddering, sweating like a pig, his heart pounding. Engulfed in NOISE. NOISE. NOISE. NOISE. NOISE, and drenched in LIGHT, streaming in through the window. Someone at the window. Ruth at the window, standing looking out into the LIGHT, cradling the baby. Kali's little scrunged-up face, her crying drowned out by the NOISE. Something flashing on the periphery of his vision. The emergency FETCH light on the Dreambox. Ruth must, he thought vaguely, have fetched him out. Because of the noise. Not because of the boxmare. For what else had it been but a boxmare? The Crowning Glory and Vitamin C were supposed to protect him. What had gone wrong?

[Back to Table of Cont

ents]

* * *

Chapter 6

Sesha's stomach was not mollified by the pilot's bland assurances that the verticar would definitely not drop like a stone should the motor cut out at high altitude. So it was with intense relief that she at last felt solid earth beneath her feet again. She had spent the greater part of the flight up to Cambridgeshire with her eyes closed, curry-combing an imaginary thoroughbred. It was a moderately effective anti-stress tip she'd picked up from, of all people, Immy Nabisco, the controversial hermaph shitshow host she would tune in to whenever she fancied a fifty-minute wallow in her species’ asininity. Nor had it helped that the verticar seat was a lumbar torture device. She was not at all looking forward to the return trip. She tried her best to put it out of her mind.

It was windy, which would play a certain amount of hell with her hair, but at least it was not actually raining. The field was soggy, and were those things cowpats? If only her head would stop aching. There was a welcome freshness to the air, though, discernible despite her lingering metropolitan nasal congestion.

The pilot chose to stay put. He was having problems with his mobe, remonstrating with it in the crudest possible terms because, for some reason, it couldn't put him through to his wife.

Sesha climbed out of the verticar. A large animal—a donkey? —was watching her. And two dogs, barking. The cottage was tiny. The door was open. Someone stood there, silhouetted. Sesha kept to the grass. There was a path, but it was muddy. What a godforsaken place.

It was a woman in the doorway, holding a baby. The baby was crying: “Mwrraaaaa, Mwrraaaaa, ” the tiny voice crackly and fragile, and Sesha was grateful for her maternosuppressors. She'd been on them nearly two years, now.

“What d'you want? ” the woman shouted. “You woke my fucking baby with that racket of yours. "

“I'm sorry, ” Sesha shouted back.

Has no one told you? she thought. The new word is frucking, you cobweb. Sesha explained, “I'm looking for Paul Rayle. "

“Are you now? "

The woman sounded countrified. And she was woefully Incongruent, psychotrichologically, her close-cropped, perversely unquasiplatonic all-but-ginger hair block-capitalizing her potato-peasant features, failing to distract from the puppyfat that had outstayed its charm and left her overvolup by any fashionable standard. No more than twenty-five, she was hefty and thick-limbed and barefoot, and wore a Diana t-shirt—please! —under the sort of shapeless great pals-with-the-planet woollen cardigan that had come and gone a full three seasons ago. Altogether, Sesha was appalled. Surely this was not the partner?

“I've a message for him, ” Sesha explained to the woman. “For Paul Rayle. "

“What is it? "

“I need to see him in person, if possible. "

“You can tell me, and I can pass it on. Waking my fucking baby up. "

Fruck you too, Sesha thought. She knew the type. Feckless, technophobic, hopelessly naive. They would go ahead and have unplanned, undesigned children totally without reference to the foetal genestory, leaving everything to pot luck, embracing primitivism as natural. How could anyone be so selfish?

A waft of vanilla incense set the seal on her deductions, and Sesha wondered how Paul Rayle could possibly have left Frances for such an uncouth anachronism.

Someone else appeared, behind the woman's shoulder.

“What's going on? ” A male voice, groggy-sounding.

“This one here says she's got a message for you. "

“Me? "

“Paul Rayle? ” Sesha asked.

None too happily, the woman stood aside, and Sesha received another shock.

He looked terrible. Haggard, unshaven, baggy-eyed. His lips, even, seemed to have shed weight. And his hair had lost its Congruence, tied back like this, which really didn't suit him. He should have left it hanging loose and cool and christjesusy.

Sesha said, “I've a message from Frances. "

The partner and Paul Rayle exchanged glances, and only now, as she stepped closer, into the light, did Sesha notice that the woman's eyes were gorg. Large and striking, with very pale irises, they alone redeemed a face otherwise unremarkable.

“Well, what is it? ” Paul Rayle demanded, giving Sesha the distinct impression that he was putting on a gruff front for the partner's sake, that his manner might have been different had he been alone.

“Could I come in? ” she asked.

The woman kissed the baby. “Long as she don't tread shit everywhere. "

* * * *

To Paulie's eyes she cut a sorry figure, Frances's lackey, with her poshname pinstripe jacket and her company poise, and he lost no time in taking a dislike. What was she, early thirties? The full complement of voguish face-piercings, some inset with solar-powered shimmerjewels of light-emitting polymer, all took pains to say, ‘I may be a desko but I'm still Rock ‘n’ Roll. ’ And her chopped-off dyed-black hairstyle she doubtless thought Congruent, when in truth it did sod all for her.

She introduced herself; Paulie didn't properly catch the name. To Ruth, who was closest, she extended a small, graceful hand. Ruth ignored it. Kali had finally stopped crying, and now she stared, frowning and drooling, at the visitor.

“How old is... he? She? "

“She's three months. ” Ruth might have been giving name, rank and number to an enemy officer.

“She's beautiful. "

The compliment's breathy sincerity cut no ice with Ruth, yet for some reason caused Paulie to do an abrupt about-turn and start to feel a little sorry for this officedog, so out of place here with her painted nails and vivid lips and tailored jacket and pelmet microskirt, all in cerise and taupe, and too-thin thighs encased in charcoal tights. “Sit down, ” he invited, indicating the rocking chair in the corner.

“Thanks. ” The woman sat.

“So what's all this about? ” he asked her.

“It's... Frances. ” The reply was tentative, the woman obviously uncertain as to where his ex-wife featured these days in his scheme of things.

“Would you like a cup of tea? ” Ruth said suddenly, as though in grudging, belated compliance with custom.

“I'd love one, thanks. No sugar. Thanks a lot. That's if it's no trouble? "

“Here. ” Paulie held out his arms for the baby. Ruth handed Kali over and went out to the kitchen.

The woman said, “You've heard of... Angel Syndrome? "

My God, Paulie thought. Poor Frances. Taking that telothine crap and going loopy. Learning that there are calamities against which Congruent hair is no shield.

He asked, “How long has she had it? How far has it gone? "

The woman sighed. “I'm not sure. I think it's still in the early stages. "

“How long has she been on telothine? "

“I really don't know. "

“There must be something the doctors can do? ” But he had heard that the condition seldom responded well to treatment. Worse than seldom. Never.

The woman shrugged. “We're all of us hoping for the best. "

“Yeah. ” Paulie couldn't think of anything else to say. Frances suffering from AS? It was unreal. He couldn't quite believe it, couldn't take it in. Either that or, truth be told, he didn't, at the end of the day, care an awful lot.

“Frances would like you to come and see her. "

“Me? ” He was taken aback, even though he might have known the woman would hardly have descended out of the sky just to bring him up to date with his ex-wife's vicissitudes. She'd been sent to fetch him. He was, plainly, supposed to drop everything and rush to Frances's bedside.

“If possible. "

“And what if it isn't possible? ” He hadn't seen Frances in years.

“Well... so be it, I suppose. ” The woman had matched the hard edge in his voice, but promptly dropped it again as she added, “You know, I think it might really do so much for Frances's morale. ” This was, she clearly implied, no time for pettiness, immaturity. “If you could just manage to pop over and see her? "

“Pop over to where? "

“Seville. "

He had heard about her place in Spain. And her places in Ireland and Cornwall. And her place in California. He said, “I thought you might have brought one of those telepresence rigs? "

“Frances hates telepresence. "

Yeah, Paulie thought. That rings true.

From her bag, the woman took out an old-fashioned pink plastic powder compact and flipped it open. “Sevilla, please, ” she said to it, and Paulie realized it was a mobe.

“Sorry, Sesha, you can't call from here... you're in an airjam zone. "

The mobe's voice was young and male, on the stoned side, and vaguely familiar.

“You mean I can't make any calls out? "

“Or receive them. Bitch, huh? "

The woman—Sesha, was it? —turned pissed-off eyes on Paulie. “I was going to see whether Frances would like to speak with you directly. "

“They keep it jammed round here, ” Paulie explained. “They want the tourists’ money but not the radiation thrown out by their mobes. And this is meant to be a media shelter. "

“Emission levels nowadays are quite safe. ” The woman's tone was that of a teacher with explanation fatigue. “In fact if anything, the jamming is far more likely to generate an addictive field or cause brain tumours or explode people's heads. "

“It only comes into operation when someone tries making an aircall. They're not stupid enough to keep it switched on all the time. "

“Who? "

“The village elders. "

The woman's eyes flickered, just as Paulie had anticipated; she was scanning the room for crucifixes. Well, she could think what she liked.

“I could jack into the fibropt, ” she suggested.

Paulie shook his head. “We're not connected. "

I know, he thought. You can't believe it. Not in this day and age. How do we manage to live like this?

He asked her, “How long have you been working for Frances? "

“Nearly sev

en months. ” She put away her mobe.

“Enjoy your job? "

“Yes, I do. "

“You believe in Psychotrichological Congruence as the key to human happiness? "

“It's proved itself to be amongst the more successful therapeutic aids. "

“Personally, though, job aside... are you a believer? "

“I've an open mind. I've seen it help people. ” The woman stifled a yawn. “Excuse me. Only I'm not really here to debate the efficacy of... "

“So it doesn't bother you, knowing the whole thing started out as a piss-take? "

“I'm sorry? "

But Paulie could see that she knew. Of course she knew Frances's deep dark secret.

He said, “The Happy Hair Book. "

Frances had written it as a satire, a sly send-up of the fad industry. The Cool Cut as the Answer to Everything. And with a sound scientific basis. Those who got the joke were like voices in the wilderness. A whole new market had been opened up, and Frances had been unable to resist going a stage further, coming up with the PsyTri Institute. She had thought it hilarious, incredible, depressing, grotesque, that people would pay good money to get a Psychotrichological Profile and be advised to sport a fringe, avoid tight perms, or go ash-blonde or auburn in their quest for psychic salubrity.

By this time he and Frances had parted. It had been exceptionally amicable, a simple agreement that the union was over. Decree absolute notwithstanding, his memory told him of a mutual reluctance to close every door, burn every bridge—at any rate, before he met Ruth.

He had gone on to wonder how far his ex-wife, the stage actress come over all Swiftian, would decide to take her little lampoon. Time had passed, and more time, and the next thing he had heard, Frances Rayle was seriously moneyed. The Institute was thriving. He could remember, a couple of years ago, seeing a NeTV interview with the High Priestess of PsyTri. Either she was laughing behind the poker-face, or...

Had Frances found herself growing into the role simply by wearing the crown, developed a case of True Belief in spite of herself through a kind of osmosis? Or had she made herself believe? For there must have come a moment when stopping, coming clean, blowing the gaff, was no longer a viable move. A matter of momentum, of critical mass.

Or, Paulie thought, would it really have mattered if she'd come out and told the world, ‘Hey, suckers, I had you fooled? ’ Maybe people would have laughed along with her, even as they continued to sign up for PsyTri consultations. For, if what Miss Whatsername here said were true, and he saw no reason to doubt it, PsyTri could claim as good a record as any other commercialized superstition. And if it did people good and raked in the lucre and enabled Frances to branch out into pharmaceutical research and find cures for greyness and baldness and, by the merest chance, give you a way of dethanatizing your boxlife, then more power to her Institute, and never mind your sound scientific basis.

At least, that was how it now appeared from the perspective of Paulie Rayle; it went without saying that allowances had to be made for his mental condition—his worldview, as he was willing to admit, might well be somewhat skewed.

He said to the woman, “Take no notice of me. I've probably got it all wrong. "

She was frowning, ever so slightly, and also smiling, in an equally small way, as though not quite sure whether he was joking, making a candid confession, or what. It was a very nice, polite, sympathetic form of response, but also a touch customer-servicey.

“Listen, how can I put this? ” Taking out his cigarettes, Paulie offered one to the woman.

“The baby? ” she reminded him.

“Oh, shit, yeah. I'm sorry. ” He kissed Kali's cheek. “Musn't smokies near my little Funsize, mustn't do that, must we? No! ” His words brought from the woman a spontaneous smile. He felt foolish, spouting infantese in front of a stranger.

“You see, the thing is, ” Paulie told the woman, “my memory's a little bit, not to put too fine a point on it, fucked. My long-term memory. I have problems getting things straight in my head. Probably I'm no longer the person Frances expects. "

The woman's sharp little face had assumed an expression of unplastic, authentic sympathy. In fact she wasn't that bad-looking at all, if you went for Little Miss Efficiencies. Which Paulie didn't, as a rule. He began to take back his antipathy. It wasn't like he couldn't understand how a person could be in thrall to Frances.

Pondering, the woman said, “I'm sure it would still be of benefit for Frances were you to pay her a visit. "

“You mean visit her alone? Or does the invitation include Ruth? That's" —he indicated the kitchen door—" Ruth, by the way. She's very tired. She's been really busy lately, with the baby and everything. "

“Certainly Ruth can come along. And the baby... I'm sorry, what's her name? "

“Kali. "

“You're all invited. "

“Well, we'd better see what Ruth has to say. It's not so easy to just up and... "

“Of course not. "

In a silence broken only by the windchimes, they waited for Ruth to return.

“You've a lovely place here. ” The woman surveyed the living-room. “Cosy. "

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