The Vestigial Heart Page 12

  He’s so pleased with himself that he doesn’t mind giving Alpha+ some of the credit. Having the “five” beforehand allowed him to focus his search, whereas discovering the general pattern would have been more difficult. A great help, and it was smart enough to do it without breaking the rules, throwing him a rope that couldn’t strictly be considered a clue. If it carries on evolving like this, maybe it will become the prosthesis he needs, and he will stop depending on that trio of arrogant scatterbrains from the E-Creative project. Taking advantage of the privacy of the decontamination chamber, he congratulates it enthusiastically in order to reinforce that particular behavior as much as possible, while at the same time showing he’s interested in the sequence the speaker is following. He’s intrigued by the underlying logic, but, above all, by how Alpha+ came to see there was such a logic.

  9:28 p.m. – “Mr. 4’Tune said that the organizer was slow, and guaranteeing randomness would be very difficult, it’s easier to follow a pattern.”

  Fucking heap of scrap, now it’s a philosopher and everything. With its mechanic reasoning it’s got humans down to a tee. It turns out we’re the ones who are routine by construction, and they’re the only ones capable of being unique. We’re always attributing our inspiration to randomness, our most creative solutions, but maybe subjectivity has some inflexible laws that we are all bound to follow. Everyone except the ROBs, of course. If creativity really is a random generator, they are the future, the prosthesis I’m looking for.

  “And what was the pattern?”

  9:31 p.m. – Warning! If I tell him, he will accuse me of allowing his brain to atrophy by giving him everything on a platter. “It is better for you to discover it yourself. Remember that they were numbers from zero to twenty, and the pattern began: zero, two, twenty, twelve … Do you notice any consistencies?”

  “Does it have something to do with the letters like last time?”

  9:32 p.m. – “Yes, but different. Should I continue? Three, thirteen, ten, sixteen …”

  “Stop, stop! Six … and the next … probably seventeen? If I don’t write them all down I don’t know how to order them.”

  9:33 p.m. – “For me, just setting the descending-order option made them come up that way.”

  Everything is in their favor, the Doctor thinks, while he crosses the threshold into the room where Hug 4’Tune, his wife and Sus Cal’Vin come over to greet him, ever attentive.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Poodle,” he lets fly as he performs a mock bow in Fi’s direction, “your boxer gave me a run for my money tonight.”

  “Dr. Craft, with the utmost respect”—she’s shaking like a leaf, but wants to appear firm—“don’t do it again, please.”

  “Good grief, 4’Tune, I didn’t know your companion was so sensitive.” He turns away as if the woman were no longer there. “And you, Dr. Cal’Vin, what are you doing here?”

  “A service mission, as ever, Doctor.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re working for CraftER, here, at this time of night.”

  “Well …”—she looks around her, as if she thinks someone may be spying—“I can’t explain right now.”

  “I’m not really interested anyway! But since you do work for me, tell me a couple of things about that Leo Mar’10 you interviewed.”

  “A pleasure, Doctor.”

  “What kind of relation does he have with kids?”

  “He has no children of his own, that goes without saying. The protocol is very strict on that point.” She feels Fi’s gaze on her and tries to forget about it.

  “I mean does he get on well with them, is he drawn to them in any way?”

  “We didn’t talk about that, but he’s so presumptuous and maniacal, I wouldn’t put anything past him. I’ll look into it, if you want. Do you suspect him of something?”

  “That’s debatable. Let me know as soon as you find anything out. I hate kids and I wouldn’t want them interfering in my project in any way.”

  “You can’t imagine how much I understand.” It’s getting more and more difficult to ignore Fi’s outrage.

  “Of course, that’s why you have the position you do at the company.”

  Sus needs to change the subject, it doesn’t matter how:

  “And the others, Miq 6’Smith, the Picasso girl, do you want any more details? I shouldn’t think you’d need anything on him, and her … Well I did try to talk you out of it; by the way, she didn’t even know when Picasso was alive.”

  “That’s why I picked her, she wasn’t contaminated by high culture prejudices”—he waves his arm pompously—“like you and I … and perhaps 4’Tune.”

  The aforementioned man, who has stoically been putting up with these affronts to his partner, sees the perfect opportunity to intervene:

  “We should go inside. The game is about to start.”

  The Doctor waves goodbye to Sus, like someone who is off to carry out an important mission, chest puffed out, and tells himself he’s getting taller with every step, while Hug, his loyal squire, flashes the women the look of a lamb being sent to slaughter.

  Fi, doubly irritated by the rudeness of the Doctor and the servitude of her husband, is quick to take her bad mood out on Sus:

  “How can you be so cold and turn your back on Xis? ‘You can’t imagine how much I understand,’” she spits at her, imitating Sus’s voice. “Your brilliant career is built on sand. Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that you could be found out?”

  “After all this time … no, to be honest. It’s easier to hide an implausible feat, no matter how large, than a plausible trifle. The Doctor could never even conceive of me having a daughter.”

  “I wouldn’t be able to hide it.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t, but you don’t work either, so you don’t know what it’s like.”

  When the conversation comes to an end, Fi concludes that, instead of lending her her daughter to go to parties and celebrations, Sus would be better off giving her the girl to keep.

  16

  Mom, can you see me? I hope so; it took me forever to find this spot. You can’t see the sky from anywhere in the house. Do you think I’m exaggerating? No, of course not, you must have seen it. A huge ceiling full of holes … is that what you see now? Well underneath it there’s another, the one that belongs to the platform where I am now, and at home there’s a third. That’s why I can’t see the sky. It’s really hard to line up three holes, four if you count the one in the ring, although that one’s easy to do. I’ve tried it from all the windows, crouching down, climbing up on things, looking out sideways, but it doesn’t work. The only thing I haven’t been able to try is leaning out. The openings—that’s what they call them here—aren’t really windows: they don’t have a frame and they can’t be opened; they’re bits of see-through wall in any old shape. They kind of look like portholes.

  I’ve been lucky. When I came outside, I didn’t think I’d be able to line up one of the dome’s holes from our own platform. It’s so close I’ll be able to come all the time. How long’s it been since we last spoke? Since that day Xis caught me doing it on the school aero’bus. I had such a hard time explaining to her that I wasn’t talking to myself even though you weren’t replying. At least when she saw the ring it convinced her I hadn’t made it all up. She liked it so much she wanted me to give it to her. They obviously don’t make them out of gold anymore, and less still with these beautiful designs. She tried it on and said it gave her the shivers. I find it more like a pleasant tickle and, since she said that, sometimes I brush it up and down my arm and imagine it’s your hand that’s stroking me. That day, however, I was afraid she wouldn’t want to give it back. She always wants to keep everything for herself: one day at school she asked me to give her my hair, thinking it was a wig, and, to talk her out of it, I had to let her pull it. Can you imagine? It was horrible, but what else could I do if I didn’t want to lose my only friend? You told me that in the letter: “it’s good for you to go out and make friends,” remember?
You see, I already know it by heart, and I did as you said, Mom. Are you happy? It changed Xis’ mood, she didn’t smile, because she never smiles, but at least she wasn’t angry anymore. She’s almost always angry, you know? I think she must be going through some tough times. She’s strange, I would like her to trust me and tell me what’s going on with her.

  When I got home Lu yelled at me for letting my hair down, I have no idea how she found out, she must be spying on me all day. That’s why I like this place, here behind the aero’car is a blind spot on the surveillance system, I hope, and ROBbie has promised that he’ll make it look like I’m with him and, if she starts looking for me, he’ll warn me.

  Oh, Mom, I’d love to tell you everything like when I came back from summer camp, but so many things happen to me here, and it’s all so hectic I’m not sure I’d be able to explain it all to you. They’ve hired a home tutor for me. I can tell you’re surprised and I can guess what you’re thinking: “For you? But you’ve always done so well in school.” But, you know what? There are no subjects nowadays, they just teach you to use EDUsys and to behave. You don’t have to memorize anything, like before in geography and history, and you don’t have to learn formulas either, like we did in math, the ROBs do that. It’s like they’re teaching us to play, first on our own with the computer and then in a group in the socialization room. Because there’s no playground, can you believe that? And no break time. They don’t sleep much either, I think I told you about that, for the first few days I was practically sleepwalking, until Lu worked out that I needed to sleep more.

  She does everything she can for me, and I try to make sure she’s happy, even though I don’t always understand her. She’s hired a tutor to help me but she keeps interrupting our sessions and getting in the way, as if us working annoys her. Just yesterday she pulled me out of the session to ask me if I was okay. I don’t know what she’s afraid of. It must be what Silvana was saying about being an emotional masseuse … Don’t be alarmed, she’s never done anything weird to me, or used any of the sophisticated devices they have now, actually she’s against those … she doesn’t even have a ROB. Maybe that’s why Lu doesn’t trust her.

  It also surprises me a bit that we don’t do any homework and we haven’t connected to EDUsys, we just chat. She asks even more questions than you, Mom, but I don’t mind: I like talking about all of you, what we used to do and which differences hit me the hardest. She says that to be able to help me the first thing she needs is to know what I’m like and how I feel. According to her, my problem comes from that, from the fact that I react differently than kids that are around these days, and that’s why EDUsys has problems programming my education. I was really pleased she said it was the robot that had problems, not me. She told Lu that too, and she almost fired her.

  She was already a bit fed up because, right from the start, Silvana wouldn’t let ROBbie attend the sessions. To tell the truth, I was a bit disappointed. I’ve become so used to always having it close by that I feel strange when it’s not around. She wouldn’t budge, though: I need to get my sense of identity back—that word’s really stuck with me—it has to be me that accepts new stuff, not the new stuff that beats me into submission, you might say, and cancels me out. I wasn’t sure if ROBbie annoyed her because he was watching us, or because he was a new thing that would distract me when I was supposed to be remembering my previous life. That’s what she makes me do: remember.

  When I was talking about good moments, I told her that in the summer we used to go to Gurb, to Grandma’s house, and we would spend the day outside: helping the workers harvest potatoes, feeding the chickens and the rabbits, riding our bikes and, sometimes, swimming in the neighbors’ pool. She was really taken aback by the fact that year after year I met up with a group of friends that I didn’t even speak to during the winter. It was hard for her to understand that we could reconnect after so many months of everyone going their separate ways. It’s like we lived two lives, she told me, and you put one on hold so you could start the other. At that point in our conversation I still didn’t know that school is open all year round, and that I wouldn’t have summer vacation. I was so close to crying. Silvana realized right away and tried to cheer me up. If I wanted a change of scenery, she would convince Lu to let us do the next session where she lives, which apparently is really different from here. She reminds me of you a bit, Mom, she listens to me properly and looks me in the eye, like she’s trying to reassure herself that I’m not getting distracted and that her words find their way into my head. And they really do! Since she told me about it, I can’t stop trying to imagine what her house must be like!

  It does worry me a bit, you know? It seems like she’s using tactics to get me to talk. You were very good at that too, but after talking to you I felt more relaxed. Not with her. I’m always afraid I’ve said too much. And who knows if Lu, who must be spying on us the whole time, also thinks I tell her too many secrets and that’s why she pulls me out of the sessions. It is true that I hardly know Silvana and that she, on the other hand, knows a lot about me.

  Do you think she likes me? Considering she’s invited me to her house, I suppose she does, but then I wonder if it’s just part of her job … she seems very professional. She asked me to describe you. Yes, you. Dad and Grandma too, but it was obvious she was mostly interested in you. I really sang your praises, you can imagine, and, while I was speaking, my eyes filled with tears. “You love your mom a lot, don’t you?” she said, and she stroked my cheek with the back of her hand to dry my tears. It’s the only time she’s ever touched me. I told her that you were really strong and that I’d only seen you cry once, when Grandpa died. You don’t mind do you? That I talked about you? That was the day I felt worst of all, it was as if by talking to her about it I had betrayed you somehow, although I didn’t say anything bad. In the evening I was worried but I didn’t know why. Now I’m happy I’ve told you about it.

  Bye, Mom, I wouldn’t want Lu to find this hiding place. I’ll come every day. See you tomorrow. Love you.

  17

  Operation: autonomous. I am only authorized to contact Leo about extreme cases, and then I must avoid all reference to the inter-century adoption meeting; otherwise I will be penalized. Motive: My PROP will be at risk if Dr. Craft finds out where I am. Task: I have to search for the most creative adoptees. Restriction: I need to attract as little attention as possible.

  Status: bifurcation. A screen displays forty-nine activities, many of which are simultaneous. I am unaware of the meaning of some terms: “post-adoptive support,” I can work that one out; “open adoption,” must be defined in opposition to closed adoption, the same as operations that once they are closed, are irreversible. I suppose, then, that open means that the child can be returned, but it would be better to find out for sure. I activate the word and read: “in open adoption, the three vertexes of the triangle (biological parents, child, and adoptive parents) are identified, they know each other and attempt to establish links between the three.” I was wrong then, I must widen the definition of “open.” I consider whether this type of triangle would interest us. Probably not: in order to create a strong cultural shock, the child must have been frozen for as long as possible and, therefore, the parents must be dead. Or maybe it does: although they might be dead, it’s best that the child remembers their previous life as much as possible to notice the contrast and, therefore, it is necessary that they have been frozen as older children and retain a strong emotional link with the people that were their parents. I inhibit the warning to ask for direction from my PROP and decide to assign priorities according to the fixed criteria I have.

  Mode: define strategy. I ponder the four criteria set out by Leo: (1) older children, (2) recent adoption, (3) frozen for an extended period, and (4) relation with creative tasks, and by combining them I obtain a priority rating for each of the programmed activities. I compose an optimum itinerary according to this priority system. Under normal conditions, I would refine the result wi
th my PROP, but, due to a lack of additional information, I accept it as is.

  Process: execution of itinerary. First destination: theater workshop for children aged between ten and thirteen who have been unfrozen for a maximum of two years. I localize area D17 and go in, trying to remain undetected among the twenty or so ROBs that are already there. One member of the organization is giving instructions to six boys and four girls, closely watched by eight hypothetical mothers and a couple of fathers. I observe the children one by one looking for subjects of interest, and I realize that each one has two holographic numbers on their back. I assume that the first is their biological age and the second, which in no case is larger than two, must be the time elapsed since they were adopted.

  Subprocess: identification of the Most Valuable Subject. I save the visible numbers, and I move around to see the other children’s backs, save them and move around again. The instructor makes the task more difficult by constantly getting between the children and myself. I move up and down and turn from side to side to get a better view. What a waste of energy. Warning: useless thought. Action: I inhibit this indicator now that I have unlimited resources provided by CraftER. I continue collecting numbers. I am not streamlining my movements to achieve my objective. Some of the ROBs start to look and, then, some parents do too. Alarm: it is necessary to remain undetected. I stop what I am doing.

  Status: tactical pause until attention is distracted away from me and is refocused on the performance. I make the most of this time to record what is happening on stage: they are all sitting down in rows while girl 12/1.8 scribbles virtual doodles on the wall. In order to interpret it, I need a context, a pattern. I recover the initial instructions of the organizer: “You will begin by acting out a scene from a school in the past.” Suddenly the one who is playing the teacher turns to a student in the front row and asks them a question. After that she makes another one stand up, and another, until someone makes a high-pitched noise, and they all stand up at the same time and, pushing each other and laughing, they head to the back of the room in a big group. I cannot identify any of what happens next, their movements become chaotic. I look around and realize that no one is looking at me.