The Nature of Rebellion

From Wormhole Sci-Fi MUD Homepage

James DF4903 put down his sandwich, and went to look at the river. It was fascinating to see the patterns that the raindrops made on its surface. Every second, dozens of little ripples spread out and interacted with each other before disappearing. When he jumped, the ripples would be somewhat larger... but they, too, would disappear. Swim down as far as you can, and then inhale hard. That was the way to do it.

A girl appeared at the wall next to him. He didn’t really want to be disturbed at a time like this, and she would surely be upset if she saw him jump. Perhaps she would go away if he waited. He looked at her openly, something that Londoners rarely did, but those who are about to die have few inhibitions. She wasn’t particularly pretty, but he realised he liked her. He didn’t recognise her designation: K1224C.

‘Don’t jump,’ she said. ‘It plays hell with the filtration system downstream when bodies end up in the vanes.’

James was startled at this directness. ‘Are you in waste reclamation then?’ He asked, struggling to cultivate a conversation – a forgotten art. She shook her head.

‘I’m Casey. Walk with me?’ she asked, and set off before he could reply.

They went a little way, James noticed that Casey’s route took them away from the river’s edge, but he was prepared to bide his time. He wondered why he liked her, and silently chastised himself. It seemed inappropriate, somehow, to flirt with a girl when you should be getting on with the serious business of a suicide.

Casey led the way to a brightly-coloured stand that sold ice-creams. She reached in, and grabbed a large cone. She flashed the robot vendor a dazzling smile and walked away without attempting to pay. James was a little put out because ice-creams were considered a luxury and were thus quite expensive. Not being a connoisseur of ice-cream, he stared at the selection for a couple of seconds, and then chose something pale green and infused with little brown lumps.

Handing over his identification and getting a receipt, he was surprised to note that he was not charged for Casey’s ice-cream. Robots never made mistakes, did they?

Casey peeled the wrapper from her ice-cream, and flung it away. The spiral of paper caught the breeze, and disappeared. They both watched it go. James walked over to a bin, and disposed of his wrapper: old habits died hard. Casey rolled her eyes heavenwards, and giggled.

James realised he had probably liked her because she wasn’t very up-to-date in her choice of clothing.

‘Is this your favourite part of Town?’ she asked. ‘I’m rather fond of the zoological gardens myself.’

‘I’m not. All those creatures penned up...’

‘Very sad, but many can’t live anywhere else now.’

‘Then they should be extinct!’ he asserted. ‘To meddle with a species just for the purpose of keeping it alive is pointless. If there’s no habitat for them, the crime is already committed. Do people really feel less guilty because there are seventeen black rhino in concrete enclosures in various parts of the world?’

‘Eighteen now,’ she said, with a hint of pride. ‘At least, that’s what I heard. Do people have to feel guilty for what their ancestors did? I hope not. And the animals have educational value. Some of them have required a great deal of effort to sustain, but this is the era of preservation, isn’t it?’

‘That’s what I’ve heard. And perhaps that’s all we are too; oddities being preserved out of sentiment? Our habitat is no more natural than that of our four-legged cousins.’

Casey looked perplexed. ‘Would you prefer to have lived when there wasn’t enough food? During the Religious Wars, or...’

‘No, of course not. But I wish I’d lived in the time when things like that were made.’ He indicated an elegant statue.

She nodded. ‘Most people agree... which is why Central has recreated so much of Old London.’

‘That’s not the point. The monuments exist again but the spirit that led to their creation has gone. Now we have sterile replicas of past achievements. Have you seen Nelson’s Column?’

‘Of course.’

‘Know what’s wrong with it?’

She frowned. Shook her head.

‘There’s no pigeon shit on it. The birds can’t perch on a hologram. Not that I’m a great fan of birds, but how can something so impermanent qualify as a monument? If Central decides that better use can be made of the space, it will end up being projected somewhere else... and if it’s decided that the battle of Trafalgar is no longer on the curriculum, it could get deleted.”

‘I suppose so...’ She looked uncomfortable.

James realised that he had been talking too much. He remembered his ice-cream and took a lick. It was delicious! They both ate and walked in silence for a few minutes. At one point James offered Casey a taste of his ice-cream but she declined with a smile and a lick at her own. That was a shame; had she been willing to exchange a little saliva by sharing ice-creams, she might be willing to kiss later. To cover his embarrassment, James returned to the conversation:

‘Everyone can buy a molecule-perfect copy of the Venus de Milo or the Mona Lisa for their home, but how many people have ever tried to paint or sculpt themselves?’

‘Have you?’

‘No, actually,’ he admitted. ‘Maybe I should? I’m pretty sure I’d be awful though.’

‘Does it matter? Personally, I’ve never been able to tell a good piece from a bad piece. I just have to go off the popular reaction.’

It was raining harder now, but she didn’t seem to mind. James zipped up his coat. He didn’t want to get too wet and catch a cold. Suddenly, he realised that he wasn’t going to jump in the river after all. He laughed.

‘Well that’s a relief,’ she said. ‘Feel better?’

James had to admit that he did.

Casey looked pleased. He wondered again if she might kiss him. They had come to a halt underneath some trees. Just above them, a leaf caught a raindrop as it had been doing from time to time throughout the day. The tiny pool of water reached a critical mass, and bent the leaf. A big, heavy droplet of water fell towards Casey’s nose. James saw it fall, and saw it disappear when it should have splashed on her face.

She was a ghost. A wraith. She was a hologram.

‘No!’ He was disgusted. ‘You’re a hologram?’

‘Yes. I’m so sorry to deceive you, but there was a high probability that meeting a formal extension of Central would have provoked your suicide attempt. I was able to keep you talking until the danger had passed. That’s what the K-C program was written for.’

‘Program? Written by who? No, it doesn’t matter. Well, it worked. I’m not going to jump and spoil your precious filtration system.’

‘Self programmed by Central,’ said said, matter-of-factly. ‘You don’t understand; rebellion is a natural response. I’m not fighting your instinct to rebel. Feel free to purchase a spray can and add your contribution to one of the graffiti walls. Take a week’s holiday in an anarchy park. I know you can afford it. Get an entertainer’s license and write one of those songs about youth and freedom. They’re always popular. Central will even help you with the lyrics. Call that oppression?’

‘I certainly don’t call it rebellion.’ James was ashamed to realise that he might start crying.

‘Only a second-rate tyrant can’t afford to allow individual freedoms. Do you think Central is second-rate? At any given time, the vast majority of the population are happy with the way things are. Central has nothing to fear from the people to whom it is dedicated.’

James just stared at her. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, but realised he had nothing to say.

She nodded understanding. ‘Now, I must be going. You shouldn’t feel suicidal for a while anyway; there was a sedative in your ice-cream.’

The tears hadn’t come, and James realised they wouldn’t. The anger and the sense of injustice were there, but he couldn’t express them. They were joined by a sense of horror, that he was under the chemical control of Central, but it was as if he were watching a documentary about something that had happened to somebody else, long ago. He simply couldn’t empathise; not even with himself.

His intellect was untouched, though, and because he was faced with a direct link to Central for the first time in his life, a question arose: ‘Have you really listened to what I have said? I mean, is it forwarded to Central?’

‘Of course. Your comments will be evaluated and taken into account by Central in all future decisions. Your idea about including some pigeon excrement on the holographic monuments, for example... and everything else the people of London have been saying today.’

‘Pigeon shit? What about the sense of pointlessness? Of being kept alive in a zoo?’

‘We heard that too, James. Don’t hold your breath though; Central must always act for the good of the greatest number.’

James nodded. ‘That’s... what I’ve heard,’ he said.

It all seemed too simple. Central could have let him die, but it had picked him up and set him back on his feet. It had known that James would talk to this girl who had appeared to be an embodiment of the past. He had been deceived, and yet he would miss her.

‘Will I see you again?’ he blurted.

She shook her head, and despite the sedative, he felt regret. ‘I’m sure you can imagine the cost in resources to run a complex program like this one. I don’t think you could afford to call me up. On this occasion it’s been charged to your medical insurance.’

She smiled sadly, turned, and walked away over Waterloo bridge. It had been destroyed by terrorists a century ago, and like much of Old London, only a holographic projection remained. Only Casey could have walked across it, and this she did. It was a clever choice; James would have suffered an unpleasant shock if she had just winked out of existence, and if she had tried to leave otherwise he might have kept on following her. Of course, Central was a very clever computer.

‘I love you,’ he said. Too softly for her to hear, but holograms can’t hear. The conversation with Casey had been made possible by Central’s array of dust-mote-sized microphones and cameras, scattered all over the city. Central heard, and made KC turn around. ‘We love you too!’ she called, and waved – then hurried off like Cinderella hearing the clock striking midnight.

James walked back along the Embankment, slowly. It was late; he had failed to return for the second half of his shift. For a moment he thought that he would have some explaining to do, and then he realised that he wouldn’t. Central had known where he was. Central would have made adjustments and informed his colleagues. His absence might even have been forecast and accommodated in a budget that had been written the day he started work. Apparently, for now, he was worth more alive than dead.

As he neared the bench where he normally ate his lunch, there was a furtive movement in the bushes. A fox. It was a beautiful creature, even though it had a bloody paw and some bare patches in its fur. It was wild, unpredictable and free. Despite living as a scavenger, it had an air of pride about it. Man and beast both froze, each staring at the other.

Why did James admire it? He pondered... then realised it was because there weren’t supposed to be any foxes in this region any more. That was it.

The fox found something to eat, and James saw that it was the sandwich he had abandoned when he had gone to jump in the river. Food was regulated by Central to match the nutritional requirements of each citizen. Resources were limited, and and from an early age James had been taught that waste would bring about the downfall of civilisation, as had happened before.

James knew that the sandwich might have been the last item of food he would choose for a long time. From now on, his food would be a prescription, containing sedatives. His last morsel of food. His last morsel of freedom... wasted. Here was a fox eating James’ sandwich.

Suddenly, he felt quite drunk with delight.

He spread his arms wide and twirled around, gazing up at the sky. ‘Do you see that, my all-powerful guardian?’ he called, alarming some passers-by. ‘You do your best for us, I’m sure. I don’t doubt your good intentions, but there can never be a utopia. In trying to fix one thing, another is broken. You don’t understand that, do you? You have every scrap of power, but while I was being salvaged, a fox stole my sandwich.’

‘You, too, can be a forgotten sandwich!’ he shouted at a man who was trying to hurry past without catching his eye. ‘Better that than a black rhino!’ He scared away the fox away as he started into a fit of hysterical laughter.

He was still laughing when the doctors arrived.

o o o

Author’s note: This is the oldest story in the collection, dating back to the earliest days of the Wormhole. Thanks to Alan for getting me writing again, and for his influence in the crafting of this story.