The Heart Goes Last - Страница 30

Stan maybe isn’t the most … well, the most. The most of whatever you’d call Max. But Stan loves her, and she loves him.

She does really. That thing with Max was only a blip, it was an animal episode. She’ll have to stay away from Max in future. Though it might be hard, because Max is so passionate about her. He’ll try to get her back, no question. But she’ll have to put her fingers in her ears and grit her teeth and roll up her sleeves and resist temptation.

Though why shouldn’t a person have both? says the voice in her head.

I’m making an effort here, she answers. So shut up.

She looks at her watch: two-thirty. Half an hour to go. The waiting is the worst thing. She’s never been so trembly before a Procedure.

She smiles her I-am-a-good-person smile, the smile of an absent-minded angel with a childish lisp. That smile has seen her through many difficult places, or at least it has since she’s been grown up. It’s a Get Out of Jail Free card, it’s a rock concert wristband, it’s a universal security password, like being in a wheelchair. Who would question it?

To give herself confidence she applies blush all over her pale face, then a thin coat of mascara on the eyelashes: nothing too overdone. Positron allows makeup in jail; in fact it encourages makeup, because looking your best is good for morale. It’s her duty to look her best: she’s about to become the last thing some poor young man will see on this earth. That’s a big responsibility. She doesn’t take it lightly.

Charmaine, Charmaine, whispers the small voice in her head. You are such a fraud.

So are you, she tells it.

Headgame

Stan must have drifted off, but he comes awake with a start. That fucking fly is walking all over his face, and he can’t get at it.

“Fucking fly,” he tries to say. Fuuuuuh. Fluuuh. Nope, no speech functions so far. Drug’s got his tongue. He hopes like shit this isn’t permanent: he won’t be able to buy anything except with little notes. Hi, my name is Stan and I can’t talk. Gimme ten bottles of booze. He won’t care what kind, he’d drink horse piss. After what he’s been through he’’ll want to get falling-down blind drunk. Oblivious.

It will make a good story though. Once he gets out. Once he hooks up with Brother Conor and his band of merry men, and erases himself from the radar of everyone and everything to do with Positron, because what rule is there that says he has to be Jocelyn’s flunky and messenger boy once he’s out? Let her handle her own weird shit. He’ll have to get Charmaine out too, of course. Maybe. If possible.

Now that fly’s trying to get into his eye. Blink blink, turn the head: it’s not very scared of eyelashes, but it moves. Now it’s going into his nose. At least he has some control over his nostrils: he blows it out. His back is terminally itchy, he has a cramp in his leg, his diaper is sodden. More than anything, he wants this to be over. This stage, this phase, this powerlessness, whatever it is. Let’s get this show on the road, he’d shout, if he were capable of shouting. Which he isn’t. But he hopes he will be soon. He has a lot of shouting to catch up on.

Charmaine makes her way through the familiar corridors to the Medications Administration reception area, where three corridors come together. She’s wearing her green smock over her orange boiler suit; her latex gloves are in her pocket, as well as her facemask in case of germs. She’ll put it on before she goes into the room – that’s the rule – but then she’ll take it off again, because why should anyone’s last view of a human face be so impersonal? She wants whoever it is to be able to see her reassuring smile.

She’s a little nervous; probably they’re monitoring it, this nervousness of hers. And most likely it counts in her favour, because during the training course she took they’d put some electrodes on you and then showed you pictures of people undergoing the Special Procedure and measured how you reacted. What they were looking for was a certain amount of jitteriness, but not so much that you’d lose control. They’d weeded out the ones who stayed totally calm and cold, and also those who’d showed too much eagerness. They didn’t want people who got pleasure out of doing this – they didn’t want sadists or psychopaths. In fact, it was the sadists and psychopaths who needed to be – not euthanized, not erased, those words are too blunt. Relocated to a different sphere, because they were not suited to the life of Consilience.

Maybe that’s what will happen to Sandi, but in a nicer way. Maybe they’ll just take her someplace else, like an island, with the other people on it who are like her. People who don’t fit in, but not criminal elements. Surely that’s what they’ll do, because they do want the greatest happiness. The greatest happiness possible.

Now she’s reached Reception, and there’s the check-in box with the flatscreen on the front. The head is already there: it must be expecting her. Today it’s the woman with the dark hair and bangs. It’s the same woman who was with Ed when he’d visited the knitting circle the night before, the one with the hoop earrings and the grey stockings. Someone important. Charmaine feels a slight chill. Yogic breath, she tells herself. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

The head smiles at her. Is it only a recorded image this time, or is it a real person?

“Could I have the key, please?” Charmaine asks it, as she is supposed to.

“Log in, please,” the head says to her. It’s still smiling, though it seems to be looking at her more intently than usual. Charmaine presses her thumb to the pad, then gazes at the iris reader until it blinks.

“Thank you,” says the head. The plastic key slides out of the slot at the bottom of the box. Charmaine puts it into her lab coat pocket, waits for the slip of paper with the details of the Procedure printed on it: room number, Positron name, age, last dose of sedative, and when administered. It’s necessary to know how alert the subject may be.

Nothing happens. The head is staring at her with a meaningful half-smile. Now what? thinks Charmaine. Don’t tell me the dratted data bank has messed up my identity numbers again.

“I need the Procedure slip,” she says to the head. Even if it’s only a canned image, her request will surely register.

“Charmaine,” the head says to her. “We need to talk.”

Charmaine feels the hair stand up on the back of her neck. The head knows her real name. It’s talking to her directly. It’s as if the sofa has spoken.

“What?” she says. “What did I do wrong?”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” the head says, “yet. But you’re on probation. You must undergo a test.”

“What do you mean, probation?” says Charmaine. “I’ve always been good at this job, I’ve never had any complaints, my job assessment score has been …” She’s twisting the latex glove in her right-hand pocket; she tells herself to stop. It’s bad to show agitation, as if she’s in some way guilty. She’s up for their darn test, whatever it is: she’s willing to bet her technique and fulfillment against anybody’s. They can’t fault her, except for not wearing her face mask, but who in their right mind would care about that?

“It’s not your competence that’s in question,” says the head. “But Management has had some misgivings about your professional dedication.”

“I’ve always been extremely dedicated!” Charmaine says. Somebody must have been gossiping about her, telling lies. “You have to be dedicated to do this job! Who says I haven’t been dedicated?” It’s that bitch Aurora, from Human Resources. Or someone in her knitting group, because she wasn’t peppy enough about those darn blue bears. “I love my job, I mean, I don’t love having to do what I do, but I know it’s my duty to do it, because it has to be done by someone, and I’ve always taken the best care and been very meticulous, and …”

“Let’s call it loyalty,” says the head.

Why did the head say loyalty? Is loyalty about her and Max? “I’ve always been loyal,” she says. Her voice sounds weak.

“It’s a matter of degree,” says the head. “Please pay attention. You must carry out the Procedure as usual today. It is very important that you complete the task that has been assigned to you.”

“I always complete the task!” says Charmaine indignantly.

“Today, this time, you may encounter a situation that you find challenging. Despite this, the Procedure must be carried out. Your future here depends on it. Are you ready for that?”

“What kind of situation?” Charmaine asks.

“You have an option,” says the head. “You can resign from Medications Administration right now and go back to Towel-Folding, or some other undemanding form of work, if you feel you are not up to the test.” It smiles, showing its strong, square teeth.

Charmaine would like to ask if she could have some time to think it over. But maybe that wouldn’t be taken well: the head could see it as a flaw in her loyalty.

“You must decide now,” says the head. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” says Charmaine. “I’m ready.”

“All right then,” says the head. “You have now chosen. There are only two kinds of people admitted to the Medications Administration wing: those who do and those who are done to. You have elected the role of those who do. If you fail, the consequences to yourself will be severe. You may find yourself playing the other role. Do you understand?”