Starobinets The Living

1. Auflage 2012
ISBN: 978-1-78094-043-4
Verlag: Hesperus Press Ltd.
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 240 Seiten

As part of The Living you cannot die. As part of The Living you have no free will. Yet one man is born who is different to the rest; one who could bring society crashing down. A stunning and sinister vision of a dystopian future by a critically acclaimed young Russian author.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Starobinets, Anna

Weitere Mitwirkende

Rann, James

Leseproben

Hanna

Document No. 1 (leaseholder’s private entry)

…The doctor who did my analysis was not too worried at first. He just said that the connection can malfunction, so he’d have to do everything again, sorry that I’m making you wait. He froze, not blinking, looking past me, through me. His pupils were narrowing and widening spasmodically, in a sort of jerky rhythm. Then, once the rhythm was established, he shut his eyes for some reason. As if he couldn’t hold three layers… but that never happens with medics… So, he must have gone deeper; but why? The office smelled strongly of sweat, and I held my breath. I noticed that his eyelids, his forehead and his nostrils had a wet sheen. I thought: something’s wrong with him, this doctor, it’s him that’s malfunctioning, the connection’s working fine… When he opened his eyes again his face looked as if he had just seen the incode of the Butcher’s Son, or maybe not just the incode, but the Son himself, with his weary workman’s smile and his foul-smelling axe, covered in blood, just like in The Eternal Murderer.

‘I need to perform the procedure again,’ he said, and I noticed that his hands were shaking.

‘For a third time?’

He did not say anything in reply, just detached one sensor from my stomach and attached another identical one.

For about a minute we sat in silence: me in that huge cold chair and him opposite me. I thought, if there, inside me, there is someone from the Blacklist, some maniac like the Butcher’s Son or Rotten Rick, then I won’t get to see him, I won’t see him even once, and they’ll keep him in a House of Correction, in solitary, and they’ll feed him three times a day and not say a word to him, they won’t say a word to him until the day he dies, and he’ll never know what for. I thought about how hypocritical it was to call them Houses of Correction. No one has ever tried to correct anything there. They just keep them there. Stuffed and silent…

Then the sensor squeaked, and the doctor read off the result again; everything seemed to suggest that it was exactly the same as before.

I asked, ‘Is there something wrong?’

He said nothing.

‘Is there something wrong with my baby?’

He got up and paced around the office. ‘His father…’ The doctor’s voice rattled like a beer can skittering along the road. ‘Do you know him?’

‘No. It’s a festival baby.’

‘Get dressed,’ he looked past me, ‘and wait out there in the corridor. I’ve called the SPO.’

‘Is he abnormal?’

‘What, sorry?’

‘The baby. My Darling. Is my Darling on the Blacklist?’

‘Ah… no…’ He finally looked at me, but the way he looked was somehow strange, as if from afar, as if through binoculars, as if I were hovering somewhere on the horizon, as if I were in and not there in front of him. ‘No. Your Darling is not on the Blacklist.’

‘Then why the SPO? What have I done? What is the nature of my violation?’

‘I’m not authorized to say,’ he said absent-mindedly and at that moment stopped noticing me. He was clearly occupied by some other conversation in a deep layer.

The SPO officer did not hurry. He appeared after about forty minutes, and I spent all of those forty minutes in the corridor, watching the females going through various office doors, all stressed, irritated, accustomed to the terror of the discovery that awaited them, trying to prepare themselves for the worst, but all the same stubbornly clinging on to the best. Hope. Hope glowed on them like radioactivity. Waves of toxic hope flooded the corridor. Please let it be sorted. Please not now. Please let me be empty.

They are different when they come out of the offices. The empties move with the smooth and swift gait of dancers, as if they have become slimmer, as if they have been made lighter by the emptiness swirling round inside them. The others step heavily, as if they have put on weight instantaneously. Their gaze is turned inward; oh, that well-known humble gaze, that evaluates, that tries to examine and understand the useless little thing growing inside them. Humility, responsibility, duty – that’s what their psychotherapists will say to them tomorrow. Humility to Nature. Responsibility to your Darling. And Duty to the Living. Yes, it’s hard. These three elements of harmony will cause you some difficulties. But you will find consolation in the other three. Pleasure, stability and immortality. And now let’s all stand in a circle, take each other by the hand – anyone who wants to can put on contact gloves – and repeat together: ‘The Harmony of the Living is formed of six components: humility, duty, responsibility, pleasure, stability and immortality.’ And all together now: ‘The Harmony of the Living depends on me personally.’

My psychotherapist reckons that tactile contact and group repetition is absolutely perfect training. Painful, but helpful. He says that dancing in a circle and singing in a choir is a sort of model. In the circle you understand way more clearly than in that you are part of the Living… In the circle you feel more protected. In the circle you’re not even afraid of the Five Seconds of Darkness.

‘…No death!’ the planetman slumped heavily into the empty chair next to me and placed a square black briefcase by the legs; the mirrored mask stuck to his face was a little bit murky and covered in blotches. ‘It’s hot today…’

‘What is the nature of my violation?’

‘There was none.’

‘Then why do you want to interrogate me?’

‘It’s my job.’ The planetman looked at me intently and, as far as one could tell by the expression on his mask, squeamishly. ‘Please, put this on.’

He held out another mirrored mask, which was also less than spotless.

‘Is using a “chatterbox” compulsory?’

‘The conversation device is compulsory.’ He shook the proffered mask impatiently. ‘Put it on. It’s completely sterile on the inside. Like that, thank you, Hanna… It’s just a conversation. Nothing like an interrogation…’

The mask was cold. Cold and sticky, like the touch of some deep-sea creature.

‘Now I am going to connect your mask to the conversation device… Mm-hm… and mine too… There we go. It’s just so our conversation will be recorded, that’s all.’

Beneath the mask his voice suddenly changed horribly, turning into a sort of monotonous buzzing.

‘On completion of our conversation you will receive a copy of the transcript. The conversation device cannot cause any harm either to you or your…er…er… foetus. It is made of ecologically sound…’

‘What is the nature of my violation?’ I also buzzed like a defective electric doorbell.

‘There was none.’

‘I don’t understand what’s going on.’

‘Me neither,’ he smiled with his mirror mouth. ‘I don’t understand either. That’s why you are required to tell us everything relating to your…er…er… foetus in as much detail as possible.’

‘It’s a festival baby.’

‘I said in detail…’

Would you like to suspend session with document No. 1?

Yes no

Document session suspended

Move to new document or terminate session with this box?

Moving to document No. 3 …

Document No. 3
(Transcript of conversation between leaseholder and SPO officer, dated 10.09.439 A.V.)

You are required to tell us everything relating to your foetus in as much detail as possible.

It’s a festival baby.

I said in detail.

Today, on the first day of the waning moon, I appeared at Medical Centre No. 1015 in relation to the law on monthly population control. The doctors established that I was pregnant…

Had you previously attended the Centre regularly?

Yes, of course. I come here every month.

Have the doctors at the Centre ever established that you were pregnant before?

No. This is the first time it’s happened.

Have you not had sexual contact before?

I have.

Did you have fertility problems?

No.

Then why is this your first pregnancy?

I took precautions.

That is forbidden.

I have permission.

Here you go.

Tell me about the festival in more detail.

The child was conceived at the regional Festival for...