555

  Robert Reed

  I AM A PLEASANT, PRETTY-faced soul, and a small soul, my quiet

  voice rarely heard in the normal course of any day. I have been placed here

  as a presence, as a reassuring feature within this exceptionally

  complicated landscape, embracing a role not unlike that served by the

  elegant mansions and sprawling country clubs, not to mention the great

  golden tower where the lords of this world fight endless wars for

  dominion. I am the symbol of loyalty. To my mistress, the great Claudia, I

  am the quiet but fiercely devoted assistant. She gives me her order, and I

  say, "Yes, ma'am." With a crisp nod and a cheery smile, I tell her,

  "Immediately, ma'am." Typically her chores are small things easily

  accomplished. Calls need to be made, documents signed. But my main

  purpose--my guiding mission --is to sit behind my smallish desk, and with

  my undiluted enthusiasm, I convince the other world that in the constant

  mayhem of our world, Claudia can always count on little me.

  I sit inside my little office. There is an apartment that is mine as well,

  but mostly, I sit in the office tucked outside Claudia's much larger office.

  When necessary, I can appear extremely busy. My fingers dance, causing

  colors to change on one or more of the screens before me. I can lift a pen

  and fill any yellow pad with elaborate symbols. If the telephone sings, I can

  lift the receiver to my ear, nod with interest, and tell the silence on the

  other end, "I will do that. Thank you, sir. Ma'am." But mostly, I just sit,

  waiting my next opportunity to excel.

  My office has a single window. From my chair, from the highest floor of

  the very famous tower, a great slice of the City is easily visible. For me, it

  is usually daytime. The City is beautiful and vast, and perfect, avenues laid

  out with delicious precision, great buildings and little houses presenting

  an image of teeming masses and relentless wealth. The world's most

  beautiful structure is the Golden Tower, but I myself have never actually

  seen it from below. Yet I cannot imagine any sight as impressive as the

  one afforded me by this single window. When I am certain that Claudia

  will not need me for the next long while, I rise from behind my desk and

  press my pretty-enough face against the window, squinting and squinting,

  observing details that are too small to be noticed in the normal course of

  the day.

  What I see of the City is a coarse approximation, naturally. When I look

  carefully, as I do now, I can see how each house and vehicle and even the

  people that are supposed to be souls are composed of nothing, more or

  less, than a few dots of color arranged to imply familiar shapes.

  The City is home to a few thousand named souls.

  Give each speck a name and there would be millions of us.

  By that logic, I am fortunate. Incredibly, undeservedly lucky. I have a

  name: Joan. I have not one place to be, but two, and if you count the

  parties and street scenes where I have appeared, then I have visited better

  than a dozen places. I remember each one. Ages later, I can recall what I

  said and to whom, and every good thing that I did for my mistress. "Joan,

  you need to see to this. To that." Yes, of course, madam. This and that,

  yes! "Take my glass, Joan." With my steadiest hand, I took it. "How do I

  look? Splendid, as usual?" You always look splendid, and spectacular.

  Madam. Ma'am. Claudia Pontificate!

  At this moment, my mistress is embroiled in a major social event.

  Where she is, it is night. The incongruity doesn't bother me. Time is

  extremely important in this world, but the habits of the Sun are not. I

  stare across the day-lit City, watching those tiny specks and dashes of

  color and motion, and not for the first time, I think it is wrong what they

  say. Yes, we are a set of fuzzy instructions and algorithms, shaped light

  and inspired daydreams. But from what I understand, the other world is

  much the same: Everything is built from dots just a little bit smaller than

  these flecks of color. In their own right, the mythical atoms are still quite

  simple. Simple, and built of even simpler objects. In that other world, light

  also has shape, and souls dream, and in countless more ways, both worlds

  are very much the same--two realms relentlessly simple when seen up

  close, and at a distance, vast and complex beyond all comprehension.

  Joan is a daydreamy girl, I think to myself.

  I begin to smile, turning away from the window. A man is sitting across

  from my desk, waiting for me. I didn't hear him enter my office. Was I

  that distracted? In an instant, I sprint through the catalog of City faces,

  finding no man with his face. But perhaps he is a woman who has

  undergone some kind of sexual rearrangement. It happens from time to

  time, according to the demands of some little subplot. But no, his face is

  very

  much

  a

  man's

  face,

  and

  his

  voice

  is

  new

  to

  me--testosterone-roughened and oddly sloppy.

  "Hello, Joan," he rumbles.

  I have no lines. So of course, I say nothing.

  And he laughs knowingly, gesturing at my empty chair. "Go on, sit," he

  suggests. "You're fine. I just want to speak with you for a little moment."

  I settle on my chair.

  "Ask," he says. "Who am I?"

  "I don't know," I admit.

  "Mitchell Hanson," he says. "I'm the Head Writer for the City."

  I don't know what to say.

  He keeps laughing, something striking him as being extraordinarily

  funny. "Have you ever met a writer before?"

  "No," I confess.

  "What do you know about us?"

  I am a small soul, and polite. "Not very much," I allow.

  He nods. "Claudia speaks about us. Doesn't she?"

  On occasion, yes. Sometimes when neither of us is needed and she finds

  herself standing in my office, waiting to be whisked away to her next

  important scene, she talks to me, telling me her thoughts.

  "What does she say about us?"

  Claudia often meets with the writers. They come as projections,

  discussing current plots as well as events that may or may not come to

  pass.

  "I don't think you are," I mutter.

  "What? I'm not a writer?" Mitchell laughs and leans forward in his seat.

  "Why do you say that, Joan?"

  "You are neither fat nor ugly," I reply.

  "Thank you."

  "But your face is a little crooked, I guess. And that dark material under

  you chin--"

  "It's a three-day beard," he explains. Which explains nothing.

  I just nod and smile, and return to my waiting.

  "I'm the Head Writer," he repeats, "and I'm a considerable fan of yours.

  Did you know that, Joan?"

  "A fan?"

  "One of many. In my world, millions of people are interested in you."

  That is not an impressive number. The other world holds billions of

  people, each with a name, and almost everyone watches Claudia and the

  City. But I want to be polite, nodding as I tell him, "Thank you."

  "You're very pretty," he maintains.

  "But I don't have a desirable body," I argue. "My breasts are small, and

  my nose is too large."

  Claudia has a wonderful body. I have seen it on occasion, usually when I

  am told to walk into her office unannounced. My personality is

  heterosexual but even I feel a longing when I stare at those firm creations

  that ride before her imaginary heart. As with everything about Claudia, I

  am smaller. Lesser. Yes, I am the same kind of creature, but always lost in

  her considerable shadow.

  "You have a marvelous body," Mitchell tells me. "Don't sell yourself

  short."

  But I do an excellent job of self-appraisal. Politely, I tell him, "I'll try not

  to. I really will."

  "You've had lovers, haven't you?"

  The Head Writer should know that I have. Three men stand in my past.

  But only one had any name, and he stayed for only a few weeks, leaving me

  for the black sleep that comes when you have served your purpose and get

  filed away.

  "Not three men," Mitchell corrects. "Look again."

  The Writer has placed a memory in my soul.

  "Look carefully," he advises with a wink and a delighted grin.

  I straighten my back and grow cold.

  "Remember the other day, Joan? When you came into this office

  through that door, and you thought you heard a mysterious noise in

  Claudia's office--?"

&nb

sp; "Yes."

  "And you found her with who?"

  "My lover."

  "Sonny Cotton," he says. "The great, secret love of your life."

  I shiver and sob.

  "What was Sonny doing?"

  I cannot say it. But I can't stop seeing it, even with my eyes pressed

  shut.

  "And where is he now, Joan? The love of your life...?"

  "With Claudia."

  "Is he?"

  "Clinging to her arm," I mutter, imagining the two of them happily

  snuggling at that extravagant little dinner party.

  "Sonny loves Claudia now," says the writer.

  I nod, in misery.

  "He doesn't think about you anymore. Not even in passing."

  I shiver and sob.

  "But you can win him back again, Joan. If you really want him, that is."

  "I do!" I blurt.

  "In thirteen seconds," Mitchell tells me, "Claudia will walk through that

  door. And you will pull the little pistol from your purse--the same pistol

  Claudia gave you as a Christmas gift last year--and you will shoot her

  once, with a devastator bullet, directly between her big beautiful tits."

  "They are ugly and fat, and sloppy, and you should count your blessings

  that you don't have to meet with the little bastards."

  I always count my blessings.

  Claudia was walking from my office door to my window and back again.

  Pacing, it is called--one of many behaviors in which I have little ability.

  She looked furious, and not in the merely dramatic fashion demanded by

  dialogue and plot. She nearly shivered as she strode past my desk for the

  umpteenth time, her deep powerful voice nearly cracking as she repeated

  the words, "Little bastards."

  This was ages ago. This was last week, nearly. But in that other world, a

  week is not long, which makes the event recent and timely, and perhaps

  important.

  "Do you know what the little bastards want to do?"

  I shook my head. "No, ma'am."

  "What they're talking about doing--?"

  "What, madam?"

  Claudia stopped in mid-stride, glancing at me as if noticing my

  presence for the first time. She was lovely, of course. Always and

  effortlessly beautiful. A tall ensemble built from elegant curves, she wore a

  snug, well-tailored suit and the thick black hair that she preferred while at

  work. In social occasions, her hair turned a deceptively friendly blond. In

  sexual circumstances, a strawberry shade crawled out of its roots,

  covering her head in flames as her arousal increased.

  "Change," my mistress blurted.

  "Pardon me?"

  "These little writers... they want to change things...!"

  I nodded, pretending to understand. This with a soft, apologetic tone, I

  asked, "What kinds of things, madam?"

  But she couldn't bring herself to say it. First, she needed to walk again.

  To pace. Back and forth, and again, and on the third journey across my

  office floor, she admitted, "They want to dump certain characters."

  I didn't respond.

  Claudia closed her hands, bright rings glittering as her fists trembled.

  "They want to kill them off. Kill them, or ship them off to the sleep-files,

  and forget they ever existed."

  But wasn't that inevitable? Storylines and the need for fresh faces

  require a certain level of attrition.

  "This isn't business as usual," Claudia snapped at me.

  "I didn't say it was," I muttered.

  "But I could see your thoughts," she warned. "Of course I can see what

  you're thinking. Are you forgetting who I am?"

  "No, ma'am."

  Again, Claudia was pacing.

  "Wholesale changes," she growled.

  For an instant, I wondered why she was speaking like this. To me, of all

  the souls to confide in. And then I saw a good reason, a warm feeling

  taking hold of my soul. Of course! My mistress was worried about me...!

  "Ratings," she muttered.

  "Pardon me?"

  Claudia hit one of the golden walls with a fist, muttering, "Ratings are

  down. Everybody's scared. They're afraid we've overstayed our welcome

  with the real world."

  She always referred to the other realm as "the real world."

  "Panic," she said to the wall. "I see it in their faces."

  I had no doubts that she saw panic. Claudia's emotion-discrimination

  algorithms are the very best in two worlds.

  "I shouldn't tell you any of this, Joan."

  "I won't repeat a word," I promised, unsure whom I would entrust with

  any important news. My own social calendar was quite limited.

  "A revolution will come to the City," said Claudia, in disgust. "The Old

  Guard is going to be swept away, and the little people take over. To bring

  'a freshness' to the stories, they say. Those ugly shit bastards--!"

  "Swept away?"

  "That's an expression. The other world has a lot of dirt, and everything

  needs a lot of cleaning." She pretended to breathe, and her brown face

  tightened, and while not quite looking at me, she asked, "Would you?"

  "Would I what?"

  "Don't play naove," she warned. "Given the chance: Would you, or

  wouldn't you?"

  I am naove, but I'm not stupid. The purpose of this conversation was

  suddenly obvious, and the only possible answer was to promise my

  undying devotion to my mistress.

  "'Undying,'" Claudia repeated. "What an interesting, silly word that is."

  I nodded, my little smile fading. In reflex, I looked out my window at

  that great long sliver of the City.

  Then with a contemptuous snort, my mistress said, "Well, it won't

  happen anyway. I won't let it happen."

  "Good," I began to say.

  "Because I'll talk to the Producer next. We're going to have a little

  conference of our own, and when I'm finished, you can be sure, he isn't

  going to feel like killing anyone but a few of his ugly little writers."

  Claudia's face and most of her body are based on some long-ago actress

  whom the Producer still adores. The two of them enjoy frequent

  conferences and meetings; nobody else can make that claim. Which, I

  suppose, is just another reason why Claudia commands such power in this

  world: Through delicate and extremely sophisticated technological means,

  she can win God's affections.

  "Don't worry," was her final advice to me.

  "I won't worry," I lied. And then I was suddenly alone in my office, with

  nothing to do but wait for my next scene, and to the best of my ability,

  think.

  EACH WORLD HAS its rules and unimpeachable logics. Every body is

  built from small parts and algorithms drawn around a steady red heart.

  No soul can be stored like a computer program or a lifelong diary. An

  authentic consciousness, once born, must live at some state of being, if

  only sleeping inside a dark file or in the covers of a warm bed. And when it

  dies, only a gross approximation of the original soul can be reborn again.

  By cloning or digital retrieval, the process is limited. Death is death. And

  what is lost is always lost forever.

  Mitchell tells me to shoot Claudia in the heart.

  And my immediate response is to say, "That would kill her."

  "We can certainly hope so," he says, laughing with hope and menace.

  Then his projected self winks at me, and he says, "Tell the truth. Do you

  want to shoot the bitch?"

  I say, "Yes."

  "I know you do."

  I drop my gaze. "She stole away my lover."

  "Honestly, Joan... that's a minor crime in Claudia's resumi."

  Little time remains. Even in my realm, thirteen seconds is just a little

  while, but most of that has been spent. In "the real world," there isn't even

  time enough to mutter a word of warning.

  I think about that.

  At the same instant, I ask, "What happens to me?"

  "Afterward?" He grins. "A fine question." Then with a big wink, he says,

  "I can't tell you everything. But you're going to survive, and you're to play

  an increasingly important role in the City. And in my world, too."

  "Your world?"

  "How would you feel about being the next Claudia?"

 

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