This story is not recommended for children.

I’m waiting for something to happen but I’ve no idea how long I’ve been here. I try the door but it’s locked. Half an hour later I test it again as if it might have changed its mind. Fasbuck’s words are still playing around my head like the hollow whistle left behind after a heavy night of clubbing. The things he said, all of it. How much of it makes even the slightest bit of sense? The idea that Ray could have left me; it’s just too far fetched. As for me being about to have my memory wiped… He could have at least thought of something more believable.

All the same, I keep thinking back to those words, and to his deadpan delivery. The sheer indifference he spoke with. One phone call will do it. Just one call to Ray and everything will be okay again. I feel my hand reaching for the Swallowtel earing and for the fiftieth time it’s still not there. I’m already naked, but the absence of a studphone makes me feel doubly so.

What I need to do is formulate a plan. I nod to myself, trying the idea for size. It’s obvious that I should be doing something. This is the classic heroine in the basement routine. Isn’t there supposed to be a handsome prince of his way to rescue me? For a minute I imagine Ray, glistening black leather and sweat, charging down the doors in super slowmo, with splinters flying at his fists, random security guards scattering like pins, droplets of water hanging in the air like jewels while his beautiful dark face is frozen in a roar of defiance. It’s a great picture. If I could draw I’d hang it on a canvas as high as a house. I’d call it “Hero.”

Fasbuck says my hero’s left me. It can’t be true. No way.

The minutes pass in silence. Despite my wishful thoughts, there are no sounds of splintering wood. No sporadic gunfire. Just the steady dripping of water in some distant place, and the sound of my own breathing.

I sit and listen to it. It’s not as if there’s anything better to do.

What I really need is a plan.

* * *

“I thought you were after a mug of something milky?” Simon says.

Clara smiles and raises her coffee cup. “That was when I thought you were going to be first.” She tells him, offering her most disarming smile. “I had a double espresso because you weren’t here to talk me out of it. If I keel over with a cardiac arrest half way through the interview it’ll be all your own doing.”

He smiles back coyly “Shit,” she thinks. “I’m actually flirting with him!” She takes in his face. Strong jaw, a bit of stubble, pale eyes. He’s good looking and her pulse is quickening, just a little.

“Well let me fix you up with something more drinkable to cushion the blow to your system.” he suggests, fixing her a mischievous look that almost brings colour to her cheeks. She notes the delicate prickling on the sides of her face and takes a breath, telling herself to get a grip and stop being so damned girly.

Simon fingers his Tab for a moment, before shaking his head. “Shit. How hard is it to order a drink, here? Even their disclaimers have disclaimers.”

Clara laughs a little too loudly.

“They do great Friscas here. You want one?” He hands her his Tab which is displaying several tall glasses full of syrup, frozen fruit-flavoured pulp and egg white.

“Class. I’ll have watermelon and bilberry avalanche, thanks.” She hands the little tablet back to him and he authorises her selection along with a strawberry and kiwi blizzard for himself..

They watch each other for a moment, before pointedly turning their attention to other things. Clara watches boats on the chocolate brown river, while Simon flicks through some more warning notices. “So how long have you been working for Cheryl?” He asks.

“Have we started?”

“Sorry?”

Now Clara really does blush. She feels her colour rising and clenches her jaw. “I’m sorry. It… It just sounded like an interviewish type of question. I sort of wondered if we were talking formerly or just… I don’t know. Sort of talking.”

Simon watches her with the smile of one who recognises embarrassment when he sees it. “Well I guess you could say we were just talking. I’m not taking notes, anyway. I just wondered how long you’ve -”

“About a month.” She blurts. “I’m a trainee, I guess.”

He nods appreciatively. “Nice work if you can get it! What did you do before? Were you studying?”

Clara hesitates for a moment, before nodding. “Media and i-commerce at Gates South.”

He watches her for a heartbeat, as if weighing her, before raising his eyebrows and nodding. “No great surprise you ended up working with Cheryl, then.” His tone was kind, and Clara just about forgot her awkwardness. “So. What do you think of the whole i-con thing?”

Now it’s Clara’s turn to look bewildered. “I’m sorry? How do you mean?”

“The moral question. Slavin’s Nightmare. I just wondered how you sat with it all.”

Clara’s look of puzzlement only intensifies.

Sensing her tension, Simon sits back and grins. “Isn’t that so typical of Gates? They’ve told you all the scientific facts. They’re taught you how. But the very concept of why, or more importantly, why not, has been glossed over. Do you really mean to tell me that they could let you graduate in i-commerce without even tipping their hats to Slavin?” He pauses and frowns, suddenly unsure. “You have at least heard of Slavin, haven’t you?”

Clara’s eyes dart about for a second. As if she’s looking for an exit. Then she sighs, turning to face Simon with a look of resignation. “Look. I spent a lot of my course wasted. They could have told me a good deal of stuff that never sunk in. At the end of the day I scraped enough points together to blag a pass, and I got this job on the back of isometric and biokinetic tests. Okay?”

Simon’s hands are up, palms outward. He’s still smiling, but now his smile looks more sheepish. “Okay. My dink.”

“No. My dink.” Clara sighs, wondering how much of an idiot she’s going to look in his article. “So it sounds like I missed something important. You want to tell me about it?”

The waiter brings their drinks. There’s more fruit on their garnish them than they actually contain, but they look colourful and wholesome. Simon nods briefly as the nervous looking waiter lingers awkwardly, holding his tray close to his chest like a favourite teddy bear.

“It’s a really exquisite horror story.” Simon says, gingerly taking a spoon full of green ice-mush. “This geek is asleep in a bedroom. And his computer wakes him up with an alarm. Well, he gets up and starts running round the place, thinking there’s a fire or that the North Koreans have finally made it over the water. Eventually he realises the sound’s coming from his computer and he goes over to the mike. “What?” He says. “What’s wrong?” The computer blinks for a couple of seconds before it says “I had a bad dream.”

Clara watches Simon, waiting for more. But the look he is giving tells her that it’s all there is. He’s watching her expectantly, waiting for her to say ““Oh, wow! That’s so deep!”“ or something of that nature.

Simon leans forward, raising an eyebrow. “It’s a hell of an image, isn’t it? But of course the worst part about it is that it’s already happened. Cheryl is proof of that. And it’s not as if she’s the first, is it? How many i-cons are there now? I’m not just talking about the Sophie Threes. I’m talking about the genuinely intelligent ones. How many living, breathing computer programs are there that are capable of thought, emotions; a sense of self?”

Clara nods without comment. She scoops some of the dark purple slush into her mouth and twiddles with the slice of cucumber that had been stuck to the rim of her glass.

Taking this as a queue to continue, Simon elaborates. “It all started with the computer game industry, didn’t it? I mean, that’s what they tell us. For all we know it could have been military all the way. But, if we’re to believe what we’re told, the real money came from the game design houses. Everyone trying to get the next big A.I. leap on their competitors. Not content with in-game characters that only acted real, the buying public wanted real intelligence to fight against. Where’s the fun in wielding a machine gun if the target you’re shooting at is only pretending to be scared? What’s the point in vaporising the bad guy if his program is only around for that one purpose?”

Outside, a very long freight ship has slipped anchor and started its snail’s pace journey up the river. Its deck consists mostly of brightly coloured containers, stacked neatly like the toy blocks of an unnaturally meticulous child. Clara watches it move, judging its motion against a tiny spec of grease on the window. “Exactly.” She says, forcing herself to turn her attention back to him again.

“Which is why they first came up with the idea of i-cons. They came about through game design! Isn’t it ironic? Intelligent Constructs were the closest thing to human imaginable. Neural net processors made the learn-and-grow possible, while fractal keys gave them the ability to assimilate more data. In the space of, what? five years? i-cons had gone from cleverly scripted bots that mimicked life to individual beings, with desires, fears, motivations and needs. They had created life. At last they had their perfect in-game characters.”

“So how was that ironic?” Clara asks, examining the end of her straws.

Simon looks at her again, as if he’s not entirely sure why she’s acting dumb. “Because that was their problem, wasn’t it? Surely you remember the protests? When they released “Stalker” and “Window Man?” They’d made their i-cons so intelligent that the victims in the game were genuinely suffering. As soon as the Church got their hands on it they were finished. It sparked the whole virtual torment debate. You remember? When an Intelligent Construct becomes so real that it can mimic our emotions in every way, at what point does it become immoral to kill it?”

Clara puts down her glass and looks out over the water. She turns her head away and hopes that Simon hasn’t noticed the colour draining from her cheeks.

* * *

Welcome to Garbage. It’s a happening place. You don’t just get in, you have to be wanted. It’s all about having that certain something. You have to be class. You have to be smart. Each person in the restaurant is an advertisement in their own right. “See who we let in.” The unspoken mystique of the place says. “Do you measure up?” You’re welcome to try, of course. If you haven’t been invited to join them you can take your chances with the hopeful. Those prepared to wait in line get their one shot at making the grade. The selection process is simple: insert your chosen method of payment and see if you can afford tonight’s asking price. No two nights ever cost the same, and the management would never do anything as vulgar as advertise the going rate. If you can afford to join those inside you’re welcome to do so. Those who don’t clear the bar are welcome to try again some other night. No hard feelings.

This diner doesn’t worry about such things. Watch him for a moment. He’s sat on his own with a pad of paper and a pen. He’s writing out music, lyrics, and notes. Plans for his career. Anything. It’s all there in blue and white. His hands move over the paper making notes. “drop tempo to 120 bpm. Try oscillators 5 through 8, square pattern. Insert ticket at 50 cycles. Lights. Bank 1, bank 2. Tempo back to default.”

He doesn’t compromise on music. It’s important to him. It’s all about artistic integrity; respect for the Muse. You won’t find this guy fronting a manufactured boyband. You won’t find him making jingles for soap powder commercials. He’s an artist. He’s a professional and he’s strictly hard core. His following is underground and streetwise. He’s not the type to be seduced by big money and a life of celebrity. Except that it’s good to be just famous enough to get into places like Garbage without having to queue. It’s nice to be just noticeable enough to be stopped for a photo every once in a while, and of course it’s just wild to see your own face on somebody else’s T shirt.

Garbage is buzzing. It’s filled with the sound of a hundred quiet conversations, distant laughter, the chink of crockery and cutlery. He doesn’t really notice. He sits at his little round table with his head down, ignoring the waiters and the other punters. His world exists on the point of his pen. Beyond that, he doesn’t really care. The edge of the paper is some far distant horizon he doesn’t really care about crossing. He’s lost in music.

And his telephone is ringing. Once. Twice. Nobody else can hear it, of course. It’s a tiny stud in his ear. He rolls his eyes and slams his pen down so crossly that a passing waiter finds himself apologising and wondering what the hell he’s done. “Yeah?” The diner hisses, picking up the pen again and chewing the end.

He sighs and glances to the ceiling, settling back into his chair. “Hi, brother.” he says, without enthusiasm. A couple of diners glance over at him briefly, before recognising the glazed expression. They shake their heads and look at each other. The nerve of the guy. Using a telephone in here!

“What kind of difficulty?” He asks. “Well, that’s not really my problem any more, is it?”

Waiters and waitresses cross the floor, immaculate in black and white. They carry expensive crystal glasses on silver trays. They wheel out tiny portions of exquisite food on large, white plates. “Well, what do you expect me to do about it?” The diner takes a sip of wine. “But it’s nothing to do with me now. What’s the point?”

A new couple enter. They look around almost nervously as their escort shows them to their table. They’re both a little shocked to have actually got in tonight, and now they’re scoping out the room, hoping to catch sight of somebody famous. The diner sighs. “Fine. I’ll do it as a favour to you. But this is the last time. I’ve got better things to do, okay? This isn’t fair. I mean it’s not as if she’ll remember.” He rubs his eyes, tiredly. “So what do you want me to say? … Okay. Put her on.”

The couple take their seats, but continue to look around the room so intently that they hardly even acknowledge each other. Garbage is the place where the stars come to eat. This is why the ordinary folk will pay so much to get in. They need to know it’s true. It’s not that they want to see famous people just for the sake of it. If that was all they needed they could line up outside any old red-carpet premiere and scream their adoration along with the rest of society’s trash. To buy your way in here is to buy into a lifestyle. Tonight, these people are celebrities in their own right. In here there are no nobodies. This evening, the couple looking around the room are just as important as anyone else within the hallowed walls. But until they can actually spot a recognisable celebrity they have no idea of knowing just how important they are.

“Hello.” The diner says, staring into space. “How are you now? Yeah, I thought so.” (pause) “Yeah, I’m fine. No. Not at all.” (pause) “I’m still sorting that out. He says I should pay a penalty of some kind, but he’s got no idea what to charge.” (pause) “He’ll probably just dock a couple of hundred. Nothing worth worrying about.”

The couple are still looking around the room, fishing for fame, as the woman notices the diner and frowns. She pulls out a Minitab and flicks through the day’s showbiz news. Ray shifts in his seat and takes another sip of wine. He takes in a slow breath, before saying softly, “I’m not coming back.” (pause) “I mean I won’t be seeing you again.” (pause) “Look, I’m sorry, but I think we’ve both had as much out of this as we can. “ (pause) “Of course it’s not because of last night. It’s just that things aren’t happening the way I planned. I’m really not sure we should be together any more.”

On the other table, the woman slips her Minitab over to her partner. It has a picture of the diner on it, along with the headline: “DANCE STUNT GOES BAD FOR TICKET MASTER” She leans forward and whispers, “Isn’t that Ray Fey over there?”

The diner, Ray, shakes his head and chews his pen some more. “I’m so sorry, Billy. It’s not about wanting you to change. It’s just time to move on.” (pause) “No, it’s me. I’ve changed. I’m not the same person and now we want very different things from life.” (pause) “Yes, I’m sure, Billy. I’m really sorry but I think it’s time for us to find our own way.” Ray lets out a long sigh and closes his eyes. “I know you do. But it wouldn’t be fair on either of us if I pretended to feel the same way.” (pause) “Yeah. Me too. I’m sorry, Billy. You take care, okay?” (pause) “Sure, Billy. Bye bye.”

The couple have walked over to Ray’s table, and stand before him like small children. “Excuse me.” The woman asks, holding out her Minitab. “I know this is probably a frightful bore for you, but could we take your picture?”

* * *

The line goes dead and the voice of Ray is no longer in my head. As soon as it clicks out I want it back again. It’s like having an airpipe cut. “Redail!.” Nothing.

Fasbuck shakes his head. “Now, can you finally stop dicking me about and let me get on with what I need to do?”

By this time I’m looking at the world through tears. I think of Ray’s words and it’s like there’s a long drop. I can feel it in my chest, as if I’m looking over a bottomless drop into darkness. It’s enough to give me vertigo. My whole life. Without Ray?

I rest my head in my hand and let my brow dig into the heal of my palm. Rays words keep coming back over and over, while all I can do is think of things I want to say to him. There has to be some way I can change his mind. I just want to talk to him. If I could only reach him again. “Redial!” Still static.

“You’re not live anymore.” Fasbuck says, flatly. “Look. I’ve told you. He’s told you. It’s over between you and him. Now let me do what I need to do and I guarantee you’ll forget all about him. “

I close my eyes and keep my head in my palm. I try to talk but I can feel my lips curling back, like they’re stiffening up. It’s hard to make my voice work. It comes out too high, as if somebody has a hand at my throat. “I don’t want to forget about him. I just want to call him again and tell him he’s made a mistake. He doesn’t know how I feel.”

“Oh, believe me, he knows.” Fasbuck says. “You’re crazy about him. He’s everything to you, yes?”

I don’t answer. I can feel the grief inside me, filling me with black tar as the pain in my chest gets worse. My whole body is thick with it. Cloying and stifling. I find that word again. The one that sums up the pain, the futility:

Grief.

Hard, hollow and broken. Grief is the word.

I never knew what it meant until now. A life without Ray. Why on earth would I want to live? I know. Right there. I just know. I’m never going to be happy again.

Fasbuck shrugs indifferently. “My fault, really. He only needed you to be a good dancer, but Ray was a good customer and I wanted to impress him. I threw in the infatuation for free. You’d be amazed how simple it is to wire up. Compared to complicated stuff like language and acrobatics, engineering undying love is a walk in the park.”

Grief is the word. (It’s the word that you heard).

Ray!

* * *