"mayflies05" - читать интересную книгу автора (O'Donnell Jr Kevin)

Mayflies
Chapter 5

Drying Out

Appalling, what they did to Irma Tracer, before the RNA-phages destroyed their memories . . . such a noise . . . I'm still finding pieces of her.
The ship is in chaos; I cannot slip into the metaphor without feeling guilty. I have to stay aware, and watching.
The corridors squall with crawling zombies; among them glide servos, their plates ashimmer in the cold fluorescents. That's Mak Tracer Cereus on the floor, there, curled into a fetal position. Three months old, he acts his age: he cries as the servo hoists him into the air, cries and flops his hands and shits his pants. Unfortunately, he acts just like the other 73,024 . . . none of whom (with the exception of the Loukakes family) remembers a damn thing.
The servo conveys Cereus to the 264-NE Common Room, and lowers him to a thin mattress on the floor. Gravity, stronger that close to the deck, immobilizes him, like a stainless-steel pin does a collected beetle. His vocal cords are unimpaired, though; his howls set a dozen bald adults to wailing. To quiet them, the servo thrusts into each mouth a nippled hose. Hands touch cheeks--eyes-half-close--throats begin to suck. The nutrient solution contains a mild sedative, which keeps them tractable until it's time for their 50-minute sessions with the fantasizer.
On Level 18, droop-breasted Niki Penfield Cellar, the shrew who provoked George Mandell into aiding Irma Tracer, is being strapped to the plastic chair. The servo adjusts the cap on her shaven skull. Saliva dripping through her lips rains on her thighs. The machine starts.
In her vacant mind, she stands. It feels good. Hunger stirs in her belly and she sobs. I tap her with pain while reminding her that helplessness is bad, then suggest that she visit the kitchen. She totters toward it on legs unsure of the exact interplay between gross muscles and delicate inner ear. Yet it feels good. The kitchen greets her with a menu. As her eyes (twitched here and there by my puppet strings) rest on the first line, her brain sees, smells, and tastes rare roast beef. Mouth watering, she would order it, but I take her through the entire menu, first, forcing her to connect the lines of print with her various sensory perceptions. Each time she grasps that relationship, I make her feel good. Then I let her eat.
And she uses her fingers . . .
Though uneasy about mass-brainwashing, I have to reeducate the mayflies in the basics. My servos are burning out their bearings caring for 73,025 helpless idiots . . . but the fantasizers' ability to reach directly into a person's mind, and there implant imagery as real as anything that exists, should lessen the workload in the near future. Within a month, most'll be walking; within two, they'll use toilets instead of diapers; within six, they should be talking, after a fashion.
Crashing drudgery, definitely, but it offers the chance to rebuild their culture from the bottom up--and maybe turn them into something I wouldn't be afraid to release into an unsuspecting galaxy . . .
"CC," calls Marshall Murphy Loukakes from his living room, "CC. is it safe to drink the water yet? We're all dying of thirst in here."
Before answering, I check the pipes. The sensors report the RNA-phages have been flushed out of the system. "Yes, Mr. Loukakes. All clear."
Faucets roar in the bathroom sinks; above the splashing rises Loukakes' voice: "What's going on out there, CC?"
"I'm establishing a new social order."
"Oh?" He steps away from the basin and dries his beard on a hand towel. Curly gray hairs cling to it. "Is that going to affect us?"
"Yes, it will. Gather your family together and I'll explain how."
While he's doing-that, I watch the servos redistribute the population so that 56 mayflies live in every Common Room. The lift-shaft pleases these new infants: eyes wide, they coo, and drool. Disconcerting to see a 200-kg adult male act like a neo-natal . . .
The Loukakes sit on their living room sofa, Marshall at the right, his wife Simone Krashan Holfer on the left. Between them fidget fair-skinned Bruce and slothful Alexina.
"Here are the laws," I say to them.
"Laws?" echoes Alexina, blankly. She wears a purple body stocking circled under the armpits by sweat. Her tawny hair is tousled from sleep.
"Rules of conduct," I explain. "If you violate them, you will be punished. First: it is right to give, but wrong to insist that someone accept. Second: it is right to accept, but wrong to take. Third: it is wrong to impinge on others' freedoms, except to the extent necessary to prevent them from impinging on your own. Those are the laws, and I will enforce them."
"How?" demands Bruce, unpleasantly.
The living room door opens and a servo rolls in. Without a sound, it extrudes two tentacles. One curls around Bruce's ankles; the other binds his arms to his ribs. Then the servo lifts, and presses him against the ceiling. At this, his self-control gives way, and he begs to be released.
"Before I put you down," I warn, "just remember that I can do this to you at any time you deserve it. I can also do more."
Fighting sobs, he smooths his green toga and staggers back to the couch. Simone pats him fondly on the knee; Alexina looks haughty. Marshall asks, "This is the entire foundation of your new social order?"
"No. There is one more point. From now on, there ain't no such thing as a free lunch."
"Pardon?" His fingers comb his beard in perplexity.
"You will receive just what you earn, and no more." It will be difficult for pro-self to accept that, but it is essential. One values only what one has corked for. When the mayflies have relearned speech and basic mentation, I'll institute a monetary system and force them to use it. They should adjust easily, having no memories of a 400-year free ride.
"The unit of exchange," I tell their shocked faces, "will be the 'labor hour.' A floor sweeper of average efficiency will earn one per hour. As productivity rises, so will pay. Jobs requiring more specialized skills will earn proportionately more."
Marshall tries to protest: "I'm eighty-five--that's too old to learn how to work for a living!"
Bruce argues: "I don't know how to work!"
Simone insists: "I'm too genteel!"
Alexina says: "I'm too young!" •
"It's all right with me," I answer, "if you don't work. I only hope it's all right with you if you don't eat." Then I send in a pack of servos to remove them bodily from their suite.
Loukakes, capitulating, asks, "What am I assigned to?"
"The hydroponics plant. You have one year to learn how it works; after that, I cut out the automatic controls and leave you to handle it on manual."
He turns paler than his beard. His hands tremble; his voice shakes: "But--but what if I make a mistake?"
And I say, "Then people die."
Simone agrees to study servo maintenance and manufacture; 'she is going to be surprised when I start forcing her to smelt the metal and forge her own pieces.
Bruce I put in charge of assigning the other mayflies to jobs, and providing them with training adequate to their tasks.
Alexina I dispatch to the observatory.
Then I leave pro-self to monitor them, and descend again to my innards.
My goal here is simple, but wearying: to pin down each individual instruction, learn its triggers, and add one extra: that my wish is also a trigger.
First I catch an idle order in my small-mesh net, and lay it out on the table, clamping it in place so a sudden spasm won't erase it. It wriggles, though, twisting and turning in fright. Hours pass before it's properly fastened.
It controls the doors to 136-SE-C. One slender limb parameters the rightful users of the rooms, another describes authorized guests, a third is for ownership transfer, and a fourth is for emergency override. That last one I will alter.
The field flexes, soft to hard, bright to dim, cool to hot. Again, and again, until the energy level is high enough to--AH! I have grafted a new toe to that leg, and am in volitional control of that sector.