head. ‘The testing means are within the purview of PareCo under their contract. But whatever you may think of their methods, Luna, they are designed to filter the rational from the dysrational. This is of vital importance to the safety and future of this country and everyone else around the world. It isn’t taken lightly.’ He smiles. ‘Go. Try not to worry too much. Remember what I told you the last time: what happens to you if you fail the RQ?’
‘Nothing happens to me. I’ll be monitored, an appropriate job chosen.’ But now this doesn’t feel reassuring like it did the other day: a job where I can’t make decisions that could harm anyone. One where I’ll always be watched, to make sure my dysrationalia doesn’t manifest. My skin crawls.
I step out of his office, back across the quad. I start to walk towards the hall but then think, stuff it. There is no doubt this is a do not pass go, do not collect two thousand pounds moment. I’m not going back in there.
First: rattle the chains of my prison. I head down one of the passageways between two buildings: is the force field on this time of day? A shimmering light in the air greets me. I try again to push through it, but like the last time I get a bit of the way in and then it’s like it pushes me back out again. There is no escape.
I slip back to the side of the hall, look around: no one is in sight. Climb up to the balcony, curl up on the bench where Gecko and I sat in darkness the night we were both trying to escape. Where I saw the silver swirls in his skin, so like Astra’s that the rush of memory made me run. Does he remember what really happened last night? How upset he was when he thought I was shot? That he put his arms around me.
Somehow it is important that he remembers.
Late that night I return to the balcony. Just as I’m starting to wonder if Gecko ignored the note I slipped him at dinner, I hear quiet steps, below. He climbs up.
‘Heh. You came.’
‘How could I resist?’ He smiles in the moonlight, and moves with more of the swagger he had that first night, when he thought I was staring at him because he was so gorgeous. I flush. I was, then, but this is now, and there is something more important to deal with.
‘Shut up, sit down, and listen.’
He’s startled. Sits down. ‘OK. What is it? I’m listening.’
‘Right. You remember the wall you can see but I can’t – the force field?’
‘Of course.’
‘It is a false image. Put there by Implants. Right?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘So how do you know you aren’t seeing false images from your Implant all the time?’
He shrugs, uneasy. ‘I don’t know . Though there’d need to be a good reason for doing it on a large scale – the force field being a wall is a simple, static image that serves a definite purpose. I don’t know that they even can do more complex images convincingly.’
‘They can, and they do.’
‘Tell me.’
So, I do. All of it: the lights out, the screaming, people being shot. The instructions I breached. How Gecko thought I was shot in front of him; how Jezzamine could see through the Implant images, and got everyone to overcome them. How only those who could see through the images seemed to remember it as it actually happened the next day. He gets me to describe it over and over again, every detail I can remember, to see if it brings any of it back, but then gets a terribly pained look on his face.
‘Dammit. This is freaky. Who knows when they use our Implants to make us see what they want, when they want? Or even if they don’t, worse: to change what we remember about things that happened, afterwards. The really weird thing is that if I try to remember what really happened last night, it’s like my head hurts, my thoughts slide away from it. I can’t. But I can think about what you told me about it.’ He shakes his head. ‘And what was the point of that whole thing?’
‘I don’t know. I was thinking it was some sort of rationality
‘Nothing happens to me. I’ll be monitored, an appropriate job chosen.’ But now this doesn’t feel reassuring like it did the other day: a job where I can’t make decisions that could harm anyone. One where I’ll always be watched, to make sure my dysrationalia doesn’t manifest. My skin crawls.
I step out of his office, back across the quad. I start to walk towards the hall but then think, stuff it. There is no doubt this is a do not pass go, do not collect two thousand pounds moment. I’m not going back in there.
First: rattle the chains of my prison. I head down one of the passageways between two buildings: is the force field on this time of day? A shimmering light in the air greets me. I try again to push through it, but like the last time I get a bit of the way in and then it’s like it pushes me back out again. There is no escape.
I slip back to the side of the hall, look around: no one is in sight. Climb up to the balcony, curl up on the bench where Gecko and I sat in darkness the night we were both trying to escape. Where I saw the silver swirls in his skin, so like Astra’s that the rush of memory made me run. Does he remember what really happened last night? How upset he was when he thought I was shot? That he put his arms around me.
Somehow it is important that he remembers.
Late that night I return to the balcony. Just as I’m starting to wonder if Gecko ignored the note I slipped him at dinner, I hear quiet steps, below. He climbs up.
‘Heh. You came.’
‘How could I resist?’ He smiles in the moonlight, and moves with more of the swagger he had that first night, when he thought I was staring at him because he was so gorgeous. I flush. I was, then, but this is now, and there is something more important to deal with.
‘Shut up, sit down, and listen.’
He’s startled. Sits down. ‘OK. What is it? I’m listening.’
‘Right. You remember the wall you can see but I can’t – the force field?’
‘Of course.’
‘It is a false image. Put there by Implants. Right?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘So how do you know you aren’t seeing false images from your Implant all the time?’
He shrugs, uneasy. ‘I don’t know . Though there’d need to be a good reason for doing it on a large scale – the force field being a wall is a simple, static image that serves a definite purpose. I don’t know that they even can do more complex images convincingly.’
‘They can, and they do.’
‘Tell me.’
So, I do. All of it: the lights out, the screaming, people being shot. The instructions I breached. How Gecko thought I was shot in front of him; how Jezzamine could see through the Implant images, and got everyone to overcome them. How only those who could see through the images seemed to remember it as it actually happened the next day. He gets me to describe it over and over again, every detail I can remember, to see if it brings any of it back, but then gets a terribly pained look on his face.
‘Dammit. This is freaky. Who knows when they use our Implants to make us see what they want, when they want? Or even if they don’t, worse: to change what we remember about things that happened, afterwards. The really weird thing is that if I try to remember what really happened last night, it’s like my head hurts, my thoughts slide away from it. I can’t. But I can think about what you told me about it.’ He shakes his head. ‘And what was the point of that whole thing?’
‘I don’t know. I was thinking it was some sort of rationality
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