THE VOICES
2. CONTACT
Most people would have screamed in terror and confusion at this alien sensation, thought Mister Talv. But he wasn’t most people. Mister Talv wasn’t in the least little bit alarmed to feel the soft tickling chill at the nape of his neck, the unsettling feeling of tiny hairs rising, and the sudden clear voice of the other in his head. It was an interesting experience, he thought, and an uncomfortable one for sure. Another intelligence, a separate volition, right there inside one’s own mind. Was this what drove the saints and mystics to their visions, he wondered? Witchcraft, demonic possession? Was this what drove the monsters of the world?
Hello again, Mister Talv, said the voice in his head.
Most people would surely have questioned their own sanity at that, he thought; but Mister Talv had been waiting for some time for this very moment.
The voice in his head was dry and distant, not quite wholly human; like a signal through static, or wind through leaves. There was a coldness to it, a wintry chill blowing across the clear bright warmth of his own thoughts. An emptiness; like Kakumäe in midwinter. There is a kind of detachment there, he thought.
Although the voice in his head was intrinsically alien, quite unlike other voices, and was certainly nothing like his own, Mister Talv was not a man to break cool easily.
“Tere õhtust. You received my message, then,” Mister Talv replied calmly.
There was a brief pause, silence in his head, before the voice replied. Yes. I received your message. And here I am.
Here it was at last, that which he’d been seeking, and it seemed it was speaking to him. But Mister Talv rarely took anything at face value. “So it appears,” he said. “But objectively, how I do know you’re real, and not just a figment of my imagination, a trick of the mind?”
This was a key question Mister Talv had considered, on and off, for some years, and given that his imagination knew no bounds by ordinary standards, he knew it was a question well worth asking.
He thought he detected a trace of amusement in the voice in his head, a modulation of static on a new frequency. It was hard to tell. Indeed, Mister Talv. How do any of us ever know? Are you real, do you think? Do you have true free will?
“Cogito ergo sum,” said Mister Talv. “Et cogitatis tu?” Having put the question out there, he reached for an orange from the bowl on his desk. The orange was certainly real, he was sure of that much, and it smelled delicious. Awaiting the voice’s response, Mister Talv began to peel it, already imagining the fresh tang of its juice on his tongue.
Cogito omnia, whispered the voice in his head, et omnes cogito vera sunt.
This amused Mister Talv. The voice certainly had a pompous turn of phrase. “Indulge me,” he said. “Prove it.”
He peeled a little more from the orange, slowly, anticipating. Pleasure was all in the waiting. It was a vibrant and beautiful thing, this orange, so fresh and juicy and virginal, and it deserved its due ritual before he consumed it fully. Mister Talv noted he was actually salivating at the thought.
The voice in his head spoke again. You’ve always loved oranges, Mister Talv. And you currently want an orange more than anything else. Is that enough proof for you?
“I see.” And he did see, at once.
With some willpower, Mister Talv put down the orange. It was difficult; the urge to eat it was almost overwhelming, now. The sweetness of the flesh, the thought of the citrus in his mouth, drew him. He eyed the orange hungrily. Objectively, he was aware that the voice, the creature speaking in his head, must have influenced him in some way. Subjectively, he couldn’t feel any influence, or see how it had been done: as far as he could tell, he just wanted an orange. Craved it, in fact, to the point where not eating the orange was starting to make him anxious.
Anxiety: another unfamiliar feeling, he noted. He tried to remember the last time he’d been anxious. It had been a while ago. The only time he could think of recently was that weird combination of fretfulness and anger he’d felt when he realised that Takeshi, his Tokyo contractor, had actually lied to him.
He’d dealt with that little bit of insubordination. The punishment fit the crime, he thought. She had stolen from him, so he had stolen from her in return, by removing her precious free will. She’d found that what she thought she’d wanted was overwhelmingly intense when it was actually delivered to her.
Quid pro quo, he thought, and pulled back against the insistent tug of the orange. It was only a fruit, he thought, but it wouldn’t let him go, and its pull was strengthening.
So this was how the creature worked, he thought. It wasn’t so far away from his own methodologies, really. He knew you could never make anybody do what they don’t want to do; but if somewhere there was a desire, a want, a need, however deeply hidden, that was a different matter entirely. It was just a matter of recognising it, clarifying it, reinforcing it, amplifying it, removing any contradictory impulses—helping make wishes and dreams come true.
For example, there was something in Helve—Suuori—that had wanted to subjugate herself, however obliquely. It had excited her deeply. Mister Talv considered himself an expert in such matters, and he knew that such desires sometimes signified something much deeper and unacknowledged. Mister Talv was adept at understanding people’s hidden wants and needs, and equally adept at bringing them to the fore and then realising them.
It was a kind of art, really: Mister Talv subscribed to the Michelangelo view of the raw material of humanity: ‘In every block of marble I see a statue as plain as though it stood before me, shaped and perfect in attitude and action. I have only to hew away the rough walls that imprison the lovely apparition to reveal it to the other eyes as mine see it.’
He stared out of the window, at the calm bright water of Tallinn harbour and the wide grey Baltic beyond. The orange was calling to him now, with an almost sexual intensity. He wondered if this was how his women felt; in thrall to instincts inaccessible to conscious control.
It wasn’t worth the effort. Mister Talv finally gave in; he picked up the fruit, and began to peel again. He felt better at once; fulfilled.
“Point proven,” he said, popping a juicy segment into his mouth. “Now, I would like to talk. I may have a proposition for you.”
It had all begun a few weeks ago, shortly after Mister Talv had noticed Sisyphus was broken. This puzzled him just a little. Ordinarily, in simple works like Sisyphus or Presence in Absence—your basic sex toys, really—any programming, once complete, was completely predictable.
Yes, it still responded to all the requisite commands, and did its slutty dance on command, but there was something missing: that spark of what she had been, the spark that occasionally flared in her dark eyes; the spark that signalled she was still in there, somewhere, which was after all the whole point of the exercise. He doubted this would make much difference to Sergei. The Russian’s taste ran to the obscure.
So he hadn’t given it too much thought, until the email from Takeshi.
Winter. Or should I say, Mister Talv, said the email. Tokyo calling. I bet you didn’t expect to hear from me again. #escaped.
Mister Talv pondered this message. His eyes actually widened to see it, and he noted another rare feeling: surprise. Now this was truly unexpected. In fact, it was surely impossible.
Here were the facts.
Fact one: Takeshi should not be in any position to be sending him emails at all. Takeshi—a.k.a Sisyphus—was surely so completely reprogrammed now that any such former volition should not exist.
Fact two: she was currently bolted firmly into Blodeuwedd’s Perch downstairs in the Secret Garden, awaiting a suitable buyer, probably Sergei. He was doubtful she’d be able to escape the Perch. Nobody did. Few wanted to, in fact, once it got up to a full head of steam.
But set against all that he had to acknowledge the incontrovertible fact three: he had just received an email on his anonymous ‘Winter’ email account, apparently from Takeshi herself via the Tokyo server, and he knew full well that she’d set that server up with military-level security. Nobody would be hacking the Tokyo server, ever, and therefore it had to be Takeshi herself.
And therefore, thought Mister Talv, considering all the facts together, the only logical conclusion was that Takeshi was not still in there, inside the physical body of the toy Sisyphus, and thus Takeshi must be loose, somehow. Certainly it fitted with the blankness he had noticed in her lately. How could this be, he wondered? Very interesting indeed.
The obvious way to find out was to ask, so he did.
WINTER: Takeshi. Is that really you? If so, how? As far as I know you should still be here. And FYI, you’re right now shackled, all four limbs immobilised, enjoying escalating multiple orgasms on the Perch.
The reply was instantaneous.
TAKESHI: Yes, it’s me. Sorry to be missing out on the other, but I’m not there, I’m #here. Send me some pics if you want, though.
Mister Talv was amused by that. He wondered where ‘here’ might be, given her physical body was currently writhing in mindless pleasure downstairs, but after a moment’s thought the answer was obvious to him. Logic dictated that there was only one place Takeshi could be, he thought, and knowing her it was fitting.
WINTER: The mirror. So the internet comes to life, now, does it? He replied. Like all those popcorn films and pulp sci-fi stories? #cliché!
The reply took a moment to arrive.
TAKESHI: LMAO. That is, if I could, I would. No, it doesn’t. It’s just me and a few others, plus a shitload of data and content and stuff. Anyway, perspectives change. You did me a favour #enlightenment.
WINTER: How do I know you are real? It was always worth double checking these things.
All the lights suddenly went out in Mister Talv’s apartment. He sighed, acknowledging the demonstration, and typed: Understood, #neuromancer. Do put the lights back on, though.
The lights in his apartment came on again. He saw a bulb had popped in his antique Ohlen lamp and made a mental note to get Suuori or one of the others to sort it out.
WINTER: Thank you. So why get in touch?
TAKESHI: Good manners. At first I was angry. But being #here changes your perspective. I see the bigger picture. #inversion.
A long pause, several seconds, during which Mister Talv considered his options for dealing with young Helena, who was becoming troublesome. He had a few ideas how to fix that, on the floor below the hall of mirrors.
TAKESHI: I need to thank you; although you may not expect it. Politeness is a virtue and a duty. It is good manners. However obliquely, you have facilitated fulfilment #unintendedconsequences.
Mister Talv considered this. So yes, it was entirely possible that Takeshi’s mimetic obsessions would lead her to self-actualisation out there, somewhere in the cloudy virtual mirror. An unintended consequence, for sure—but why not?
What was much more interesting for the very pragmatic Mister Talv was the question he hadn’t asked yet.
WINTER: How exactly did you get there, to #themirror?
TAKESHI: I had help.
Takeshi explained the whole thing, and he didn’t interrupt once.