THE VOICES
BY INTERSTITIAL
Synopsis: The talented Mister Talv is busy with his exciting new project, Helena, when he receives an interesting and unexpected message. He discovers the existence of a strange disembodied intelligence—a sentient meme—at large in the world. Intrigued, he resolves to track the mysterious creature down. But be careful what you wish for, Mister Talv…
Note: I decided to post this one in bite sized chunks rather than all in one go. Although not entirely necessary, it may be helpful to have read a couple of the other Mister Talv tales—The Mirror, Sisyphus, Aftermarket, Winter Party, Means of Persuasion, etc.—as there are some recurring characters and themes here which are partly, but not wholly, explained. Or don’t bother with that, just jump right in.
THE VOICES
1. LETTER OF INTRODUCTION
TALLINN — NOVEMBER 21
I am told it is customary social protocol to begin by hoping you are all well.
Is it, indeed! A curious paradox of the human condition. Why should one pretend empathy where there is none? Why should one care about the welfare of strangers, who may or may not even exist? And even if you were to say to me ‘yes, I am well, thank you, Mister Talv’, how do I know what you are really feeling?
The whole area’s a minefield, and best avoided.
Pleasantries over; now to the facts. Recently, I’ve begun relating some of the tales of my adventures to a self-styled ‘author’ of sorts. It seems these accounts, however factually incorrect and badly written they may be, have acquired something of a following. Personally I have never read any of them; I am far too busy for hagiography, and who needs to read about life when you have lived it?
(I told the author not to write in the first person, by the way, as he or she is most definitely not me, and should not pretend to be. Also, I think he or she has probably made some of this up.)
The strange events recounted here occurred in Tallinn, in the Old Country, a little while after that grubby little episode involving Takeshi, my Tokyo cyberspace contractor. Or, I should say, ‘ex-contractor’, given she was last seen thoroughly reprogrammed as the quite marvellously versatile voice-controlled sex object Sisyphus. An extremely effective piece of work, if I may say so, and currently available for purchase or hire.
It’s snowing here, as I write, and there is ice on the harbour. Later we may see the aurora, if the skies clear.
This time of year reminds me of Helve, who I met a few years back on the cold empty beach at Kakumäe. She was smitten at once—this is not unusual, by the way. Afterwards, on what normal people might call a whim, and I would call inevitable, Helve returned to Tallinn with me.
Lying in bed later, stunned by a new and thrilling experience, she told me her fantasies: what would it like to be someone’s slave, compliant, uncomplicated, with a master who used her in an equally uncomplicated way? Maybe I can be your slave, she said, and I can call you Mister Talv. A common enough fantasy, I believe, amongst women. Yes, a sexy little game, she said, giggling beside me. Is it? I asked, and I told the lovely Helve that I could make it real very easily. She looked at me, aroused. Would you, Mister Talv? For fun, then, for the weekend? Too short a time, I said: why not for the next year, or just ongoing? She flushed and presented as angry. She accused me of not taking her seriously. In fact I was taking her precisely seriously, and you may meet her later. Her name is Suuori now, and she is very happy, I think, although how can one ever be sure?
On the subject of names, I am told a degree of redaction may be necessary. For example, the self-styled ‘author’ does not name _________, let alone ________, whose catastrophic foray into the border country of _______ led to so much unpleasantness. As for the sexual adventures of ‘Helve’ or ‘Helena’, do not look for them. First of all, you won’t find them; secondly, I am told I need to say they (or any other characters) bear no resemblance to any person living or dead. At least, not any more.
If you ask me, the so-called ‘author’ seems a little paranoid about all this, but there you have it. He or she even insists on censoring certain entirely natural events of human physicality on the grounds that they ‘are not suitable for consumption by anybody at all, ever’.
So you may need to read between the lines at times. But we are all men and women of the world, are we not?