Communications Breakdown, page 21
The question, coming out of the blue as it did, took him aback.
“What? No!”
“You hate free speech, don’t you?”
“No, I love free speech!”
“You think only certain citizens should have rights, don’t you?”
“Are you allowed to just keep accusing me of things?”
“Answer the question.”
“No.”
Judge Ruiz glared at him over her glasses. “You can’t refuse to answer the question.”
“No, I meant the other thing.”
“No point denying it,” said the prosecutor. “We have the evidence. Your media consumption pattern shows that you frequently change channels to avoid advertising. Your credit history and bank statements show that you consistently attempt to spend less than you earn, no matter how that affects the rights of others.”
“No, but—”
“No further questions! Your witness!”
Hans shot an imploring glance at Mr. Dobbs. When was the man going to do anything?
Mr. Dobbs stood up. About damn time too. Mr. Dobbs rose; no doubt he’d seen his opportunity and was ready with his strategy.
Judge Ruiz raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, Mr. Dobbs?”
Mr. Dobbs muttered something inaudible.
“What did you say?”
“Clemency.”
“What?”
Mr. Dobbs’s brow furled; he appeared to ponder the question. Finally, he came to a decision. “Clemency,” he said again, more firmly this time.
“What?”
“Appeal for clemency, Your Honor.”
“Do you have questions for the witness?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“Then sit down, Mr. Dobbs.”
And that was when Hans knew he was doomed.
The rest of the trial proceeded in much the same pattern, with the prosecutor saying a lot and Mr. Dobbs saying very little. Finally, three days after they had begun, they were on to closing remarks.
“The case is clear. Before you stands a depraved individual, whose history paints the picture of a true malevolent actor, a power-drunk individual who enjoyed choosing which companies deserved life and which did not, like a spiteful god. And like so many megalomaniacs given great power, he chose to extend it beyond the boundaries of his office. But even if you believe he was merely mistaken, the law is clear. Money is not just free speech, after all. Auricle-Delphi’s sole reason for existence—indeed, as we have heard, their very lifeline—is the rental and eventual sale of the exact intellectual property the accused is attempting to withhold from them. By refusing to pay for and then return this vital lifeline, their umbilical cord, he infringed on not just their liberty but also the most basic right of any citizen—the right to life. And he did so while all the while in possession of Auricle-Delphi’s intellectual property. The very same intellectual property that is a primary driver of their revenue, so he once again attempted to endanger the company. The crimes are manifold. The verdict is simple. Guilty.”
It went on in that vein for a while. The prosecutor was convinced. Any attempt by Auricle-Delphi to move on would be rendered incomplete without the intellectual property that now resided in Hans’s chest. The court needed to ensure its return, today. Mr. Dobbs rose for closing remarks and muttered something about hearts being important to humans. Justice Ruiz then told everyone to shut up and ordered the jury to confer and let her know.
Mr. Dobbs began to mutter apologies to Hans.
Several hours later, now wearing a pair of heavy blue-rimmed glasses and an even more burdensome frown than usual, the judge laid down the verdict, guilty on all counts, and her judgement—that all citizens had an equal right to life. Thus, by way of compromise, Hans had three months to find a heart—provided he pledged to maintain this one as per company standard and returned it at the end of that time.
The crowd dispersed, confused, still muttering, not sure if Auricle-Delphi wanted them to celebrate or not. Mr. Dobbs shook Hans by the hand, congratulated him on his victory and promised to send him the bill by evening. Hans, weak-kneed with relief at a verdict he’d feared would go far worse for him, bought a bottle of last year’s wine and took it home to celebrate. His liver wasn’t due for another three years, after all.
III. PURSUIT
The next day, Hans woke up with his alarm screaming, a throbbing head and an empty bottle of wine beside him. He was going to be late.
“Fuck,” he said.
He sat up straight, and regretted it immediately.
“Fuck,” he repeated.
Swiftly he dressed, and then got into the car. He was coming into sight of the Tomb when the engine began to sputter, and then gave out entirely.
In that moment, Hans realized he genuinely hated cars. Then, realizing that hatred wasn’t going to get him there fast enough, he did the only possible thing—he began to run.
He’d only just began to sprint when he heard the sirens and saw the police cruiser bearing down on him, the rear window rolled down, and there he was, balding head, smile, the works. Mr. Sharma held up what appeared to be a copy of the product manual.
“A quick word, sir?” he said, opening the door, simultaneously sliding over to make room.
Hans hesitated.
“Thief of Hearts!” shouted someone.
Hans whirled around and saw the Sandwich Man on the other side of the road, pointing at him and cackling.
“Sir?” said Mr. Sharma.
Hans, recognizing the inevitability of the situation, got into the car.
“Make it quick, please. I’m late for work.”
“No doubt you’ve read the product care manual you were sent by now, so you’ll know that you need minimize all forms of wear and tear on the unit so it can be refurbished for a paying customer upon return. This means that your heart rate should not exceed the optimum range of sixty to eighty beats per second.”
“Yes, yes. Can we do this later? I’m running late.”
“I’m afraid you cannot run at all; it would elevate your heart rate beyond the desired value. If perambulating, you need to ensure your speed does not exceed a standard walking pace of four kilometers per hour.”
“Exercise is good for the heart!”
“Not quite, sir. This heart is synthetic and so does not benefit from an increase in heart rate. On the contrary, that would shorten its life span.”
“You’re saying I can’t run again?”
“Merely for as long as you are in possession of company property.”
“It’s mine for three months.”
“I’m afraid not, sir. Legally speaking, you are an intellectual property squatter.”
Hans blinked, and would no doubt have followed up with words, except Mr. Sharma, with the smooth efficiency of one practiced in timely interruption, got there first.
“If I may ask, where are you running to?”
“Work.”
Mr. Sharma frowned. “Exactly how much work, sir?”
“Who knows? Too much. At least another job.”
At this Mr. Sharma stared at him, pursing his lips.
“Oh no,” he said. “We can’t have that.”
“Excuse me?”
“Statistically, people who work two or more jobs have almost a fourfold risk of increased stress.”
“So you’re saying I can’t work?”
Mr. Sharma scratched his head. “I don’t wish to be unreasonable,” he said. “You may hold one job.”
“And how am I supposed to afford another heart while paying you?”
“I cannot tell you that, sir. Just remember, you may also not indulge in strenuous exercise, sexual activity, or computer games. All of these elevate the resting heart rate.”
He leaned forward and whispered to the officer driving the car. He then turned to Hans and nodded, even as the car began to move.
“Here, what’s happening?” said Hans, startled.
“The excitement is clearly affecting your heart rate, sir. We are taking you back home. Try to leave on time tomorrow to minimize stress.”
As the days passed, Hans discovered that an extraordinary number of activities he’d always taken as leisurely were apparently terrible for heart rate, including getting upset about how many leisurely activities were terrible for his heart rate. Watching the news. Eating meat. Drinking alcohol. Feeling happy. Feeling unhappy.
Work hardly provided any respite. After the trial, everything had changed. Everyone. It had never been the friendliest place, but at least he’d enjoyed the odd chat in the hallways. Now he’d barely get a nod back; nobody seemed to want to have much to do with an accused bigot. His attempts to secretly apply for a second job got nowhere either; no company seemed to want an accused hater. Every day the calendar ticked away, a timer counting down to his doom.
On the other hand, the Sandwich Man seemed to have taken a real shine to him. He came around a lot more frequently, beaming at Hans, shouting “Thief of Hearts!” at him. Every so often, Hans would yell something back. Once in a while they’d nod at each other.
Then of course, there was Mr. Sharma.
One night, Hans ordered the media wall at home to broadcast the World Cup. But no sooner had he found the channel than there was an insistent knocking on his front door, and he opened it to discover the now-dreaded figure, pointing at the hateful manual.
“Sports will excite you, sir. You have to change the channel immediately. We have obtained a court order to expunge your media feed of any potentially hazardous content, including news and current affairs. You will, however, be permitted to view static at any time you so choose.”
“Is this a joke?”
“Not at all, sir. Jokes might elevate your heartrate. A calm stability at all times is what we are aiming for here.”
After a few more minutes of grumbling and arguing, Hans sat on the sofa watching static. It wasn’t very entertaining.
It was soon after this that Hans began to lose track of days. Time became another one of those things that inched along and then vanished completely. He started having daydreams, wild, disturbing ones, in which it was him following Mr. Sharma home, him tormenting the man at all hours, even attacking him. Foolishness. There was no way he could actually sneak up on a guy who could track his every moment. Unless . . .
That night he slipped out of his house. It was a chill, misty night, the smog swirling round in the breeze like a poisonous ghost. The air smelled like ash and burnt rubber, just like always. He didn’t exactly know where he was going, just that he was heading towards the Commercial District. It was insane; he didn’t even know where he’d find the guy or if he stayed in the area at night, but it felt like doing something, even if it also felt like doing the wrong thing.
He was almost all the way there when it happened: he sensed rather than saw the flash of blue to his left, and then the shout came.
“Freeze! Police!”
The policeman approached, a fresh-faced chap holding his service weapon. He couldn’t have been more than twenty.
Scowling, Hans obeyed.
“Don’t move, just—”
“Freeze! Hands on the ground, now! Now! Both of you!”
They both whirled around, to another man in a blue-grey uniform and beret, this one a middle-aged figure with a large beer belly, holding a service weapon.
“Here, what’s this?” said the young cop. “City Police! Identify yourself!”
“City Police Private Limited!”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“What do you think it means? Don’t you know the law? Of course you don’t! Or you’d have a job in a real police service company.”
“Listen, old man, I’m in the middle of an arrest. Get out of my way!”
“Your way? I’m arresting you both!”
“Oh, yeah? On what charge?”
“On what charge are you arresting this man?”
The young policeman beamed proudly. “Illegal transportation of private property.”
“Ha! Good luck getting a judge to give you a conviction on that. Stupid charge anyway. Typical amateur stuff one expects from City Police.”
“Oh yeah? Then what did you plan to charge him with, genius? Do educate us!”
“Smuggling restricted technology. Reckless endangerment for the risk his actions might have caused to Auricle-Delphi Health Services. Both with mandatory minimum sentences, unlike your stupid charge.”
“Hey, now that is a good one,” said City Police admiringly. “But what about—”
“Freeze! Nobody move!”
A young woman stood there, dressed in a blue-black uniform and beret, pointing a service weapon at them.
“Oh, who the fuck is it now?” spat the young male cop.
The young woman cop looked coldly at them. “City Private Police Service. You’re all under arrest.”
Five minutes later, the three of them were still arguing. Hans took a deep breath, eyeing the open highway to his left. Glancing at the cops, who were still at it, he inched to the left, then took a step, until he was jogging and then flat-out running, running as fast as he could, feeling the burning in his muscles, refusing to heed it. Still he forced himself forward, the sweat running down his temple, stinging at his eye, both eyes, blurring his vision. Now he was screaming as he ran, a full-throated screech, and still he forced himself forward, until his legs didn’t work anymore and he was lying there on his back, chest heaving. Not a sound. No sirens. Nothing. He took a deep, painful breath and sat up. He was across the road from the Registrar.
“Having fun?”
He turned, and there he was, the Sandwich Man, just standing there, like he’d been waiting for him.
“I was hoping to find you.”
“Were you now?”
“You got a name?”
“You got a reason for me to tell you?”
“That’s a long name.”
The man snorted. “Touché. Lionel. Lionel Gage. Yours?”
“Hans. Wanna make some money, Lionel?”
“No.”
Hans frowned. “Lionel Gage. I know that name.”
The man pointed. “Used to be senior legal liaison there.”
“At the Registrar?”
“Yep. Good gig.”
“They retired you?”
“They retire everyone eventually.”
Hans stood up, his legs still on fire. “How come you still hang out here?”
“What else is there to do?”
“But the air!”
Lionel grinned, tapping his chest. “Doesn’t bother me. I got the good stuff. The really good stuff, that they don’t give you lot. I’ll be fine.”
Hans sat down again. Lionel sat down opposite him.
“You live here?”
“Nearby. You?”
Back and forth they went, till Hans noticed the smog beginning to take on an orange tinge behind the Registrar building. The sun was rising.
“Well, at least I’ll be early.”
There was no response. Hans shrugged and began the walk across to the Registrar building.
After this, Hans began taking risks, all sorts of risks that he’d never have taken before. He began visiting Lionel, short visits at first, a few seconds, maybe a minute, and then scampering away out of range before Mr. Sharma could get there with his manual. He took public transport on these visits, partly because it was easier to get on and off of, but also because he hadn’t seen his car since the day after the trial. He went home less and less, until he no longer went back at all, sleeping in various places around the Commercial District. Sharma and his goons couldn’t give him more rules to follow if they couldn’t find him. Soon he became so proficient at this sort of hide and seek that he could spend almost twenty minutes at a time with Lionel before Mr. Sharma and the entourage arrived.
“Ever considered running?” said Lionel one day.
“What if I kill Sharma instead?” said Hans.
“What’s the point?”
“I could kill him. I want to kill him.”
“Why?”
“Because he ruined my life?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s the company that’s after you, not Sharma.”
“So how do you kill a company?”
“You can’t.”
“Rot. They die all the time. Haven’t you seen the Tomb?”
“Yes, killed by other companies.”
“So you wouldn’t? Kill a company.”
“Wouldn’t I! It’d be a trip. But we both know that isn’t happening.”
“No, probably not,” said Hans. He paused. “What if I kill myself instead?” Then he giggled; the thought seemed hilarious for some reason.
“You need sleep. You’re losing your mind.”
“What if I kill—” he stopped suddenly.
“Hans . . .”
“Killed by other companies . . .”
“Are you broken?”
“Be quiet,” said Hans. “I’m thinking.”
There was a long silence. And then Hans sat up, grabbing Lionel’s arm so hard, the older man cried out.
“Got any money, Lionel?”
“You’ve gone from offering me money to wanting it?”
“Yes or no?”
“Maybe?”
“Get it. Meet me here tomorrow. No, two days from now. Actually, make it three.”
“How much?”
“Doesn’t matter. Just get some.”
Hans jumped to his feet. “I have to go to the office.”
“What’s up with you?”
He laughed. “Ever wanted to be an investor, Lionel?”
“Not really.”
“Well, don’t worry about it.”
“And?”
“And then we’re going to kill a company.”
IV. HAPPINESS
This time, Judge Ruiz was wearing blue glasses. The rest of the court was different too. The energy, for one. It felt a lot less “what’s the verdict” and a lot more “what the hell?!”
Having Lionel with him felt a lot different too. Unlike his last attorney, the man couldn’t wait to get started. “Most fun I’ve had in years,” he kept saying.
The courtroom was filled again with Auricle-Delphi contractees, but even so, the private prosecutor seemed a lot less animated than last time.
