Geoff Ryman - Child Garden

‘Did you know she stole from her family?’ the Minister asked.

‘No,’ lied Milena, sounding shocked.

‘Whatever we do must reflect credit on the immaterialist programme, and on Consensus politics. Your friend has had a capitalist upbringing. She will suffer from grave distortions of personality.’

Milena began to get angry. The Minister kept on talking.

‘It is not only that we will have to keep her shaved, or sitting down so she looks smaller.’ The Minister was smiling, confident that he was talking to Milena on her own level. ‘We have no guarantee that Ms Patel’s behaviour will be acceptable. What we must avoid is making any link in people’s minds between talent and childish behaviour.’

‘I agree of course,’ said Milena. ‘But her upbringing has not been capitalist. It is inaccurate to call the GEs capitalists. Capitalists take the surplus value created by other people’s labour. The GEs do all the work themselves. They may amass wealth and live outside the Consensus, but their Family is in fact a classic example of the Estate system as described by Chao Li Song.’

Oh. The Zookeeper’s face was as blank as a nail hit on the head.

‘That is why their economic activity is able to mesh with ours,’ said Milena. ‘Are GEs immune to the viruses?’

‘Yes… unless.’ The Minister made a vague gesture.

So, thought Milena. There is an unless. They can cure Polar Bears, they just choose not to. Of course they can cure them, lower their body temperature, suppress the immune system…

‘She is so talented. There must be some way,’ said Milena.

‘We will give it thought,’ he promised.

‘If she joined the Consensus, was considered human, she could use the practice rooms, take instruction…’

‘Of course,’ he said.

Come on, come on, follow it through. Milena kept her hands still.

He looked wary. ‘Of course, if she joined the Consensus…’ he mused. ‘We could correct for all of that. We could ensure that there would be no bad behaviour. And it would be a shame… it would not be just… if such talent were allowed to wither. All right. We will consider that aspect.’ He leaned back. The interview was over.

No, thought Milena.

‘It has to be done today,’ said Milena. She began to feel fear. She began to be unsteady. It was like waking up. The Minister’s eyes were sombre.

‘Please,’ said Milena, suddenly shorn of her bigger self. ‘She’s hungry. She’s not Rhodopsin, she can’t just go out into the sun. We’ve got no money. If she joins the Consensus, she can have a position here, she can eat!’ Milena found that she had gone tremulous. ‘Otherwise she will leave. Please. Can you arrange it for today?’

The Minister seemed to have a question rise in his mind. He was looking at Milena now, not considering what she said. He was considering her.

‘I will see if it can be done,’ he said, no longer smiling. Milena began to quake. It was a rattling in the bottom of her belly. ‘But what you must do is check with your friend and prepare her. We must make sure that this is acceptable to her.’

I’ve won, thought Milena. I’ve won. She stood up to go. She did not want to speak. She did not trust herself. She nodded yes to whatever he said.

‘Can you come back in an hour?’

Yes, yes. He shook her hand. She walked out of the rooms into the corridors, and began to run. The shaking continued. Her knees wobbled, her hands flapped. There was a sense of fear, of being in a bigger world. She was not who she had thought she was. I may not be a good actress, she thought, but I am good at this. I can arrange things. She had learned in the cushioned silence that every artist is perforce a politician.

The Public Reading Rooms — the rooms in which the public were Read — were underground in bunkers. The bunkers were under what had once been the Department of the Environment. The Department of the Environment had been torn down to plant a forest.

The forest was the Consensus. The Consensus was a garden of purple, fleshy trees that reached up and fed on sunlight. The mind of the Consensus was below. A buttressing marble wall ran around the garden. In the wall, there was an old stone plaque that had been preserved. ‘This is Marsham Street,’ the plaque said, ‘1688.’

Underneath there were corridors of brick. They wound their way through fleshy roots and a gathering of synapses called the Crown. Below, like tubers, there grew mindflesh, on which memories were imprinted, memories and the patterns of response. They were models made of children, Read at ten years of age.

This was the Consensus for the Pit, the central heart of London. In the corridors of brick, painted white, there were air vents and electric lights. Milena stared in wonder at the glowing bulbs and their golden, dazzling filaments. She had always loved light.

The rooms were full of classrooms of children, about to be Read. Their Nurses led them in song, playing on guitars or hand pianos. The children wore their best clothes. The little girls wore printed saris translucent with colour. The boys wore jewellery through their nostrils. They danced in a line, waving their hands like the branches of trees. The lucky ones had parents, who sat on benches and watched with quiet pride.

People in white uniforms danced with them. A huge woman in white saw Rolfa and beamed and worked her way, still dancing, towards them.

‘You’re Rolfa. I’m Root,’ she said. ‘You’re our special case. You’re going to have special treatment from us, I promise you that.’ She led Rolfa to one side. ‘Just a few questions to ask first,’ said Root.

Health. Medical record. Any intoxicating substances lately?

There was a cheer from a class of children. They were praising their own Estate school. Root turned and pressed her hands together. ‘Oh, the little darlings, oh the little flowers. I tell you, this is the happiest place. They come here dancing. They leave here dancing too.’ Root’s grin was wide.

‘Now, love, you have any experiences with the paranormal?’

Instantly, Rolfa’s face looked withdrawn.

‘Have you ever levitated, or had an out-of-body experience? Any poltergeists in your home? Anything of that sort?’

Rolfa shook her head and gave a shy smile. Who me?

‘It’s very important. You’re sure? OK, then, we go in.’

This woman is too used to talking to Tykes, thought Milena. Then Root turned to her. The smile was like a beam of light. ‘You, too, love. You’ve never seen this, and we want you to see how happy it is.’

Milena felt ice in her chest. They know, she thought. They know that they’ve never Read me. It’s been deliberate. They’ve decided not to.

Quiet, she thought, and followed Root.

I thought I was free, Milena thought. Instead, I was being tolerated. Or used. They wouldn’t leave me alone, if there was no reason for it.

Of course they must know they haven’t Read me.

Another mystery, lost in Milena’s history.

Root was holding open a door, and waving to her, come in, come in. Milena followed, in anger, and in fear.

They went down a corridor to a sealed hatch, that hissed when it was opened. Beyond it was a loose and flabby concertina corridor, made of soft resin. It shifted underfoot, floating in flesh. It was wet and smelled of disinfectant and was lit by an ultraviolet light.

‘Got to avoid disease,’ explained Root.

They stepped into a room made of flesh.

The walls were slightly phosphorescent, and they seemed to pull back as they entered.

‘Hello, Baby,’ said Root. ‘Time to go for a walk.’

She’s Terminal, realised Milena. She talks to the Consensus, with her mind. It can talk to her. She can see for it, hear for it. This is the Consensus, here.