Tony Ballantyne - Recursion

The bathroom offered cool antiseptic white tiles and a gentle smell of mint and tea tree oil. He felt like laying his head against the wall to take away the pain. The shower was already running, gentle gusts of scented steam puffing into the room. His wash bag had been unpacked and laid out by the sink, and the reason for the pain in his head now became obvious. A clear plastic strip sat between his toothpaste and his razor, four pills nestling in their slots. Had it been a month already? Obviously yes. They had warned him at the start that he would get headaches when the dose was running low.

“A warning signal,” the doctor had said. She had worn a dark business suit, dark tights, and sensible dark shoes, making the translucent green surgeon’s gloves on her hands seem vaguely obscene. She had perched on the edge of her desk and run her fingers across Constantine’s forehead. He had felt the light touch of latex and smelled its faint aroma, mixed with the peppermint on the doctor’s breath.

“The first day you are overdue you will wake up with a headache. The next day it will be stomach cramps. The third day, headache and stomach cramps.”

“Are those symptoms of MTPH withdrawal?” asked Constantine.

“For the third time, this isn’t MTPH. MTPH would not allow four independent personalities to develop in your mind. Do you have any idea what went into developing this compound?”

She gazed into the distance as she spoke, her fingers still softly kneading Constantine’s scalp.

“Anyway, MTPH isn’t physically addictive. Neither is this. We added the headaches ourselves as a warning.”

“Couldn’t you have put in something a little more pleasant?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. A little buzz.”

The doctor gave him an unpleasant smile. “I think it says a lot about us that we never even thought about that. We instinctively went for the pain. Doesn’t that make you wonder about our worldview?”

“Mmm.”

“Mmm indeed. Just be grateful we went for an oral delivery system.”

The memory faded like a Cheshire cat: with a picture of that unpleasant smile on the doctor’s face widening to show her teeth. He always remembered her like that.

Constantine picked up the plastic strip and popped the first pill. Four pills, four personalities.

He placed the first pill, the red one, in his mouth and swallowed it. He had been told that any apparent effect was purely imagined, but he was prepared to swear that as the pill went down the world took on a sharper and more defined focus.

“Speak to me,” he muttered.

– What do you want me to say? Have you noticed that they have put two different sorts of leaves in the teapot? They must have had to open a new package while making it.

“You’re fine, anyway,” Constantine muttered.

The pills were color-coded: red, white, blue and grey. Red for the observational personality, white for the mathematical.

“Square root of eight thousand and thirty-two?” he murmured.

– Eighty-nine point six two, correct to two decimal places.

The blue pills were his favorite. The doctor had claimed they gave taste and integrity, artistic flair. She was right, but only after a fashion. The blue personality had a distinctly different outlook from Constantine himself, something he found invariably interesting, and occasionally useful.

“Speak to me, Blue.”

– Jasmine tea followed by waffles and honey? I don’t think so. It’ll all be cold by the time you get out there, anyway.

Last came the grey pill.

“Hello, Grey,” he said. There was no reply. There never was. Not for the first time, he wondered about the grey personality, lurking unseen and unheard somewhere in his mind.

Constantine filled a plastic cup with water and took a sip. His headache was still there. He cursed the doctor, as he did this same time every month. He had done his bit, hadn’t he? Why did he have to wait for another hour or so before the pain ebbed away?

He stepped into the shower and began to soap himself.

“What day is it?”

– Thursday, said Red.-This is it, Constantine. We’re nearly there. You are visiting a building site today, a few hundred clicks from Stonebreak. The quorum may well be formed there.

“Mmph. About time.” Constantine rubbed shampoo into his hair.

– This could be the first of the last three meetings.

Constantine said nothing. Finally to be set free, to be released back into the real world. It was almost too much to hope for. He spoke carefully. “Will they know who I am?”

– Some will, some won’t. It’s the ones who aren’t aware of your mission who should provide us with the best picture of the world at the moment. I’d advise that you keep quiet about who you are. To begin with, at least.

Constantine said nothing in reply. That was what he had planned to do anyway.

He changed the subject. “How do you feel about what Mary was saying last night? Do you think that Stonebreak will collapse?”

– It’s probable, said White.-VNMs weren’t as efficient at reproduction when this place was built. The likelihood of a design flaw showing itself increases the more that the machines reproduce.

– Frightening, isn’t it? said Red.-All that effort goes to waste because one machine was faulty at the start. It’s like a whole building collapsing because of six sick bricks.

– Let’s just hope we’re not here when this place finally falls apart, interrupted Blue.

“Mmm.” Constantine rinsed soap from his hair. Who else had three, maybe four personalities looking over their shoulder at everything they did? It was no wonder he was cracking up.

The summons to the meeting came just after he had finished breakfast: a discreet message flashing up on his console. Constantine made his way up to the roof where a flier awaited.

The hotel was a low building, set near the edge of the second level of Stonebreak. A fresh breeze wafted over him, dissolving his headache. He walked toward the edge of the roof to look out over the green patchwork of the first level.

“Mr D’Roza, we are in a hurry.” The pilot wore a stern expression. She was busily pinning her long dark hair up in a bun.

Constantine waved dismissively. “Just a moment. I need some air.”

She glared at him. “Two minutes,” she said tightly.

“When I’m ready.”

The pilot scowled at his retreating back and muttered something in the direction of the cockpit. Constantine ignored her and made his way right to the edge.

The morning sun was rising behind him. A building somewhere behind cast a shadow across the roof. Constantine took several deep breaths and stretched his arms. It was a long drop to the first level. He thought again about Mary and their ride up the inside of the wall to the third level last night. Where was she now, he wondered?

– Probably lying dead in a gutter somewhere, said Blue.

“Don’t. I’m sure that won’t be the case.”

Constantine took another deep breath and headed back to the flier and its impatient pilot. He stepped into the shadow cast by the tall building and looked up at it. It was such a delicate construction that it seemed to pierce the very clouds. An incredible piece of engineering: rose-colored glass set in an intricately fashioned silver metal frame; it seemed too fragile to support its own weight. Constantine felt his stomach flutter. The building was floating on the very air. Beneath the base of the tower there was nothing. Only empty air upon the empty air that sat upon the second layer of Stonebreak. Constantine bit his lip and turned away from the illusion. If he couldn’t see it, he couldn’t be going mad. He clung to the hope. It was all he had.

The tiny green oasis of life that was Stonebreak quickly vanished from view as they flew out over the Nullarbor plain. Constantine gazed out of the blue-tinted window of the tiny flier at the flat scrubland that scrolled endlessly past. The pilot seemed intent on paying him back for the delay on the roof of the hotel; she dipped and weaved way too close to the ground, claiming that she needed to avoid detection whenever Constantine queried the need for such violent maneuvering.