could see it receding above them and begin to make out its shape.
Earlier, back in her room, Judy had unrolled a bolt of black-and-white chequered kimono silk and gathered it loosely around her shoulders, like a shawl. “This is what it looks like,” she had explained. “Imagine that the black squares are the sections of the Shawl. New sections are formed and added around the neck; the older sections are allowed to drop a little closer to Earth…”
Helen was looking up into the heavens, following the receding pattern of sections, unable to make out the overall shape of the Shawl. It was just too big.
But it was beautiful. The spun-glass bauble of the shuttle was filled with rose and gold from the bright sun. Helen jumped from her seat and, arms outstretched to catch the warmth, seemed to hang suspended in a golden halo, a vision of life, her hair plaited with flowers, rich light blooming on her white shift.
“I’m glad we took the shuttle!” she sang out. “We would have missed all this if we just stepped straight down to Earth.”
Judy smiled back. Emotional extremes were normal after Helen’s experience. Her moods would continue to swing back and forth for the next few weeks, as Judy sought to center her.
“To think I might have died without seeing this!” Helen said.
Judy said nothing. The atomic Helen had died fourteen years ago. Judy thought it significant that Helen hadn’t thought to ask about her “original” self’s death yet. She was still thinking in atomic ways. Example: insisting on catching a shuttle when a door could have been opened directly to Earth.
An orange glow was building around the transparent skin of the shuttle as they plunged down towards the narrow channel of water lying between England and France. There were plenty of leisure craft floating there; someone would take them on to the coastal town where Judy’s next client unwittingly slept.
“This place looks grim.” Helen gazed down the narrow street. A trail of damp, sandy footprints led back along the rubbery road to the grass-covered dunes. Behind them, the yellow catamaran that had brought them ashore now skimmed its way southwards, borne by the cold morning wind that cut through Helen’s shift’s warm-field, making her shiver.
“I thought you said there hasn’t been any poverty since the Transition,” Helen said through chattering teeth. She hugged her arms to her chest as she gazed at the bleak scene all around them.
“It depends on how you define poverty,” said Judy calmly. “No one goes hungry, but there are still people with fewer possessions than others.”
Judy’s white face turned to scan the street. Helen noticed that her black hair was knotted in a different style this morning. There were other subtle variations to her kimono, too. The sleeves were shorter, the obi sash not as wide. Nonetheless, she still had the same striking appearance: black lips and nails, white face and hands. Put next to Helen in her simple white shift and tanned skin, the contrast could not be more marked. The virgin and the nymph. It was no wonder that shadows moved in the windows of the apartment block, watching them.
“You’d think that they would have set a VNM loose on this place,” Helen murmured dismissively. “Converted these dumps into something more modern.”
“Different places, different times, different perspectives,” replied Judy. “Here they don’t pay as much attention to the exterior appearance. This street isn’t seen as shabby; it is valued for the fact that it
“But none of this is real,” said Helen. “Why not let everyone have what they want in this processing space?”
“Because that would make us less human,” said Judy. “That’s a basic tenet of the EA.”
“That sounds a bit-”
“Listen, that’s just the way it is. Remember, my ‘sister’-the atomic Judy-doesn’t inhabit the digital world. She has a different perspective. She believes in the stories of the Watcher and Eva Rye far more than I do. Hah! Eva Rye. The woman whom the Watcher studied in order to learn what it means to be human. I don’t think so. Eva is a metaphor. A training technique they use on us when we start with Social Care. The clue is in the name. Eva. EA. En-Vironment Agency? Get it? Now, come on. This way.”
She led Helen up a cracked concrete path to a narrow doorway. The dimly lit hallway beyond was elegantly plain. A set of stone steps led up to the first floor. Helen followed Judy up the stairs and along a corridor, where Judy gave a loud knock on a wooden door near the end.
“No one home,” Helen said.
“He’ll be asleep,” said Judy. “The apartment’s Turing machine will be waking him up as we speak, telling him there is a member of Social Care at the door. He’ll take a few minutes to get washed and dressed. Maybe have a shave. Everyone likes to make a good impression with Social Care.”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Helen said, noting Judy’s self-satisfied smile.
“I take pride in my work,” Judy said, “as do all members of Social Care.”
“But you like the power it gives you, don’t you?”
Judy turned her face to Helen’s, impassive black eyes lost in a white face locking on to hers.
“What makes you say that, Helen?”
“The way you’re behaving.”
“I believe I am acting in the appropriate manner for a member of Social Care.”
“I’m sure you do.”
Judy said nothing. There was something unsettling about her black-and-white figure, standing utterly motionless in the silent corridor. Something deliberately unsettling.
“It’s not that I blame you,” Helen said crisply. “I might feel the same if I lived like you do: experiencing the real world, not following the safe, comfortable lives of the majority.”
Judy measured a silence before answering. “Spare me the emotional tourism, Helen. People are whatever they choose to make themselves. Social Care is just here to point them in the right directions.”
Helen was taken completely by surprise at the anger that boiled up inside her. She hadn’t known…of course twelve hours out of the torture chamber would not be enough to effect any sort of cure. She was taken aback by the venom welling up inside her; she felt that she was standing to one side and listening to herself shouting at Judy.
“Don’t speak to me like that, you bitch.” She had pressed her face close to Judy’s. “I hate that attitude! I hate the way people like you do that!” The calm part of her was looking at that smooth white face, those black, black eyes. “You teachers and social workers who take on the suffering of their clients for your own.
She was spitting. Judy stared at her, tiny drops of Helen’s saliva rolling from her impassive white face, her black hair shimmering softly in the dim light. And then, just as suddenly as it had come, Helen’s anger vanished. Still Judy stared at her. And stared. And then, one hand reached into the opposite sleeve of her kimono. Down the hallway sounded the gentle click of a door closing, and Helen was abruptly, utterly deflated.
“Sorry,” she said.
“Helen,” Judy said, calmly pulling her hand free of her sleeve. “I
Helen opened her mouth in astonishment at Judy’s arrogance.
“Here,” Judy said, before Helen could speak. “Walk a klick in my shoes. Take this.”
She held out a tiny red pill. Before she could add anything else, the door to the apartment opened.
“Peter Onethirteen?” said Judy, turning smoothly to face the man who stood in the doorway.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said eagerly, holding out his hand. He glanced briefly at Helen, her hand to her mouth as she swallowed the red pills, but his gaze was immediately drawn back to Judy. Helen watched him, intrigued. Judy was right: people always did want to make a good impression with Social Care. She had a flash of embarrassed recognition as she remembered how she herself had acted in similar encounters in the past. Just like
