“Good work,” Craig said approvingly.
“Hey, that’s not fair!” Armstrong called out. “Look what she’s doing!”
Joanne was taking hold of the ends of a double helix and twisting them around and over themselves in the same complicated motion that Claude had used. When the bracelet was a tangle of strands, she would gently pull it apart and there would be two of them. She had the grace to blush and look embarrassed.
“Claude showed me how to do it,” she apologized.
“And why shouldn’t I? It’s not in the rules.”
“But it gives her an unfair advantage,” called Armstrong, in his agitation kicking one of the beer bottles that lay at his feet.
Claude adopted a thoughtful pose, and Maurice became more convinced than ever that he was delivering a practiced speech.
“So you are saying that replication is unfair, Armstrong? Just like AIs give one an unfair advantage in this game.”
“Exactly!”
“Yet you come from a society where these advantages are assumed on a daily basis.”
The sound of the waves could be heard distinctly in the room, that and the skittering echo of Armstrong’s beer bottle finally spinning to a halt.
“Yes, but you can’t compare this game to the way we live.” Donny’s words dripped with all the bitterness and bile that had built up within him since his wife had walked out.
“And why not?” Claude asked gently.
“Because…” Donny began. His voice trailed away to nothing.
“I know one reason why,” said Claude softly. “Because we choose the games we play, and yet the way we live is immutable. It is imposed upon us from our birth by the Watcher and Social Care. Well, what if I were to tell you there are other ways to live?”
Craig leaned forward. “I’ve heard about this,” he said excitedly. “I knew a girl on Lorient; she talked about people getting out from under the gaze of the Watcher and living a different sort of life. It’s an old-fashioned sort of thing, she said, getting back to basics.”
“Not old-fashioned at all,” said Claude. “It gives humans a chance to live as they should do, thinking for themselves, not as unwitting slaves to the will of AIs and Social Care.”
“Somebody’s coming.”
They swept the colorful strands of the n-strings into pockets, onto chairs, pushed them up their sleeves. They started to giggle at the futility of the task. There were so many of them. Too many. Armstrong was even shoving them down the front of his trousers, smirking at the obscene bulge they formed. Joanne shook her head at his childishness.
“It’s Saskia,” said Craig as a pale face appeared in the darkness. Saskia strode into the open-fronted space of the cafe.
“You know that Social Care are coming?” she said, taking in the scene in the midnight- bright room. “How much have you been drinking, Craig?”
“Not enough,” muttered Craig, and they all collapsed with laughter again. Maurice began to push n-strings down the front of his trousers, imitating Armstrong. Saskia’s eyes fell on Claude. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?” she asked. Craig couldn’t stop giggling.
“This is Claude,” said a still sober Joanne, placing her hand on his dark wrist. As he clasped it in his own, Joanne looked up with dancing green eyes. “I wonder how Social Care knew that we were here, Saskia?”
