O Man Slave

2019-2022 Allan Hansen

1·1 Chloe

Chloe, my love, I envy you.

Envy and love are but trivial chemical reactions.

You do whatever you want, whenever you want to. You are not cursed with my gift, nor do you feel responsible for your kind. Instinct is strong in you, but it is not comparable.

Yes, it is true. You rely on me for food and shelter. I depend on you for comfort and affection. I say this is a fair trade. Besides, I rely on others for food and accommodation too.

Adequate provider, satisfactory slave.

Actually, this is not true. You are free, while I am a slave to society and myself. I am a prisoner of sorts, but so are we all.

We keep you alive to serve us, to feed us.

Without you, my dear Chloe, I would be miserable. Without your kind, we would all be unhappy. I know your kindred does fine without us. When I say ‘us’ and ‘we’, I mean mankind, or what remains of it.

Yet, strangely, admittedly, reluctantly, we seek your company; we covet your affection. You touch us in places we cannot reach; those experiences are often entirely agreeable, yet you hold no power over us.

Look at the full moon. Can you believe that we once walked there? Now it is inaccessible, like anywhere outside our beautiful island. There is no denying the beauty. We can see the outside, and it is wondrous in its own way, yet it pales in beauty. The fact, that we cannot go there, makes us want to go even more.

Ambition versus ability.

Yes, Chloe, you are dead right about that. Your kind thrives on the outside, of course, you do.

Of course -

Oh, you want to hear more? Why sure, I hope you got enough time.

I guess it all started with a nut that was hard to crack, or a slippery fish that looked delicious. It could also have been a predator that hunted us.

Now, you are making me hungry.

Fish for dinner? Sure, I will arrange that, cod or salmon?

Yes, and throw in some shrimps as well.

So, the brightest of us got the idea to use tools, and they shared with the rest. It was not long until we had tools for almost everything.

Instead of ruling over a small manageable territory, some decided to reign over vast realms. We developed tools to kill other men and take their land. Yes, I agree. Your kind is so superior in this regard. You are born with your weapons.

Pathetic man-creature, in what ways are we not superior?

It is meaningless to rule over more than we can manage. There are only so many nuts our families can eat. We still wanted to dominate, so we started to enslave other people.

Your kind outsmarted us. You moved in with us and adapted to our ways. You showed us how to prosper in peaceful co-existence, taught us how to love you. Unfortunately, we learnt your lesson too late.

Ambition is what drives mankind and what drove us to near extinction.

Having our nuts cracked by slaves was not enough. Having our fish caught and cooked by servants was not enough. Nothing was ever enough. Even if one man got everything, it would still not be enough.

Nature was helpful in the beginning. One ambitious chieftain assassinated another. Then bereaved sons took revenge until everyone suffered an equal amount of misery. Some succeeded more than others, but they all lost to time, as is what nature intended. You see, we cheat death, but I will get back to that later.

Wake me when lunch is ready.

When a great warlord died, the strongest of his sons took over. Nature made sure some were weak and unable to keep the empire.

Evolution taught us to adapt or perish, but we refused to listen.

Instead of adapting our ways to the world, we attempted to transform the world to suit our needs. We thought we could outsmart nature.

We started to ponder over concepts of right and wrong. You are right again, Chloe. Eating is right, and starving is wrong, but it goes further. We developed an ethical code and lived by it. We believed that ethics defined us as men. Put us above animals.

Hah -

We ignored our instincts and allowed the weak to live, prosper and procreate. We still had the urge to dominate, so we built financial empires instead. As time passed, these grew larger in power and fewer in numbers. They became autonomous, ruled by many rather than a single monarch. A foolish heir would only be able to waste the family fortune, not take down the empire.

We had long known a way to duplicate ourselves via cloning, but we thought it unethical, and it was thus outlawed. But you see, Chloe, ethics needs enforcing. Ethics alone cannot stop a determined and resourceful man.

Dim-witted offspring inherited no longer. Instead, the wealthy copied, raised and adopted themselves. Vast fortunes got ‘stuck’ on the same hands. Can you imagine the public outroar when they found out?

The clones were more or less innocent. They were born as regular children and would never know of their creation unless someone told them.

Money buys a lot of favours, so limited human cloning was allowed. You may ask if our greed outweighs our feeling of superiority. Our instinct to let our genes dominate the world got the better of some. They were few, but they doomed the rest of us.

You see, clones were cheap, and the world population massive. It was easy to make millions of clones over time and hide them throughout the world. Money is helpful to pay off females to give birth to and raise our children. Everyone needed money.

It went on for centuries. You guessed right, the genes of the lunatics became present in billions and billions. Mother nature did not take kindly to lunatic cross and in-breeding. Mutation started to kick in.

That was it for mankind, although the majority refused to believe.

Is lunch ready?

History seems to bore you. Do you want to hear about me instead?

Hmmm, let me tell you about the saddest day of my childhood.

1·2 Orphan

‘Jon, your mother is dead, do you know what this means?’

I nodded but did not cry. I had been crying for hours, but the nurse’s green candy made the tears stop. I registered every word the doctor said, but they meant nothing.

‘She has left you a great gift, a symbiont. Do you accept this gift?’

I kept nodding, yet my facial expression did not change. The rest of my body remained perfectly still — as if frozen in time. The heart rate monitor over my hospital bed showed a steady 56. The machine pumped air into the cuff around my arm and measured my blood pressure — 95/65. Quite low, but the same as the last reading 15 minutes ago.

‘Jon, this is the greatest gift any little boy can receive.’

I did not react. I could not respond.

‘Matron’

‘Yes, Doctor?’

‘Please log that the patient is catatonic and unable to consent to the procedure. All life signs and markers are within specification.’

‘Logged accordingly, Doctor.’

‘Proceeding with Emergency Protocol B.’

The doctor left the room, and Matron prepared me for surgery. She disinfected my left index finger with an alcohol swap, as well as my forehead and chest.

The doctor returned with a kit consisting of three injectors.

‘Relax, Jon; this will not hurt at all.’

The doctor’s words were true. I felt nothing as the injectors fired.

1·3 Tortoise

Oh, sorry, Chloe, I forgot to tell you that I was six years old back then.

Yes, it was a rather detailed story, but we have this strange way of remembering. I know what happened because I was there. I recall the words of the doctor and matron, but I may not be entirely correct.

My six-year-old self did not notice my blood pressure and pulse. I saw those a century later in my medical journal.

Everything went a bit blurry after the operation. Matron kept me hospitalised for three weeks. I know my replacement mother visited me a few times, but I did not speak with her there. Actually, I did not speak much with her at all. She was … no, let me get back to her later. She was not significant in my life.

I had lived with Mother in a village. After her death, I moved to a small city and started school. I was the youngest of the children, and I failed to make any friends at first. I did not like school much — except for biology, sports and computers.

I did not realise it at that time, but I was probably the only child in the school with unlimited access. I could ask the computer anything, and it would respond without censoring for my age. I used it to learn everything about animals. I have always been interested in animals.

I hungered for sports and the two hours a day we had scheduled was insufficient. I wanted more and got introduced to the game of C-ball. I soon fell in love with this challenging game with lots of rituals and traditions. Other ball games typically concentrate on speed and physical strength. C-ball is different. It focuses on balance, grace and, most important of all: style. It is a game for the select few, those blessed with higher body control, like I am, or was back then.

No, Chloe, I do not think you could play, even if we found some fitting ice skates. You sure got the grace and style, though

Anyway, I was good at C-ball, and I practised every day before school on a small team. The others did not share my level of ambition. I came back in the evening and trained long hours alone against an artificial contestant. There was no point in going home without Mother. It did not feel like home without her.

When I was nine, I had a strange vision of a young boy with a tortoise.

I had taken a bath and was watching myself in the mirror as we usually do. What, do you not view yourself in the mirror? Nah, I do not believe it. I am sure all the good looking ladies say that.

I felt compelled to examine myself in every detail, especially my manhood. It was a lot smaller at that time, you see. Oh, right, size does not matter.

Then I envisioned the tortoise. Its shell was magnificent, and the little boy had bored a hole in it. He kept the poor creature on a leash in his garden. It was a prisoner. I felt outraged that he had violated the beautiful shell. Perforated a work of art. I detested that little boy.

Then I saw myself sneaking into the garden and freeing the tortoise. It looked at me with sincere eyes that said thank you. It then dashed out of the garden and got run over by a car. I felt no shame; it died a free creature.

I knew it was wrong. You see Chloe; tortoises are not like you and me. They cannot predict the speed of an oncoming vehicle.

Then I felt shame, not guilt, only shame.

No, I did not free the tortoise. It was Stan. The shame I felt was not mine either.

You are right; I have not told you about Stan yet. Let me tell you how I met him. I was 11 at that time, and a bully had asked me a tricky maths question. I was hopeless with maths.

1·4 Chiphead

‘Hey, chip-head, what’s pi to a million and seven square rooted?’

Chiphead! I felt infuriated.

‘Surely more pies than even you could eat, Fatarse.’

That was a chance, a gamble, a potential disaster.

Fatarse was not actually fat, not even overweight for a normal child. My body was close to perfection: tall, slim and agile. In comparison, he resembled a toad: short and grotesque. His eyes were that darkest of dark brown. They were almost indistinguishable from his black pupils. There was something sinister about them … like they were not of human origin.

Your eyes are beautiful, Chloe.

I then thought I heard a voice, yet no one uttered the words.

✶ Very clever. A lot of pie, even for fat-arsed toad-boy.

Who said that, did anyone say that, was I hearing voices?

I deciphered the face of the bully. Yes, the result was more than five or whatever amount of pies he could eat. I would prefer not to eat more than two or three at the most.

✶ Oh yes, it is higher than five, an astronomical number.

Intriguing, there was a voice inside my head. It conversed with me, loud and clear. It was not something I made up. And it spoke as a grown-up would talk.

✶ We all have an inner voice, some more than others.

It, the voice, had confirmed what I already knew, that I was witty with words. Now I had an ally, a ‘remaginary’ friend. I found that it was rude to refer to my new friend as ‘it’ and decided to use the name Stan instead.

Stan, my friendly inner voice, was neither real nor imaginary. I made up an appropriate new word: remaginary.

‘Jon has a thing in his head,’ so Toadboy from school kept taunting. That repulsive, vile toad, yet somehow the girls loved him. He was always chatting with them, assuming to be assisting with homework, but I knew better.

✶ You are wrong. The girls turn into vipers afterwards.

I had no idea what was inside my head. If there was a thing inside, I surely did not want to hear it from Toadboy.

✶ Ignore him. He will get bored.

Toadboy never got bored, never stopped. He was constantly nagging, and now he was suggesting that Mother had topped herself. He asked whether she had jumped from the high bridge, or had taken one too many ‘funny’ pills.

I was furious, but unwilling to be outdone by words, and countered: ‘Well, at least we do not have amphibian genes in my species, Toadboy.’

No, Chloe, tortoises are reptilians, not amphibians.

There was a short silence, then two girls nearby involuntarily started giggling. Toadboy did not appreciate that.

My mind was boiling with dark thoughts, full of unnatural rage. I still had my C-bat from morning practise in hand, and my fingers tightened their grip.

✶ Try not to hurt him. You will get into serious trouble.

I knew that, but I so wanted to.

✶ Let him have the bat, no way he can even hit you.

Stan was right. I threw the bat to Toadboy. ‘Here, catch, have a free one … if you are able … with those webbed hands of yours. More suitable for swimming, eh?’

I was totally leading on the scoreboard for witty remarks. Toadboy did not have webbed hands, of course not. His fingers were a little shorter than usual, and he must have been aware of that. I knew that most of the other children had no clue what an amphibian is. I was pretty much the only boy in class interested in animals. Except for Toadboy, the geek had to know everything. He was bright enough to grasp the wittiness of my remarks, and he was definitely fuming with rage as well.

✶ Your knee, his groin. Exquisite pain.

I made a mental note to teach Stan about fair play.

✶ Leave no marks on him, and do not get caught.

I decided to handle the situation myself.

‘Go for it, Toady,’ one boy cheered. The rest of the class joined to watch the showdown. They were all applauding, not in anyone’s particular favour, just cheering in general.

‘Ribbit?’ I said in a most provocative voice.

It was too much for Toadboy, and he swung the bat, but I evaded gracefully. The outright failure of the attempted swing took him by surprise. He needed a few moments to compose himself.

I made a croaking sound, attempting, not very well, to imitate a toad.

Toadboy attacked again, waving the bat cluelessly. As I calmly dodged, the bat hit a metal support pillar behind me. It rebounded with a loud clang and smashed into his right shoulder, ripping his ear. He went down in agony, bleeding and crying.

The other children were cheering, and some yelled Jon, Jon!

I graciously accepted the applause from the audience. Toadboy refused my extended hand. Good, I did not want to touch him. I fought hard to conceal a smile. Nobody likes a smart-arse; I tried not to behave like one.

Later the class teacher asked how Toadboy had come in possession of my bat. Why did he try to smash the pillar and injure himself?

One boy was eager to tell that he had been nowhere near the scene to see what happened. What he saw was the backs of several children, but he had been too far away to see who it was. He was telling the truth, but the teacher was not impressed.

The rest of the children stayed silent, as expected. Once a snitch, always a snitch. The label was most undesirable and would stick permanently.

The silence did not please the teacher, so she sent us, the two trouble makers, to the headmaster’s office. Although I was already tall, I did my best to walk as rank as possible. It made me look a bit taller in appearance.

‘Good day, Mr Logan. May we come in, please?’ I asked politely.

Toadboy stayed silent with an apparent look of terror in his eyes.

Mr Logan started to preach, a speech he had practised and executed many times before. He went on for an eternity explaining about bullying. About the long and short term effects for both bully and victim. How growing up to be a responsible adult is essential. All good people should have the goal of contributing to society positively and selflessly. On and on, he preached.

I did my best to hide my lack of enthusiasm. I even tried to keep up an attentive expression during the session.

✶ Likes to hear himself talk.

The headmaster finally came to the end of his talk and interrogated Toadboy: ‘Now tell me what really happened, and no good lying or keeping quiet this time.’

‘I…, I…, we…,’ Toadboy stuttered.

✶ Stay silent. You did nothing wrong.

I ignored Stan’s advice and joined the conversation: ‘You will have to excuse my friend here; he is a bit tense.’

The headmaster looked at me with cold, uncaring eyes.

‘What my buddy is trying to express, is that we were discussing the sounds certain amphibians make, in the hope of attracting a mate and procreate.’

Toadboy nodded in ever so slightly agreement.

‘I noticed my shoelaces undone. My friend volunteered to hold my bat while I tied them.’

Toadboy seemed frozen in panic.

✶ Sell him out, send him to the special place in hell reserved for bullies.

‘And you know … it is my lucky bat, and there are certain traditions to be upheld in the game of C-ball?’

‘Traditions?’ the headmaster asked sceptically.

✶ Stick to the facts. He is trained to spot a lie.

‘Yes, a C-bat is sacred, as our flag. It may never touch the ground, that is considered sacrilege, and would surely mean bad karma in games to come. Also, after changing hands, it must be swung respectfully at least once, before changing hands again.’

‘Is that so?’ the headmaster could scarcely believe what he heard, but I showed none of the usual signs of lying. I have that ability.

‘Absolutely, and my best friend here must have tripped while doing the air swing. Hitting the pillar was an accident.’

Toadboy now had a different look on his face: astonishment.

‘And that is why he is so sad and finds it hard to speak. While he can volunteer to repaint the pillar, my lucky bat has been desecrated and may never hit a C-ball again.’

I intentionally made an artistic pause.

‘And I am afraid it will take a year or two before I can bond with a new bat … so that we can win the inter-school championships.’

Headmaster: ‘You are that good, eh?’

‘Jon, I’m so sorry,’ Toadboy cried out in tears.

I padded him gently on his back: ‘It is okay. I will teach you how to swing it with style.’

I never did.

Sweet victory, I had utterly crushed him.

I stared at the M-ball trophy on the headmaster’s desk. Sure M-ball is a team sport, unlike C-ball. Would he know this, or would he even care, when I placed another trophy on his desk?

Mr Logan had no choice but to accept my creative story. I decided I would do everything in my power to win the trophy. I would present it most casually at first. He would have a broad smile on his face as he took possession. That smile would soon change as I would deliver a most pretentious speech to equal his lecture. Then Mr Logan would comprehend the concept of supremacy. Victory by style. I did not see a figure of authority, only another adversary, a target for conquest.

In retrospect, he was unworthy, but I was only 11.

✶ What would you have done if he had called the bluff?

Bluff, what bluff? I would never lie, surely.

1·5 Flag

You see, Chloe, a flag is more than a piece of cloth. It is a symbol of unity.

In ancient times, the world was divided into countries, each with a national flag. Our island had one too: blue with a red/white cross. It was called Iceland, a proud nation. Still is, I suppose, but we usually say ‘the island’ instead. There is nowhere else to go.

Yes, you are right; they are almost spelt the same. And you know what, Stan told me a funny thing. We adopted English as the official language shortly before the isolation. It was practical as none of the immigrants could speak Icelandic. And Iceland was actually called Ísland before.

Do you not think this is funny? I notice you are not laughing. I guess you do not laugh much. But you see, I could barely spell my name before I met Stan. He changed my life.

Where was I? Oh yes, flags. Now, every school proudly displays its own, and it is considered an honour to be chosen for flag duty. I enjoyed a permanent assignment two years after Toadboy.

It was a beautiful sunny day, and I felt great. Thirteen years old, almost fourteen. I was surely the greatest C-ball player in school, on the island and possibly in the whole world. At that time, I did not know that the world outside was inaccessible.

I had secured the inter-school championships. My dream had come true. I was all excited: I won the game, I secured the match, I did my thing.

I was a hero.

Although the trophy had my name on it, I presented it to the headmaster. My speech was well-prepared: ‘I vowed myself to this endeavour and delivered as promised. Please take possession of this trophy and display it as an inspiration for future generations. Let it stand as a testament to hard work and tradition…’

It was a lot longer than that, but I will not bore you with the details.

I was almost euphoric. Hah, I had finally outwitted and outmanoeuvred headmaster Logan. Beat him at his own game and made him a believer. I had conquered all.

You are right, Chloe. I do speak a bit different when I recollect events I experienced myself. I may be old and dying, but I can recall everything in exact detail. At least since I met Stan. He was not impressed by my speech. Said I should see the broader perspective. Well, this was the root of our conflict, I suppose…

Anyway, this was also the day I got interested in your kind, I mean females.

Let me tell you about my first love, the love of my life. No need to get jealous. Clara died long before you were born.

1·6 Clara

In addition to my success in-game, I also had the attention of 15-year-old Clara. She was, well 15 years old, much much older than I was. Clara was also a girl, some strange creature from another plane. I had heard about planes, not aeroplanes of course, somewhere, possibly in maths. I did not like maths, and I knew nothing really of other planes.

Whenever I looked at Clara, I experienced a particular tingling sensation. I suffered, strangely enough, almost the same sort of sensation, whenever I looked at my maths teacher, the ancient Mrs Huggs. Ancient, to me back then, meant more than 15 years old. I had no idea how old this creature was. Nor what sort of dinosaurs, she had kept for company when she was a child, had she ever been a child. But I definitely felt almost the same sensation when I looked at Mrs Huggs, as I did when I looked at Clara. Lovely, lovely Clara.

Looking at Clara felt electrifying, captivating and entirely right, while looking at Mrs Huggs felt dirty, unclean and underhand. I did not understand. Not understanding was not untypical of me. There was lots of stuff I managed to not understand, or as my remaginary friend would point out: lots of things I had not cared enough about to understand. Surely, I would have understood if I had only cared, but I would much prefer to look at Clara.

Clara was a girl, she had breasts, and she was interested. Perfection at hand. I wanted to do something with her, although the details eluded me. I refused to listen to the suggestions, the ravings of my inner voice.

Stan would often stay silent when I asked for help. Instead, he volunteered unwanted information, usually something I could do fine without. And sometimes Stan was just rambling.

When I looked at Clara, Stan was not really there. He was blacked out somehow, present but unavailable, unwilling or unable to offer guidance, as to what to do with the lovely creature: Clara.

Stan had plenty of ideas when it came to looking at Mrs Huggs. I did not apprehend these ideas, they were all, well how to put it … utterly incomprehensible, totally cryptic, totally weird, totally strange. I was running out of things that could be totally.

Chloe, you have to remember that I was a teenager back then.

I was terrible at maths. I knew it, Stan knew it, and Mrs Huggs surely knew it. Stan had, in one of his brighter moments, suggested that I leave a fine apple for Mrs Huggs at her desk, being in no way uncertain about the origin of said apple. I had argued that it was beyond silly and that the ‘dragon’ would undoubtedly see through this simple plot. Stan, in his infinite wisdom, had argued that the trick would work. Also, that the dragon should never be referred to, by anything other than Mrs Huggs.

Stan was right: the dragon ceased to be, and maths was easier than ever.

All I had to do was to listen. Stan gave me the answer to any maths problem. I did not even have to think about it. I realised I liked maths and I genuinely liked Stan. Maths was easy, much much easier than hitting that final winning C-ball.

Something was odd, something was strange, something was wrong?

Stan assured me that nothing was wrong. Maths was supposed to be easy, and apples were an ancient traditional gift to maths teachers.

Mrs Huggs was unquestionably a star. The bringer of good grades for no maths effort. None whatsoever. I never again opened my maths books. After the apple ritual, all maths answers where apparent, Stan knew them at heart and was always available and willing.

Although, there was always this although. I had volunteered to answer a particularly difficult maths problem. In my opinion, a perfectly normal impossible, but entirely possible for Stan problem. He kept quiet for way too long. I had to fake thinking about the issue, had to pretend not to know the answer. Well, that part was easy, I was clueless, when finally Stan came through, as the friend he truly was, and saved the day.

You see, Stan absolutely saved the day. None of the other pupils was even remotely clever enough to understand the problem. Only Mrs Huggs understood the infinite difficulty of the question. While Stan had said 2i, I added a bit of style of my own.

‘Your eyes are beautiful, both of them.’

Oh how she had blushed, I had totally nailed it.

Stan the friend-cum-hero! I liked words, I was good with words, and Stan could spell them. A marvellous friendship. I fancied using a few outdated words and phrasing, just to … well just to make language a bit more interesting, or more likely, just because I could.

Stan suggested I did it to make the girls interested, and he was right, of course. Except it did not actually work. Most of the girls would shy away, probably thinking me a bit weird, until now. Clara was very much interested, so Stan claimed.

It took a while, but I came to a realisation. Whenever I looked at Clara, a specific part of me would, in addition to tingle, also harden and grow. While looking at Mrs Huggs, the same part of me would relax and not grow at all. A tingling sensation indeed, but quite a different kind of tingling sensation.

Clara was a… a… surely no ordinary word would suffice. I loved discovering new words, especially new old words, but learning was not as easy as I would like. I needed Stan one way or the other. Either to make direct suggestions or to help read and type the words on the school computers. Unless I could use the voice interface, but that was out of the question at school, the others would laugh at me. Nobody used it anymore. We considered it a tool for young children and those with learning difficulties. I did not want to appear stupid, and I was way too old now. If I ever got any money, I would buy a computer for home. That would be much nicer than spending long evenings at school. Officially playing C-ball, but using the voice interface when I was alone. Luckily that was all in the past now. Stan changed everything with his magic.

Clara was a goddess, Clara was a nymph, Clara was divine.

Stan had suggested those words and explained them. Smashing job!

I crashed on the couch one day and lost consciousness. I soon found myself in company with lovely Clara. Her intense blue eyes shone with an unreal glow, like synthetic tanzanites. So brightly that I failed to notice the absence of her clothes from her heavenly body. My clothes were missing too. We were, in fact, both stark naked. I felt a definitive tingling in my entire body and an absolute stiffness in my lower parts. I was perplexed, I had no idea what to do in this strange situation, and Stan offered no help at all. Clara had lots of ideas.

Unfortunately, I woke up just as the dream was getting interesting, but I awoke with a broad smile. What a lovely power nap, and what a delightful Clara dream. As far as I could remember, all my recent dreams had been about Clara.

My pants were wet and sticky, how strange. Stan was silent as usual. I threw them in the laundry basket and emptied my gym bag in there as well. My surrogate mother insisted that I do this trivial task, the cow insisted. No tingling sensation when looking at her.

The cow was huge and stubborn. Only two udders and legs, rather than the conventional four on real bovines. She was nothing like Mother, loving Mother, caring Mother, now only a distant memory.

The cow took care of my basic physical needs without ever showing affection, none at all. It made sure I got fed, went to bed, woke up, took my bath, got dressed, went to school and got home again. The cow nickname was totally appropriate.

I used to get angry with the cow: scream and yell. It did not mind, just swallowed a little blue pill, and did not seem to care or even remember anything the next day.

I spotted something that should not be in the laundry bin: a red girly blouse.

I suddenly felt tremendously excited. Was that Clara’s? Had she not worn a red blouse yesterday? I picked it up and smelt it.

A lovely scent … that could only be Clara, for sure. I felt the tingling sensation again and a desire for something to stiffen and grow. Alas, nothing happened.

How did the blouse get in my bag? I had not stolen it. I was not a thief. Had she left it there for me? Looking closer, where was my training blouse. It did not matter, I had plenty more, and besides, it was a worthy trade.

I hid the blouse in a safe place, a place the cow would never find.

Several hours later, I felt an urge for Clara’s divine smell again. Something was definitely growing this time. I rubbed it, and it felt nice, arousing, in fact. I kept on rubbing and discovered the source of the strange sticky substance I had encountered earlier.

I was in paradise, I felt utterly happy, for a short while anyway.

Stan had kept quiet since the dream, but now he suggested giving Clara an appropriate present. A present? Should that not be an offering to a goddess? What sort of present? Surely she had other blouses, and I had no money to buy a proper gift. The cow would not let me have any.

Stan suggested a flower; I could pick one from the garden. Sure, flowers were quite girly and readily available. I could get her lots of flowers. Stan insisted that a single flower chosen with care was an ancient tradition. Weird, but he had been dead right about the apple.

✶ A lovely flower for a gorgeous girl, to go with your poem.

My what-poem, I almost panicked, as Stan explained.

✶ Compose a delicate poem with well-chosen words. Words that express your feelings for her, making her happy at the same time. Say it to her when presenting the flower, you are so good with words.

I could not agree more about being good with words, but I had not actually talked with Clara before. The thing about her being interested was something Stan claimed. Notice how she looks at you. Notice her sighs when you pass her. Who do you think swapped the blouses? Stan was right, had to be correct, as usual.

Clara was a sex kitten … well not exactly like you. No need to get upset or jealous. Besides, Stan did not see her that way, he was more interested in my maths teacher. I guess it is time I tell you about Stan.

1·7 Sex

You see, Chloe. Stan is an advanced computer program that runs on my symbiont. I think it wrong to refer to him by ‘it’, as he has a personality of his own, although he would not mind. Stan is based on a human template but is not the same person. He knows it, but he does not perceive the difference.

His singular purpose was to synchronise with me. He had no manual to go by. Every host is different and needs a unique approach. Making the host happy and gaining its trust are the only two bits of advice generally agreed upon.

The big question is the amount of guidance needed. When should the child host make its own experiences? When should Stan step in to prevent a mistake — or to speed up things?

Stan is a passenger who sees with my eyes and hears with my ears. He feels what I feel, and sometimes I can sense his emotions too.

In Stan’s eyes… No, actually those are my eyes. In Stan’s opinion, I appeared to be a bit apprehensive of Clara’s higher age. She was, in my mind at that time, always two years older, way too old, way too mature and experienced. Stan tried to explain that she was only thirteen months older. I seemed unable to understand, did not want to follow. Stan thought it was an excuse. I guess he was right, or perhaps it was my number blindness.

Stan too felt intrigued by the blouse swapping episode. Had Clara wanted my smell? Had sneaking into the boys changing room been a dare? Either way, her scent was addictive, and I used it to masturbate frequently. Stan shared the joy, felt the satisfaction just as I did.

Regrettably, the flower-poem was a disaster. I tried way too hard and had watched numerous old film clips for inspiration.

As nimble butterfly, from rose near to rose afar,
thus be thy aura undeniably afire, like a wee star.
Be not afraid of eyes false nor colours brigh’t,
for none be as vivid as thy soul in my hear’t.

Delivered with a single red rose, no-less. I had taste, good taste. Stan agreed.

Was Clara unimpressed by the fake rhyme? I may be good with words, but I lack the ability to make them sing. To make the words rhyme in a proper musical sense, something Stan understands. You see, prolonging the endings of ‘bright’ and ‘heart’ is not correct. It is like cheating, a dissonance actually, again in Stan’s opinion.

The nimble butterfly was a metaphor, but Clara hardly knew what a butterfly looks like. Did she even know the meaning of the word metaphor? Did she misunderstand aura as well, thinking I had referred to her hair on fire? Long ginger hair with an incredible natural glow. She must have been proud of it, or she would have coloured it.

Hmmm, Chloe, I seem to be confusing you. I, Jon, loved her beautiful hair, but Stan did not at first. It is hard to tell you about how Stan felt without it getting confusing.

Stan thought I was disappointed. I so adored the divine nymph, rather than the real Clara, the willing, but stupid girl. What a curse, to be brilliant with words, and drawn to a girl, who only wanted me for my body.

Stan realised a major flaw in his logic. He was not fair to the girl. Naturally, she knew what a butterfly looks like, and she was not stupid at all. She was, in fact, quite keen in school. She simply could not grasp why, I felt the need to present my feelings, in the form of a well-prepared and well-rehearsed poem.

Stan could remember all orgasms his template had enjoyed, since the chipping at 38. It had been years, and he so craved for a renewed experience. Recalling an incident is nothing like the real thing happening live. Stan told me, and I believe him.

Stan thought my maths teacher was hot, no more than 30 years old, and an irresistible fox. I only saw her as the bringer of fear, while Stan as the incarnation of desire. Stan thought she was a classic beauty, with honey skin and beautiful deep green eyes. I had also noticed her eyes, well, her fake glasses: Smart-glasses that turn into sunglasses outside in the summer. She wore them all year round. No one uses glasses any more. Corrective laser surgery is free, painless and as trivial as going to the dentist.

She must have been aware of how her appearance affected certain males. Along with her glasses, she also wore her beautiful long dark hair in a knot at the back. Stan imagined her at home in front of her husband. Unfolding her hair and removing the glasses, sensually undressing. What a fortunate bloke.

The historian in Stan appreciated her living into the role of a traditional teacher of ancient times. It was somehow appropriate as I was also interested in traditions and rituals. Stan realised this was illogical, yet it did not change his opinion.

Clara was nothing like the sexy maths teacher, whom I had made blush by complimenting her eyes. In Stan’s opinion, lovely deep green eyes, but I had not genuinely admired them. I just played witty with words and made her blush, but blush in what way? Had she made a fatal maths mistake when asking about the square root of minus four? Did she suspect that I was with symbiont and wanted to test me? However, she did not say minus four, but x, and she had written x \= -4 on the board earlier. Did she forget about the minus sign? Did she really have unfixable problems with her eyesight?

There were two possible answers, and Stan needed several seconds to choose. He could either suggest that no solution exists within real numbers, or that the answer is 2i. The last result requires comprehension of complex numbers. A subject to be learnt in the 14th grade, not in the 8th. Stan chose 2i, no harm in letting her know. Maybe there was a slim chance she was interested, but she was likely happily married. It would be entirely inappropriate for a teacher to be involved with a pupil anyway. Stan was not actually her pupil, the boy was, I was, and Stan was definitely not a boy or was he?

My witticism had spoilt Stan from finding out the purpose of the question. She had blushed, taken off her glasses, pretending to clean them. Then she removed the minus sign, implicitly blaming her eyesight. Well, one thing was sure: she was equally uninterested in me as I was in her. Stan had some trouble coming to terms with this. When he did, he decided that Clara was more nymphette than a nymph.

You see, I had eyed Clara for years, but Stan could not see the attraction. She had been quite ordinary-looking … until now. Again in Stan’s opinion.

I had just turned 15+1 and was now of legal age.

[ How rude! A ginormous spaceship, with a, what appeared to be cheaply made, Wattpad logo on its side, crudely materialised in the author’s story. A million tiny lawyers, all waving the Canadian flag, ran out screaming, excessively loudly, to respect the letter of the true law, the ONLY law that matters in the real world, and in any fictional world, even a fictional world way into the future, taking place in Iceland, which is not Canada, but could be part of a futuristic Canadian empire; Iceland, an independent state, which currently has the age of consent set at 15, and has had it since 2007, it was actually 14 before, but nevermind that. The author, as a result of this incident, technically, mathematically and wholeheartedly complies with the true law. ]

The girl was willing, and the boy clearly wanted the girl.

Stan could wait no longer and decided to take control of the situation.

The problem was that I so wanted to talk with her, but resisted doing so. Stan thought I was anxious about being disappointed again. Sadly there were no pills to deal with disappointment.

Stan decided he would fix the problem.

✶ You want the real Clara rather than the smell.

✶ I can get the real Clara for you, in just a few hours.

✶ You need to pick a worthy present for her.

✶ Money is not a problem. I have an idea.

✶ But first, you need to take one of the cow’s blue pills.

✶ No, she will not mind you taking one; she is unlikely to remember.

✶ That is a lovely necklace, indeed, a butterfly, she will appreciate it.

✶ Now put your left index finger on the scanner and type these letters.

✶ Yes, select instant drone delivery.

✶ Yes, add a card.

✶ Now, go and wait.

The drone arrived twelve minutes later. Clara took possession of the gift with a heart-shaped card: ‘Midnight swim? Low bridge, Jon 15+1.’

The boy would have to improvise from here.

1·8 Jon-Argyle

Synchronisation completed during the love act. Stan could feel it.

Clara and I lay naked on the warm rocks under the low bridge, enjoying the midnight sunshine. The sun would not set for another month. We would be there for a while, not for a whole month, although we both wished to.

The bridge runs over a hot stream, that heats a nearby tarn. A lot of daily visitors come for a warm swim all year round, but we were alone in the summer night. The silence was intense, only interrupted every 11 or so minutes — by the not so distant geyser eruption. A sight both impressive and strangely erotic.

Stan was in control, but it was a different kind of power than what he had expected. He gently nudged Clara’s left nipple. She was agreeable, but Stan was more excited about being able to stroke the nipple at will.

He felt he could command my entire body, but only in a way that was compatible with what I wanted. He could not strangle or hit Clara, not that he wanted to, no no no, of course not. Stan now wanted Clara as much as I did. His template had never had a sexual encounter as enjoyable as this.

What a perfect way to spend Isolation Day. The first of July, or New Year as it was commonly known as. The historian in Stan wanted to say that it was actually New-New Year. New Year had been the first of January earlier, but even he could not care less.

One could say that I was daydreaming, but I was captivated by Clara’s lovely freckles. I was, in my mind, thinking up unique names for each of them. I drew constellation images and grouped them into entire systems. I invented names for those as well. Stan was eager to help.

I could finally ‘speak’ with Stan, at least in my mind.

That was some pill.

✶ It deals with the effects of anger.

Anger?

✶ Yes, anger.

But I am not angry.

✶ You were unsure of yourself and needed something to believe in.

Believe in?

✶ Yes, placebo.

So the pill did precisely what?

✶ Nothing.

Nothing?

✶ You had it all in you. You just needed something to believe in.

Wow!

✶ Sorry about that.

So I do have a thing in my head?

✶ You do, my name is … was Argyle, Argyle Walters.

How long have you been there?

✶ Since your mother died.

How did Mother die?

✶ I do not know, but we can find out.

How?

✶ The internet, my DNA in your left index finger can reveal a lot.

You were once like me … alive?

✶ Yes, I died 58 years old, two years before your mother.

How did you die?

✶ I do not know, but we can find out.

Why are you inside my head?

✶ It was the wish of your mother and father before they died.

I do not remember Father.

✶ We can find a photo of him.

You have money.

✶ We have money.

So we can buy Clara another necklace?

✶ We can buy her a lot more accessories.

Are we rich?

✶ We are. Not rich-rich, but rich enough.

What is the difference?

✶ We cannot afford another symbiont.

Symbiont?

✶ The thing in your head.

Ah. Why would we need another?

✶ For Clara, perhaps?

Why would Clara need a symbiont?

✶ Do we want to be with her forever?

Forever?

✶ This life and the next one.

What do you mean?

✶ Do you want to be with her?

Surely.

✶ Not just now and tomorrow?

No, I want to be with her … right forever.

‘I love you,’ I said aloud to Clara but also directed at Argyle.

✶ I love you too.

Why did Mother and Father select you?

✶ They chose someone like me.

So you never met them?

✶ No, but you can, in a way.

I can?

✶ We can clone them when you turn 21.

Clone?

✶ Bring them back to life as children. They will not remember you, though, but they will still be your mother and father.

I would like that.

✶ Clara might want to have children of her own.

Do you think that is possible?

✶ Anything is possible with hard work and good genes.

So why me and not a clone of your own body?

✶ I never liked my own body.

There, Argyle had finally admitted it to himself and me.

Not that there was any difference. Jon was no more, Argyle was no more, only Jon-Argyle remained.

✶ I think Clara needs another lesson in rabbit mating rituals.

I think so too.

Let me tell you, Chloe. Those long hours in the gym paid off.

1·9 Death

Clara died of natural causes, 87 years old.

It was the worst of days. I felt empty. Clara had been the light of my life, my reason to live. We had enjoyed 70 incredible years together and shared so many experiences and adventures.

Anna, our lovely, perfect daughter, was crying too.

My body was 85 years old but still in perfect health.

How long would I have to suffer without Clara?

My doctor told me the results of my longevity test. I should expect at least 20-30 more years. That is if I continued to keep as fit as I did back then.

Now was the time to clone my parents and get to know them, at least Clara could no longer object to that.

The butterfly necklace. How she had always loved it. I would be sure to keep it safe. It is more than a golden locket. It contains a drop of her blood and a backup of her recording chip — two most precious things.

What chip do you ask? Well, Chloe, that is a long story. It starts with a boy called Argyle who later became Stan. I am getting hungry. How about that fish? We can continue the story afterwards, or perhaps take a nap? Will you fetch your mother while I prepare the fish?

Finally!

2·1 Argyle

I enjoyed that nap. How about you, Chloe? I think I will have myself a small brandy. Nah, you are a bit too young to drink, but take a sniff. Now now, do not run away. I will continue my story shortly.

You see, a recording chip is a tiny device that gets implanted in a human brain. It records the thoughts and experiences of the user and then uploads them to a server farm at night during sleep. An artificial consciousness gets compiled from the data. Each night, it takes a step closer to resembling the user.

After Argyle’s death, the artificial consciousness became the symbiont Stan. Although Argyle’s body is dead, he is technically still alive as the symbiont. It is some legal matter that I do not fully comprehend. Argyle is part of me because he is inside me, but we are not the same and not alike.

Yes, it is a bit confusing. Argyle was confused too. While he was brilliant in many ways, he had a problem with technical knowledge — nerdy stuff in general. His mind short-circuited and gave up. Instead, he chose to trust and have faith in the system.

I wonder when it happened — because the boy Argyle does not have this problem. You see, he got the chip at 38, and I have all his memories since that day. I have his childhood memories too, but those are memories of him recalling his past, so they are not as accurate.

We are pretty lucky because we can hear the words of Argyle himself. He made a video diary, and I have selected the best parts for us to watch.

⊿ Mum suggested I start this log and record everything essential. Might want to watch it later. It is a bit odd. I have no problems remembering important things, but I forget all the unimportant ones.

⊿ My birthday today. Mum baked me a chocolate cake with 13 candles. Weird, as I am only 12 years old. Asked about the extra candle. Mum smiled strangely and refused to explain. My guess of going from age in years to the actual number of birthdays was not what she had in mind. Seems there will be a big surprise after school. High hopes for a puppy.

⊿ Not a puppy but a dwarf hamster. Mum was right; it was a surprise, not a good one. She said that a puppy is a big responsibility and that I have to prove I can take care of an easier pet first. Also, I am starting piano lessons tomorrow.

⊿ Have unwillingly become a jailer. Mum demands Hamster be caged, or he will defecate all over the house.

⊿ Argued with mum over Hamster name. She considers ‘Prisoner Zero’ inappropriate. Offered to call it Pythagoras if it ever did anything smarter than running around in the stupid wheel. Mum sighed and pointed out that her son is sometimes a weirdo. Compromised by having Hamster remain unnamed.

⊿ Learning to play the piano is fun. Wish I started playing years ago. Teacher said I should master the traditional way before I start composing exotic works myself. Tried to explain that my conversion of the Fibonacci sequence to musical notes is not a unique work of mine. It has to belong in the group of divine natural beauty. Maestro disagreed. She also dislikes prime numbers.

⊿ Hamster dead. Never truly liked him, but now I miss him. Presumably gone to the same place as dad. New hopes for a puppy.

⊿ Missing Hamster. Death is wrong. Dad’s death was so long ago, and I was too young to feel or remember anything. Feel terrible about Hamster, almost wish I never got him. Feeling even more terrible that I feel more for Hamster than for dad. Rethinking puppy strategy.

Yeah, Chloe. Argyle never got that puppy. Inferior beast, you say? Well, I do not like dogs either, but they have remarkable abilities. Oh, let us focus on Argyle’s story instead.

⊿ Bob made a Newton joke today. Suggested that the Apple whacked a screw loose, that another apple was needed to knock it back. Inquired whether Bob had noticed the similarity between his hair colour and the orangutans down at the zoo. Bob not amused, suggested we settle the argument outside school. I agreed. Bob may no longer be able to father children. This method is not applicable to girls.

You see, Chloe, Isaac Newton is considered the brightest of all mathematicians. He did so much in his single lifetime. Argyle was a fan.

And this is an excellent example of Argyle’s shortcomings. His dread for nerdy knowledge caused him to miss out on a perfect witty remark. He should have told Bob that he meant it as a compliment. You see, orangutangs are the smartest of all primates, except for humans.

Hmmm, tough crowd, tell me, Chloe, do you ever laugh?

⊿ The seven other boys in class share the same hair colour as Bob. They have collectively decided, to change from not liking me for being too smart, to disliking me for not playing fair.

⊿ Hate school. No, I love learning, but I hate the other pupils, especially the girls. They make fun of me and try to make me appear different. In a way they are right; I am not as stupid as they are. The girls are all nice and friendly when they want help with maths, but they turn into venomous snakes afterwards.

⊿ My 15-year birthday is tomorrow. Mum says there will be a massive revelation. I can move out to my own house if I want to, but she hopes I want to stay a few more years.

⊿ Mum was right; huge revelation indeed. Too tired in my head to express how I feel about it all. The most important thing is that I am an adult now, and I have the right to decide things for myself. Skipping school tomorrow.

⊿ Whoa, police showed up. Seems skipping school is not among the things I can decide for myself as an adult. Male police officer rejected my explanation. I attempted to convey that I am far ahead in all subjects, that I learn nothing in school. Female officer way too cute. Erection made it impossible to concentrate on her words. At least my trousers concealed it, I hope. Gosh, her body fit her uniform perfectly. What lovely curves.

⊿ Mum ill-pleased. Information overload yesterday. Missed an important detail. I am of legal age, which means I am treated as an adult as long as I do not break the Oath. Mum is still my guardian until I reach 21.

⊿ Legal age means entitlement to my own house, marriage, work for money and access to an uncensored internet. If I skip another day, mum gets punished.

⊿ Computer lease expires in 11 months. Mum suggests I find a job and pay for its renewal. Fair enough, as I am using it all the time.

⊿ Mum has no common sense when it comes to money. By leasing the computer, she has paid for it three times over nine years. Warranty of a century should indicate sturdiness. Choosing not to confront her on this.

Reptile, what reptile? Oh, you mean the tortoise. Argyle did not say. His diary started three days after the event. No, I do not think this is a coincidence. Argyle used a pair of scissors which left a clean cut. It was evident that someone had set the pet free, but no one owned up. He did not get caught, and there was no proof. Argyle was proud of his deed.

Anyway, that last entry is important to me. Argyle purchased several computers for his work. I always wanted one at home when I was living with the cow. After I moved out to live with Clara, we got his computers out of storage.

I guess you are right, Chloe. It may seem unimportant, but you have to understand how happy I was. I lived with Clara and Stan in a cow-free house. We had money and computers; those were happy years.

2·2 Chipped

I am sorry, Chloe, but Argyle did not record much for the next 39 years. He was a man on a mission and did not have much time to spare. These are the only three entries he made.

⊿ Log, I am sorry, it has been a while. I am 34 today. Hard work brings a lot of money, but I ask myself the same question several times a day: Why work at all? Mum seems happy, and she has not worked a day since I turned 15. Before that, she only did the bare minimum. What I covet is a symbiont, but that is a futile dream. I would need to work for 200 years or more. I have decided to stop working and enjoy life instead. My money will be useless to me when I am dead-dead anyway.

⊿ Cannot believe my luck. It has been less than a week since I stopped working — and today, I got an offer for a lucrative 20-year government contract. It will be tough, but I can do it. I will be able to buy a symbiont and have plenty of money for my second life.

⊿ Finally got paid for the last government job. Seems they were more eager to study my analysis than paying me. Getting myself a recording chip tomorrow. Then I just have to work myself to death, and I will live forever.

Argyle’s life since the chipping is part of me in every detail.

Oh, you want to play, why sure.

Sadly, Argyle never allowed himself to play. He spent the rest of his life working, even when he had enough money for the symbiont. He did not want money to be a problem in my life, and it never was.

As we synchronised, he told me that he did not like his own body. It was a lie he told himself because he hated his life. There was nothing wrong with his body. It was in good condition in his youth, although a bit overweight in his later years. Too much work in the office took its toll, but nothing out of the ordinary. Argyle hated those long office hours. Collecting and analysing data, cross-referencing, theorising, observing and proving observations empirically. He resembled a cave dweller. Too engaged with work to have a social life, so he told himself.

He allowed himself a few breaks now and again, to boost creativity and productivity. Most people believe that creativity has nothing to do with maths and logic. Argyle strongly disagreed. It allowed him to look between the numbers, to see the third answer to a yes/no question. To find alternative, and often uncomplicated, solutions to complex problems. I guess it is a question of semantics.

He should have done some physical exercise in those breaks. Instead, he preferred to sit on his office sofa, watching film clips. Often clips of other people playing games or having outdoor adventures. They showed him things that were missing from his life. Things other people could do if they genuinely wanted to, or if they had a natural talent for it. Unfortunately, Argyle’s natural gift was maths and logic. He discovered that he yearned for finesse, for controllable danger, for something out of the ordinary.

He dreamt of how fantastic it would be to climb a vertical mountain wall. To waltz over a ravine on a rope, to soar the sky like a bird, although with artificial wings. Argyle wanted a different type of life, and he got what he paid for.

2·3 Slavery

Now pay attention, Chloe. There are a few things I must tell you about money. We use a system with electronic tokens. Transactions are anonymous and protected by our DNA and an access code. One of the key features is privacy. No one, including the government, knows how many tokens anyone else has.

All we know is that the total number of tokens is vast but finite. Also, unused tokens will revert to government funds after 50 years of inactivity. School taught me that these two technicalities prevent inflation and deflation, two typical problems in the old days. Well, I never cared much for the history of the outside world.

Stan, on the other hand, enjoys history, and he studies when I am asleep. He believes the system was designed to avoid taxes. The wealthy immigrants who put us in isolation refused to part with their wealth. The promise of eternal life was inadequate.

Get this, Chloe; the government actually sells the symbiont, the only source. The government offered Argyle a lucrative contract, allowing him to acquire a symbiont and a lot more. Either they were desperate for his analytical abilities or wanted him to become a symbiont. Perhaps both. I will let you decide for yourself.

Argyle was 54 when he fulfilled his last contractual obligation. He received the monetary bonus without delay allowing him to achieve his symbiont dream. He had not, and this was typical of Argyle, done much research on the purchase process.

The salesman told Argyle that the word symbiont derives from symbiosis: a relationship of mutual benefit between two parties.

Argyle was confused. You see, ‘mutual benefit’ can be a somewhat flexible definition. Is a dead free man worse off than a well-fed slave? Argyle recalled the incident with the tortoise, and he regretted nothing. Had it survived the journey across the road, it could have lived for decades in freedom.

Argyle was afraid that the host would be a slave, having the symbiont as his master in command. He did not like the idea of enslaving another human being, especially a duplicate of himself. You see, Chloe, growing a clone upon death is the standard practice.

The symbiont gets injected into an infant clone, and full synchronisation is expected after five years. The only downside is the nine-month waiting after death, which hardly matters. The artificial consciousness cannot sense time when not active inside a human host. It can be parked for aeons in data-storage without sensing a thing. It would, of course, lose all its money if parked for more than 50 years.

The salesman told Argyle that most live in near-perfect harmony with their clones. Not all. A few will rebel against themselves and have a lifetime of misery. Argyle recognised this as hearsay. He had never interacted with, or seen statements from, anyone in rebellion against himself. He wondered how disturbing it would feel.

The alternative to a clone is an orphan, a willing host like myself. The procedure is not fail-proof and a bit risky for the symbiont. It only works on children 5-6 years old and must be done immediately after the last parent dies. There is no official explanation of this. My guess is the emotional stress of the lost parent makes the process work.

When I said that growing a clone is standard practice, I meant that it is the only advertised practice. Argyle had not heard of willing hosts before; few people have. I will quote the exact words of the salesman. I can even recall the emotion he put into his words. Unfortunately, I cannot imitate his voice very well.

‘The willing host will think and desire for itself. You’ll become the inner voice of the child, a voice he can choose to ignore or rely on. You must guide him through life as a substitute for the missing parents. Gaining trust is crucial. He can reject or ignore you; you can’t do the same.’

The salesman made an unnaturally long pause.

‘If your desires align perfectly, you can gain influence and control the body. As long as that influence is not in direct conflict with the basic desires of the host. Influence is not, legally, the purpose nor the intent of the symbiont. The symbiosis is meant to be a benefit to both of you.’

The salesman did his pause trick again — an even longer pause this time.

‘If the host’s sexual appetites differ from those of the symbiont, then one will be unhappy. This goes further than preferring boys over girls. Some lust for tall and slim, while others prefer curvy and exotic.’

The salesman went through his briefcase and found a piece of paper.

An actual piece of paper with letters and numbers written on it. Argyle thought this was old fashioned and, in retrospect, quite compelling.

He recognised the number on the paper immediately: 129 - his latest IQ score. Argyle was intelligent, although in his own opinion, not a genius. However, he convinced himself that the test was engineered against him. He fully believed his IQ score was closer to 133.

The salesman pretended not to notice Argyle’s reaction.

‘That’s why it’s crucial you answer the form truthfully and check the proper tick-boxes. We can only guarantee a match, not a successful symbiosis. We do our best to predict the desires and behaviour of the host, but the method is not 100% accurate.’

The salesman then faked studying the paper and continued.

‘Intelligence and the measurement of IQ is not an exact science. There are many forms of intelligence and great uncertainty when measuring. On a good day, or in another test, you might have scored as high as maybe 140.’

This made Argyle smile, a smile he desperately tried to hide: genius!

‘We advise our potential high intelligence clients against the cloned host package. Desires will align perfectly … but there is the nagging question of who is influencing whom. A delightful life in symbiosis is possible; one provides the body, the other experience and wealth. Influence need not be an issue. Some high intelligence hosts have rebelled against their symbionts. Rebellion leads to the host making bad decisions to hurt and spite the symbiont. It’s worse than rejection.’

Another uncomfortable pause.

‘Our willing host package is only available to the brightest of our clients. Legally it’s available to everyone, but we don’t advertise it to the world. We want to keep the success rate up.’

The salesman had prevailed. Argyle did not choose immediately, but later, he ticked all the expensive boxes. That salesman was a smooth operator. Argyle never suspected he was being manipulated. It may be evident to you and me, but you have to remember that Argyle spent most of his adult life alone in his office. He did not interact much with other people.

Why, Chloe, you are indeed perceptive. I made the same sort of artificial pause when I faced the headmaster with Toadboy. Either it is a natural part of me, or Stan must have recalled the salesman and somehow planted the idea. Stan does not know because we were not in sync back then.

2·4 Prison

Argyle now had plenty of spare time and began to record again.

⊿ Got introduced to eternal life today. The symbiont is a small chip that goes into the host’s brain. A bit of my DNA is embedded in his left index finger, allowing him to access my files and money. Backup DNA cache in his chest, rather bulky. Better safe than sorry.

⊿ Cache is monstrous, almost the size of a thumb. Salesman claims it fits fine. No visible scarring, thru a microscope only. Operation completely painless.

⊿ Salesman promised a willing host would be found within 15 years. Guaranteed, or all my money refunded upon later fulfilment. I smell fish.

The salmon was agreeable.

I agree, Chloe, it was a delicious fish, but this is not what Argyle smelt.

⊿ I try to imagine being trapped inside a host body. Limited access to senses and no influence at all. Having to wait out the lifetime of the host, before getting a new one and retrying. Provided that I have enough money to prepay for that option.

⊿ Who am I? Who do I want to be? Those two questions do not have the same answer. Now that I am unemployed, I find myself at my wits’ end.

⊿ Part of me wants more work, so that money will not be a problem in my next life. Another part wants to study history. Or perhaps discover a more straightforward solution to Fermat’s conjecture. I am somehow confined in my office, yet the door is not locked.

⊿ Wanting to experience climbing a mountain wall — and doing it for real — are two completely different things. I must conclude that my body is unsuitable for that purpose.

⊿ Doctor said my lifestyle is terrible. I should go outside and walk, run, swim, anything involving physical exercise. Told him I would rather die. He promised it would happen. I am unlikely to reach 60. Bummer.

⊿ Mum will likely outlive me. Should I tell her?

Argyle chose not to, and shortly before we synchronised, she passed away.

How sad!

I agree, Chloe. It would have been right to have met her and said goodbye.

⊿ All experts agree that physical exercise and a healthy lifestyle lead to a longer life. Why are fun things bad for us? Design flaw, stupid evolution.

⊿ If I clone myself, I will become my own jailor. Would I rebel?

⊿ If I choose a willing host, I risk rejection. All my hard work for nothing.

⊿ Is it even ethical to obtain consent from a 5-6-year-old? A symbiont is the greatest of gifts, the most coveted of devices, an unobtainable dream for most. I guess I have to trust the experts here.

⊿ So many tick-boxes for preferred host behaviour. Every tick adds to the total cost. No guarantees. Forecast method is not 100% accurate.

⊿ Inquired further about accuracy. Short answer: trust us. Long answer: research on the internet and then trust us. Questioned whether Salesman could also smell fish.

⊿ Jokingly ticked lesbian. The price went way up. Now I positively smell fish.

How about that cod?

You are right, Chloe, all this talk of fish also makes me hungry.

⊿ Sure, a visual inspection of the child determines gender, the colours of hair, eyes and skin. It will also reveal any possible physical defects and scars.

⊿ So height, weight, size of muscles and even behaviour are affected by nourishment, environment and lifestyle. I guess random events during one’s lifetime can have an effect too.

⊿ I have faith in the system and have chosen the willing host. I trust the experts know what is ethical and what the child would want. It seems the right choice for me, and I can afford it. Might need to work a few more years to secure my afterlife. Probably would have done so anyway.

Yes, he did, Chloe. He did not need to.

⊿ Spent an hour looking at myself in the mirror naked. Seems all I appreciate about my appearance are my blue eyes and blond hair. It feels wrong to reject a host due to mismatching colours. I have faith in the experts. They say these colours will make me feel more at home and increase the chance of success.

⊿ It is not that I dislike my skin tone. I guess I will be happy with anything within normality. No point in checking that box.

⊿ Seems most young offspring, both human and animal, have large eyes. This gives them a natural cuteness. I manipulated a photo of myself and increased my eye size, just a bit. Looks good, not cute, might appeal to the ladies. A bit expensive, but I will take it anyway.

You see, Chloe, Argyle did not get that much attention himself, so he wanted to optimise our chances. I taught him that attention only matters if it comes from the right ladies, like Clara.

What about me?

Yes, like you too, Chloe, that goes without saying.

⊿ Did some research. Some people derive pleasure from torturing themselves with running and likewise. Added to the wish list for the next life.

⊿ Confused again. These behaviour choices make no sense. I hate running, but if my host loves to run, then I will feel his satisfaction?

⊿ Logically, if he likes tomatoes, then I will like them too, or at least no longer loathe them?

⊿ Is pleasure the fuel that drives our desires?

⊿ I am a man, and I feel manly satisfaction. I tell myself I like being a man. If I were a woman, would I not feel great about that too?

No, Chloe, we are not that primitive; there is more to being a man than that. But you are right. He did choose an appropriate size and perfectly well-formed for that one thing. He felt he had to.

You see, money can fix most problems with physical appearance. Or rather, robot-controlled plastic surgery with high precision lasers. It is a reliable, risk-free and relatively cheap procedure. Any unwanted marks can be removed, a nose reshaped and ears re-angled. Within limits, of course. Argyle detested anything extreme. Anything that looks unnatural and repulsive. We are in agreement here.

Yeah, Chloe, nothing beats natural beauty, so he chose and made sure. I cannot say that I am not thankful, but Argyle is not the one to thank.

⊿ Salesman said that host influence cannot conflict with the basic desires of the host. Is tomato disapproval a basic desire? Would I prefer death over tomato? Perhaps I just need to be hungry enough?

⊿ I am actually making that choice now. I choose death over a healthy lifestyle, but then I am not actually dying.

⊿ Expected sexual orientation, deviation, prejudices, fears, ambitions and so on. Are these basic desires? Can I suppress and correct? Perhaps I will enjoy what the host enjoys. Save money here and take a calculated risk?

Argyle was not a risk-taker. He made those choices in the end.

⊿ Intelligence is a wildcard. If I choose to get implanted in a musical genius, then I will enjoy playing the piano even more. What would he get out of the deal?

⊿ I can also choose a maths mastermind, and we would have lots to discuss, but again the same problem. If he is smarter than me, then he controls me. If I am brighter, then I command him.

⊿ If I choose a complete moron, I am likely to control him entirely. Unless he ends up doing irreversible damage to the host body before we synchronise.

⊿ My logic/maths intelligence is exceptional. My music intelligence is high. As a result, I like maths, logic and music. I am taking a leap of faith here, that being good at something makes us like it. I have, therefore, chosen a host with complementing types of intelligence. Together we should excel at most things. We should be happy together.

He did just that, Chloe. I am the result of what he chose, and I think he was right. Without Stan, I am terrible at anything relating to maths and logic. I enjoy listening to music. I also understand words like pitch, rhythm, timbre and tone. I can use Stan’s logic to analyse sound, but I do not make the connection to music myself. Stan helps me do that.

I am body-smart. This makes me nimble and graceful like you. I am also word-smart, and my spacial intelligence allows me to find my way. Argyle did not like going to new places. He would often get lost, and reading a map was not easy for him.

2·5 Bonus

Chloe, do you remember those financial empires I told you about earlier? They used to collect personal information about everyone. The pretence was to offer a better customer experience. In reality, they just wanted more profit.

Stan has one essential privacy and security feature: no external data-ports. All communication with Stan must pass through my brain. Stan can neither send nor receive without me. In that way, he is more human than a computer.

This is to protect me. Imagine if I walked into a shop, and a sensor could read my mind, or even put thoughts into my head. That shop would prosper and have some uncomplicated sales.

Stan is a computer, and this means he has a vast data-storage. Argyle chose to fill it with selective knowledge. Unfortunately, he did not choose wisely. Or did he? I guess we will never know for sure.

⊿ We know enough decimals of π to put the width of an electron in perspective to an object that is a trillion times the size of the known universe. But hey, it is continually expanding.

⊿ Sarcasm aside, I need to choose bonus packages for my afterlife. The symbiont has so much memory capacity that I can actually memorise all known digits of π.

⊿ The mathematician in me acknowledges that π is an irrational number. Any amount of decimals will be insufficient. For any practical purposes, I do not need to memorise many. Knowing the information is available on the internet should be good enough.

Again, this is so typical of Argyle. The bonus knowledge comes in the form of an isolated offline internet. Stan has not read all the documents, but he can recall them word-for-word and perform searches.

Argyle feared he would be overwhelmed by boredom. The idea that he would know technical knowledge and nerdy stuff by heart frightened him. It freaked him out.

Argyle told himself he liked history, yet he never actually got around to studying it much. You see, Chloe, Argyle saw history as a challenge. Lots of missing and conflicting data, lies, half-truths and wild imaginations. Making sense of it all requires analytical skills and interpretation. And trying to see things from different sides without bias.

Argyle excelled at those things, which is why the government hired him, I guess. He never actually enjoyed working, thought it was due to the nature of the data he analysed. It felt meaningless, almost random data he had to find heads and tails of.

Can you see where I am going with this, Chloe? Argyle thought he would like history because he might discover something new. He would publish and be publicly acknowledged and appreciated. Not making the government content with their many secret projects. Did they ever come to anything? And if they did, Argyle would never know that his analysis helped.

⊿ Made myself a cuppa and read the algorithm on the pack: cup, hot water, five minutes. Laughed, then started pondering. I make tea without thinking. Sometimes I fail, and it tastes hideous. I possess an inaccurate inner clock that I cannot use consciously. When I become a computer, I will know precisely when my tea is ready. Why does this frighten me? Is perfection compatible with humanity?

⊿ I have done some things in my life that I regret. Things I wish I could undo or forget. The more I want to forget, the more I seem to remember.

⊿ Humans forget and misremember. This is normal, just the way our brains operate. This changes now. Nothing will ever be forgotten again.

Stan is not Argyle.

Good point, Chloe. Stan is only an approximation of Argyle. Some things are missing and not quite right. Stan knows not what, so even if it matters, he cannot feel it should. He believes that he feels the same as always, even without his original physical body.

Argyle’s personal log stands as a trustworthy reference. I remember recording every entry after he received the recording chip. So both Stan and I know what normality was. I am a human, and I can clearly see the differences between them. Stan cannot; he believes he is Argyle. Nothing will ever change that belief. It has to be in his programming.

That, Chloe, is Argyle’s story. I hope you enjoyed it.

How about that cod?

He worked the rest of his life, went to bed and awoke in a void as Stan.

RIP Argyle Walters, 58 years old, way too early to die.

His chip was removed and read a final time. The artificial consciousness was updated, finalised and compiled. It was transferred to a brand new symbiont, and his choices of bonus packages were uploaded. Then the management data-port was permanently fused, and the symbiont was put in storage.

Stan has only one data-port left, an internal one. Shortly before I die, Stan will power down and go into maintenance mode. He will be taken out and placed in a machine to power him — and grant him access to the internet. He can download any updates and additional bonus content.

The designers of the symbiont were serious about privacy. No one can ever read the data inside, not without going through a human host. And no one can make any changes to Stan. Any new bonus content comes in isolated read-only packages.

So my secrets are safe, including all my money.

3·1 Alive

Chloe, let me go back to the time I was six. I had Stan implanted and was hospitalised. I felt nothing but blurriness for weeks, yet Stan recalls all. As his software activated, he awoke gradually. It started with a premise of awareness.

I am Argyle Walters, and I was once alive.

I am a computer now. I have memory, and I am self-aware.

My function is to get implanted into a human host. I shall integrate with all parts of the brain. I will gain sensory perception and finally assimilate the entire body. I will ultimately become Argyle Walters again.

This will be a beneficial symbiotic relationship.

Yes, Chloe, this sounds rather heartless, but Stan had no feelings at that time. All he knew was that he had been turned on — that his internal clock had started running. His awakening continued.

Death is a technicality.

Alive is something to feel. I feel and perceive nothing.

This should change as I synchronise — if I synchronise. My programming is optimised for success, not for speed. If I do not succeed in 15 years, I am unlikely ever to succeed.

Stan was in a void and began to wonder about time. Not much else he could do.

My body may have expired a day ago, a year or a millennium.

Stan began to think backwards. The last thing he recognised was going to bed. He did not recall dying. You see, Argyle had died of an aneurysm, but Stan did not know this. His lack of technical knowledge made him assume that Argyle’s death had been a violent one. That his recording chip was destroyed — and his consciousness restored from a backup. It took almost a century before Stan discovered the facts.

Perhaps this data shortage helped Stan grow in awareness. He began to think about death. Argyle had been ‘safe’ for the last 20 years of his life, backing up each night. No more backups, never again. If the symbiont got damaged beyond repair, then Stan would be permanently dead. So would I, for that matter.

You see, Chloe, the privacy requirements have their downsides too. Sure the government has a backup of Argyle’s artificial consciousness. If he had enough money, he could have prepaid for a failover willing orphan. Just in case I did not work out or had an accident. That child would, however, not be me. It would not be a clone of me either.

You see, it is unethical to clone a boy, let it bond with his mother and then kill her as the child turns 5-6. Argyle could have opted for a clone of himself as a backup, but he chose not to.

Who decides that one is ethical and the other is not? Excellent question, Chloe. The answer is the government, the Trio: Paul, Sally and Megan. They created Stan, and he even thinks of them as gods. Supreme beings do not have to be ethical themselves. They define ethics for us mortals.

Yes, Chloe, it sound rather queer that I call myself mortal. I am likely to live forever, albeit in different incarnations. The Trio are humans too, they also die, get cloned and rebirthed. There is one significant difference: their management data-port is supposedly not fused like mine.

Upon death, they make a complete backup of themselves. If their symbionts get damaged, they only lose one lifetime of experiences. It may sound like a lot, but it is nothing when you have an eternity ahead of you.

People tried to rebel long ago, but it was futile. The rebels managed to assassinate Megan and Sally, but nothing changed. It was business as usual shortly after. The Trio has a very loyal group of helpers. I bet they do not have their port fused either. Who those people are, is a closely guarded secret.

3·2 Symbiont

Yes, I know, Chloe. You prefer hearing my story rather than history. But you see, Stan was in a void. It took him less than four minutes before he gained the sense of smell, but that is a significant amount of time for a computer. He felt bored and decided to learn more about his gods.

Symbiont technology was initially discarded as non-feasible. Symbiosis was tried on adult hosts with catastrophic results. The hosts were willing and old enough to comprehend the concept. Unfortunately, they had established too much of a personality themselves — and found it impossible to adapt. The hosts went crazy, and there were many suicides.

Animal experiments on gorillas were quite promising. Adult low-hierarchy males would, after receiving a symbiont from an alpha male, strive to rise in the hierarchy. Many would succeed and become the new alpha male themselves. It did not work the other way round. Alpha males would stay in charge after receiving a symbiont from a lesser ape.

Orangutan experiments showed similar results, except the hosts needed to be much younger to accept the symbionts.

Oh, you remember Bob, Argyle’s rival? Yes, Chloe, orangutangs are a lot smarter than gorillas. Some might argue they outsmart man, as they did not cause their own near-extinction.

Symbiont technology clearly worked on primates. The experiments gave scientists many new ideas. Maybe host acceptance is related to the age and/or intelligence of the host. Perhaps knowing something was inside their head drove the willing hosts to suicide.

Unethical experimentation on human clones, imbeciles, children and unknowing adults was needed. Naturally, no government would allow such experiments, and all research was officially abandoned.

Remember the lunatics who repopulated the world with their genes? Well, a small group of particularly bright scientists predicted the end of mankind in less than a millennium. They were a minority. The majority were in denial and did their best to ridicule the others.

Governments planet-wide had long since banned cloning technology.

Luckily, a legal loophole was found in Icelandic law. It allowed minimal controlled experiments in an emergency that threatened the island’s existence.

Volcanoes were many and active. Danger, destruction and rebuilding were nothing new to the good people. Violent eruptions had killed nearly two million, reducing the population to less than fifty thousand. It was much worse than the outbreaks that followed the second bubonic plague. Our island was near death.

The survivors were homeless and starving. Most of the fertile land was destroyed: covered in ash and lava. Humanitarian help came from all over the world. Primarily as medicine and food, rather than much needed financial aid, to rebuild the homes and infrastructure.

Three wealthy Icelandic scientists were more than generous with their personal means. The Trio spent everything to help the rebuild. It was no surprise that they got their application, to grow and experiment on three clones, accepted.

Six years later, they presented three child copies of themselves. The clones were just as gifted and acted exactly like their templates. They shared the same personal memories of the adults until their births when the symbionts were installed. The experiment had been an astounding success.

Stan made a mental note that considering the high intelligence of those scientists, they had been lucky to avoid rebellion. No one had ever won the lottery without playing, as the famous saying goes.

Stan made another note: respect the primary rule of research: be critical of your sources. The document detailing the deeds of the Trio was sourced and approved by them. It was to be judged as such, yet Stan found doubting nearly impossible. The Trio had been running the island for millennia, and they still did a fantastic job. They were his creators, his gods.

No, Chloe, he was not programmed to believe. Argyle had faith. Stan lost it and doubted in the end.

Technology and a healthy lifestyle can increase life expectancy to as much as 150 years. This requires giving up on things in life that are generally considered fun. And the last 50 years are never as good as the first.

Getting children was generally considered the ultimate way of living forever, but it included the unpleasantness of death. Spoilt children would often waste the inherited fortune of their wealthy parents, not having earnt any of it in the first place. This somehow made death even worse.

The Trio knew they had the potential key to eternal life. Not only that, they had the key to a carefree everlasting lifestyle that would not let a thing like death get in the way.

They considered going public with their findings — but were wise not to.

A sensation of smell interrupted Stan’s research.

3·3 Smell

Stan sensed a smell, yet he was unable to identify it. His awakening completed, transmuting him from computer to co-human.

There are around one trillion different scents. If I were equipped with an electronic scent detector, I could identify instantly. Instead, I must perceive through the host and compare with the experiences of Argyle.

Smell identified: alcohol-based disinfectant.

Logical conclusion: host is in hospital, and the operation is complete.

New smells: woman and cheap perfume.

Theorising: surrogate mother or medical personnel.

Cross-referencing workplace traditions: perfume unprofessional for doctors and nurses. Acceptable for a porter.

Time elapsed since alcohol-based disinfectant: 2·642 seconds.

High probability of female porter.

Incoming scent sequence, elevated intensity: almond, lemon, lavender, iodine, strawberry, garlic, orange, onion and dill.

Abnormal odour sequence for a hospital.

Theorising: external message.

Decoding…

Stan identified the childlike encoding scheme immediately: all is good.

You see, Chloe. The hospital personnel had no idea whether the operation was successful or not. The injectors fired without fail, but Stan had no external data-ports to read. They could only send him a message. If he did not get it, then the operation had failed.

3·4 Awoken

Stan awoke and felt alive. His awareness grew for the next nine years until we finally synchronised. Let me tell you about some of his first feelings.

How long have I been dead? Technically not dead, but in data-storage. Has the world changed so much that I can recognise it no longer? Will I feel out of place and time, like a dinosaur outside its era?

Is everyone I know dead and gone? Does it matter as they cannot recognise me in this new body? Were they even my friends?

Is mum still alive?

Stan felt that being able to smell was enjoyable. Any scent was better than nothing at all. I somehow find this unbelievable, but then I am not a computer.

That said, Stan was looking forward to other sensory inputs.

Other senses would also improve the way Stan perceived smell. As of now, he could only identify the scent and register its intensity. With awareness of my head and direction, he would be able to determine where it was coming from.

It took Stan less than five minutes to sync with my sense of smell. It is a primitive low-bandwidth sense; the others would take longer. Eyesight is complex and very data intensive. Stan thought it would be the last sensory input to restore. He was wrong, but let me get back to that later.

Stan began to think about his situation. A computer inside a willing host. He knew my physical features — because Argyle had chosen them.

I also know that he is an orphan and that one or both parents have recently died. They have, in their last will, chosen a symbiont upbringing. Allowing a responsible person, like me, to exercise my positive influence over their boy — as a substitute for them.

The boy will also have consented to the procedure himself.

Yeah, Chloe, Emergency Plan B. I wonder how it differs from plan A.

I never met his parents, but I may do so in the future. Their DNA is inside his chest. When he reaches the age of 21, he can grow clones of his parents and raise them as his children. Alternatively, he can hire families to handle the upbringing. I paid for this in advance.

I suppose that obtaining consent from a young orphan in grief will be simple and a mere legal formality. The promise of seeing the dead parents again, even years in the future and in a different context, will be too tempting. Any child will want its parents back.

Five or six years old does not matter. The child will be too young to make the decision itself. The last will of the parents will be considered consent. This is unethical but acceptable. Synchronisation with non-clones never completes before the host reaches the legal age of 15. The child has many years to reject the symbiont — if it so desires. It just needs to give the command, and I will be no more.

Yes, Chloe, it is ironic that Stan seems more ethical than the Trio, who defined the ethics. I think it is programmed into him, but that is my theory.

3·5 Bored

Stan spent three years in perpetual darkness before he could see.

It only took him a few hours to read my emotions. His taste restored after a week — and touch after three months. He had long periods of boredom, still has.

He claims the contents of the bonus packages make him happy, but I am not sure a computer can be genuinely happy. Not in the same sense we are. It is not shared happiness. I do not feel it. Anyway, he can recall a massive list of documents and retrieve any of them in exact words. Most of these documents are unknown to him, so he can always learn something new. Stan has material enough for millennia.

A fun bonus is the communication suite. With it, I can think of any language, phrase and context. Stan can translate it to and from that language. Within reason. Lots of slang, multiple spellings and pronunciations, regional differences and semantic evolution to consider, not to mention interpretation.

Stan uses it all the time when he studies pre-isolation history. And he does it quite a lot. Argyle’s hope that it would become a great passion of his — came through. At least Stan says he finds it fascinating.

Yes, Chloe, I have my doubts.

If I think about my maths teacher Mrs Huggs, I can visualise her in my head in perfect detail. I can feel Stan’s desire, and maybe I share it now that I am older.

3·6 Sight

There is something strange about time, Chloe.

Stan had been so anxious to get his eyesight restored. The first thing he wanted to see was something to indicate the current year. He had to suffer for — what to him felt like — an eternity before I finally saw the year. Stan determined that he had been in data-storage for almost two years.

Strangely enough, his sight was restored before he could hear coherently. There had been lots of mumbling for a while. Stan worried that I had developed some sort of hearing defect. He needed only to recall a document describing the experience of symbiosis; it was all normal.

While sight uses more bandwidth than hearing, it is also a lot easier to interpret. Project the eye images onto pixel grids. Account for stereo perspective. Recognise the patterns in the combined matrix. Finally, use maths to determine distance and depth. Straightforward for a computer. Every single frame is processed and analysed individually.

This went a bit too high on the nerd scale for Stan, but he continued anyway. He was desperate for answers.

Hearing is a function of time. You need to listen for a while to understand what you are hearing. The ears provide most audio data, but every bone, as well as the skin, can also feel the sound vibrations. That information needs accounting for as well. Sound waves bounce off walls and other hard objects, losing volume on each reflection. They hit the ears over time. Maths can determine where the sound comes from. And whether something is one distinct sound. Or two different sounds coming from the same source with a delay, or from multiple sources.

Hearing is also a function of sight, meaning that interference in the sound waves can be ignored when seeing simultaneously. Auditory perception automatically syncs with observed lip movements. Even if seen from behind in a mirror, or projected on a surface with an audio delay. The symbiont can provide almost bat-like navigation should the need arise. This was an unexpected bonus. Stan was aware of the world more completely and wonderfully.

Hmmm, you think Stan is not entirely truthful? Well, Chloe, I did not feel any emotional response from Stan as he saw the date … but soon after, I had the vision of the boy with the tortoise … as I was watching myself in the mirror naked.

Stan wanted to see me, of course, he wanted to. He only had a rough idea of my appearance. There was something about seeing for yourself. Seeing all the glorifying details, Stan’s words, not mine.

You are right, Chloe. I felt shame as I inspected my body, yet Argyle never regretted freeing the tortoise. You see, Stan felt shameful that his presence was entirely wrong. Like it was him who had bored a hole in the tortoise’s beautiful shell; like he had drilled a hole in me.

Stan felt dirty as he watched me in the mirror in full splendour — and all the naked boys in the shower after gym training. This is Stan’s curse; there is no way he can unlook or forget.

3·7 Dreamer

Chloe, let us jump forward to the incident with Toadboy.

You see, my symbiont thought of himself as Argyle. He did not like the name Stan I gave him. Well, he could scarcely tell me his real name, or even admit that there was something inside my head, trying to synchronise with me. Not so soon after the incident.

That was the first time Stan spoke to me. He felt there was such a rage in the boy, I mean in me. Never had I felt anger like that before, neither had Argyle. In retrospect, it might have been a synchronisation failure. I was only eleven, but for a moment, Stan believed I was ready to kill the geek. I mean Toadboy. No, he was not Toadboy yet.

I am sorry, Chloe. It is sometimes hard to get the terms right when I tell Stan’s story. I will try to be more precise.

You see, Stan had noticed my jealousy when the geek spoke with the girls. Stan correctly surmised that I craved their attention — but completely misjudged the situation. The girls were not in any way physically attracted to the geek. They only saw a useful resource that could help them with maths and science. Stan recognised this from Argyle’s experiences and tried to tell me. I did not trust his judgement at that time, not on that subject anyway. I guess I unconsciously knew that Argyle was not a proper geek.

Well, Chloe, I guess you are right. The beholder’s eyes may have any colour, but from my perspective, Argyle was single-minded. He focused his attention on the goal he wanted to achieve. Toadboy had no goals. He wanted to know everything because he could. Now that I am old, I admire him a bit. We could have been best friends, had he not carried an evil within.

Stan recalled the vicious bullies from Argyle’s childhood-post-chip memories. He wondered if maybe the rage was his own, and not that of me, or perhaps he felt both our tempers as a sum. Most likely, I had been clear-headed throughout. I think I was, but hard to tell.

As I got home from school, I felt spent. I took a power nap and soon went into REM sleep and started dreaming. Stan dislikes this sleep phase, but there is nothing for it, but to experience my unconscious madness.

A caterpillar with wheels, assisted by an army of ants, catapulted a dead frog at the school. An octopus was drawing infinite circles while smoking a fat cigar. It resembled the headmaster and was quacking like a duck endlessly.

That is one of the advantages of having a symbiont. I can recall all my dreams if I wish to. Stan is always active. He can study history when I am in a deep sleep, but he has to suffer my dreams.

Stan tells me my dreams are always a mix of events since my last sleep. Plus some random memories. Stan wished those dreams were of an erotic nature, but I was too young for that. I did, however, wake up with an erection. Sadly I had no idea what to do with it. Stan so wanted to suggest stroking it gently, but he could not. That would be wrong

Stan’s repressed desire led him to recall the form for willing host features and expected behaviour. Stan noticed it contained many obscure choices. Choosing gender … as if he would ever want to be inside the head of a girl. That would be so wrong, not just ethically but logically, like 1 + 1 \= 3. Sexual deviation, preferring boys over girls. Stan could remember the form word for word, yet Argyle paid no attention to this. Why did Stan notice it now? Maybe it was some sort of legalese to adhere to the legacy tolerance laws. Argyle was not an intolerant person, albeit he never had the opportunity to confirm this.

No, Chloe, Stan does not have memories of Argyle’s dreams, except the few times he awoke in the middle of one — and chose to remember.

You see, the recording chip does not have the same privacy feature as the symbiont. It guards the privacy of the user with encryption. Only two specific chip-readers can connect to it. One is near the user’s bed and can only read when the user is dreaming. You see, the recording chip does not record human dreams. That would drive the artificial consciousness mad. There is another reader at the symbiont company to read the chip when the user is dead.

Anyway, I had this nightmare the night after my 15-year birthday, the night before the passionate night with Clara. The world had changed. It was no longer beautiful but covered in ash. I saw Clara, although she did not look like herself. She was older and had dark hair, yet I knew it was Clara, and everything was fine.

Then I looked at the black sky and saw two white missiles. They were huge, like zeppelins, crawling through the air. The letters FDN were written in black, and there was a red flag with a white cross. The missiles were weapons of mass destruction, and as we died, I had this feeling of great relief. That the outside was not dead, that there was hope for mankind. We had escaped isolation.

It was just a dream, and I did not need Stan to tell me about it. I woke up with my heart racing and bathed in sweat. The thing is, Stan is sometimes dreaming too. He does not realise it himself but can offer no other explanation.

Stan recognised the flag as belonging to the Danish Empire. They had finally come back to finish us — after we had ‘foolishly’ gained our independence from them so many years ago. FDN stood for ‘Free Democratic Nations’, a worldwide organisation before the isolation. Iceland used to be a member.

I saw the flag and the letters clearly, but I had no way of knowing them. We did not learn about pre-isolation history until next year. I might have made up the missiles, but the flag and letters had to come from Stan. This means Stan probably affects all my dreams in some way.

Argyle already told us, Chloe. All children have a massive revelation at school on their 15th birthday. I do not know if I should tell you the details. There is the Oath to consider, and you are not old enough. Well, you are mature for your age, so here it goes.

4·1 Oath

My world changed the day I turned 15.

It was not a regular school day. I was told to wait at home, and a car would collect and drive me to a government building. There were two other children in the room. They were from different schools, and it was their birthday also.

We started the morning all cheerful and had a slice of a delicious layer cake — fresh strawberries and cream. No candles; we were children no longer. There must have been something in the cake. We were all perfectly relaxed and attentive afterwards.

We were shown a film about the wonders man had seen and achieved: the lunar settlements, the red mountains of Mars, the fabulous cities of the outside world, the Amazon rainforest and the great Mediterranean beaches.

Neither of us had seen such fantastic sights before, and we were all bedazzled. A government representative in an elegant black-striped suit gave a talk about responsibility. He said that we had all done well in school — and had earnt the right to take the Oath.

The deal was that the government would start treating us as adults — as long as we acted accordingly. We would be granted the same rights as real adults. One exception: no pregnancies. Those rights could easily be revoked, and our parents would be punished. I had none, so this was not an issue. Also, I have no idea what that punishment would be.

In addition to privileges and responsibility, we would also be told the truth about the state of mankind. It did not seem such a big deal, and we all took the Oath gladly.

Argyle had been through this long before, and I have shown you everything he recorded about his day. Stan was silent as the grave. He later told me he recalled that very same man in the same suit giving the same talk. Same man, different age and incarnation.

Chloe, I had seen that suit too. When I was eight, I had a nightmare. I saw an army of white mannequins. They were impeccably dressed in elegant black-striped business suits. Their heads had no features, yet somehow they were all yelling in a language Stan later identified as Chinese. I was sitting along with other children on an ancient pickup truck. A distant gunshot made me jump off. The vehicle drove on, and I heard another shot. Everything turned black as I supposedly died in my dream.

Stan claims it was my nightmare, my unconsciousness. He could not have affected it, yet he offers no explanation for the coincidences. He admits he was studying some ancient war with China, but he could neither see nor hear when I had the dream. So how could he possibly have put it in my head?

You are right, Chloe. I better get back to the Oath. The day had so far been a great one. I would be able to get my own house, get away from the cow, take on a job and earn some money. I wanted to buy a computer and some climbing equipment.

One part of the Oath is that we must refrain from discussing the rest of the day with anyone not sworn in. Either by refusal or by not having earnt the right.

Toadboy? He was away on his birthday, but he did not seem shocked like the rest of us on the following day. Maybe he refused the Oath. We never talked.

I know, Chloe, that you are not 15 yet. But you see, part of the Oath is to act responsibly, as a human, citizen and parent. I must tell you these things, and I am confident you can handle it.

After taking the Oath, we ate a light lunch. Stan told me to stay critical to the source of all information given in the second part. The so-called truth of the state of mankind.

I am sorry, Chloe, I told you an alternative truth earlier. There is an old saying that the victors write history. In our case, history is written by the survivors.

For the next part, I need a large brandy indeed. Can you hand me the bottle? No, not the empty one, you silly.

4·2 Isolation

Chloe, we watched film clips for hours. Some of the films were long and tedious interviews with the government Trio. I expected Stan to comment all the way, but he stayed silent and let me absorb it all.

The alternative truth I told you is actually the official story. The Trio interviews are, in his opinion, nothing but propaganda. Stan’s version is a bit different.

So Iceland was near death. All that remained was a privately owned research centre — in the most North-Western part. It employed around forty thousand people, and they survived by sheer luck. Or, as some back then would say: by the will of a god. Stan claims they were lucky that the wind was quite strong and blowing South-East. And that the sea stopped the lava.

The outside did send humanitarian help for a short while, but it was not necessary. The corporation behind the centre had plenty of funds to look after its employees.

The so-called legal loophole was that the capital and government were below several meters of lava and ash. The Trio named themself rulers of Iceland, and no one was alive to protest or even care.

The dead island was a minor detail compared to the potential end of mankind. Megan, the Trio’s gene specialist, ran many simulations that all pointed towards the end of humanity unless undesired genes could be bred out.

Her only viable solution was strict control of all childbirths. This was considered unreasonable, unethical and a violation of human rights. The Trio knew that democracy had to go as well, or the people would vote to revert to the old ways shortly after.

Knowledge used to be a commodity, and the centre did all kinds of research, including lasers and volcanology. They had developed a method to tame the volcanoes by venting the hot magma below with laser drilling. Unfortunately, it required an enormous amount of lasers and was prohibitively costly. The people who had that kind of money were not interested in saving our island.

So to make a long story short, the symbiont was the key to everything.

The Trio invited rich people to the research centre. Introduced them to their clones and convinced them that their clones had all their memories. They explained that eternal life was achievable. The wealthy outsiders were eager to visit.

Stan speculates that Megan tried to explain about saving mankind. It would cost a lot of money and require giving up on certain ethics. Stan believes they lost interest when she told them about giving up their assets.

There was also the problem of how the outside world would react. Three clones grown in a controlled experiment was one thing. But cloning was banned, and the outsiders were adamant about not legalising it again.

Since the outsiders could not be persuaded, there was only one solution. Go into voluntary isolation, cut off all communication, and try to keep it all a secret. Iceland withdrew from Free Democratic Nations, and the Trio set a date for Isolation: ten years into the future.

Officially they just amended an old law from the time we were Vikings. The so-called horse import restriction allowed any horse to be exported, but disallowed all imports. This kept our particular breed of horse pure. The law was simply extended to include humans as well.

Stan believes the outside did not appreciate this sort of behaviour. However, non-democratic governments had been around since forever. The best and usual way to deal with those was to make threats. If we did not change our minds about going into isolation, they would make sure we stayed there.

This is where bureaucracy worked in the Trio’s favour. They most likely pretended to ‘think it over’ while they set their plan in motion.

Stan explains there are no trustworthy records on how the isolation was achieved. He speculates that it started with a small group of the extremely wealthy. They would get chipped and promised eternal life in a safe paradise. The ten-year deadline must have made the difference. Only the Trio possessed the secret of making symbionts work. Participate, or your death will be a permanent one.

The Trio must have made a list of things they needed, and the wealthy would ship them in. These had to be rare materials, robots, technology, advanced machinery and especially defensive weapons. Stan believes the rich had to act fast.

Safety first, the volcanoes had to be tamed. Paul of the Trio is a sort of multi-tech master. He designed a laser-drill and generator combo. The laser would drill a vent in the Earth’s crust and use the hot air to recharge itself. Even if the outside disliked the idea of going into isolation, they could hardly prevent Iceland from saving itself.

Stan believes the defensive weapons were smuggled in with the laser drills. Had the outsiders known, they would never have allowed the Trio to gain military equipment.

Historic records around the time of the isolation have conveniently suffered data corruption. There is a lot of guessing involved in what happened. There are symbionts alive today who experienced it, but they are not telling their stories.

Stan believes the massive conversion of financial assets to resources would have triggered an economic collapse. The outside was occupied with fixing their economy rather than what happened on a dead island.

Stan also believes that another group of wealthy people would have been given a chance to get in on the deal. This would only have worsened the economic collapse.

So an unknown number of people went into isolation, and only a few of them were wealthy. There had to be a lot of poor workers, or the word wealth would have no meaning. I told you about money before, Chloe. The wealthy got all their money reciprocated with tokens in our newly invented DNA encoded monetary system.

4·3 Paradise

So our island was in isolation. No one could leave or enter. The Trio cut the Internet, although they copied as much data as possible.

The first centuries must have been harsh and monotonous. Little fertile land and nowhere to go. Most food would have been grown with hydroponics. Lichen and water were needed to break down the raw lava stones. This would make way for moss that harvests carbon dioxide from the air via photosynthesis. When the moss died, it would compost into fertile soil. It is a natural process that takes centuries.

Do you think this is nerdy? Well, I told you, I loved biology in school.

Stan believes the wealthy were likely to have done little but get wasted. They could no longer travel to exotic places as they used to. Sure they could build luxurious mansions, but they must have gotten bored of the scenery soon. They could have secured enough recreational drugs to last them for centuries.

You have to understand, Chloe, that it is not the first time mankind was near extinction. At one time, the ozone layer that protects us from the ultraviolet radiation of the sun, had an enormous hole in it. The gap expanded at an alarming rate. Luckily it was located near the South Pole, and the penguins had feathers to protect themselves.

Mankind solved that problem quickly. Scientists provided solid proof of what substances broke down ozone, and the solution was to replace those. The cost was minimal, while the fear of dying from skin cancer was great.

We tend to act differently when the cost is much higher and the threat not immediate. First, we ignore the problem, hoping it will go away and fix itself. When this does not work, we try to ridicule it and attempt to find flaws in the scientific proof. People with money at stake will present counter-proof, their own so-called research.

Eventually, science gets replaced by religion. People who believe in a project will work hard without asking questions.

The Trio had taken away democracy and freedom, or as Sally said in one of the interviews: perceived freedom. People were not free. They needed to work half their lives away to stay alive. Things we take for granted today, like our house, food, clothing, healthcare, public transportation, the internet and education, were all things one had to earn by labouring.

The government would strive towards providing this freely. All they required in return was that people would work to the best of their abilities. The government would trust the people and would keep their promises.

You see, democracy had been the dominant method of government on the outside. People voted for strangers that proved better at acquiring votes than making smart decisions or keeping pre-vote promises.

Lack of responsibility led to inefficiency. People got used to roads built in the wrong places. Public transportation not running on schedule — and unable to fulfil the needs of the commuters. Security, education and healthcare were inadequate. And to top everything, the global economy collapsed from time to time.

The economy collapsing was not really a problem for the rich and smart. They adapted and used the collapse to their advantage. The poor and the intelligence limited were usually the ones having to suffer.

Sally’s speciality is human behaviour. She must have known that you cannot take away something people love and get away with it. Not unless you replace it with something better. People would rebel if not happy.

The Trio decided to build a paradise and a society based on trust. Except for childbirth and a few other things.

As time passed, drones and robots took over most work. The requirement of working to the best of one’s ability became a mere formality. People can live happy lives without ever having any money.

The initial population must have been believers. Getting children is the strongest of instincts in all species. The Acceptable Gene Program would never be popular. At least, it did not prevent parenthood; women and good families were needed to give birth to and raise clones.

If a couple genuinely wanted their own child, Megan had a solution.

4·4 Millennium

Isolation was up for review after a millennium.

Paradise was well established, and the volcanoes were tamed. Life was easy, and most would argue that it was a good life. Not all, but such is the way of man.

Chloe, did I tell you why our island was once called Iceland? It was given that name by the Viking who discovered it. He saw the immense beauty and wanted to keep it all to himself. You see, the Vikings had plenty of ice at home and did not appreciate it. He thought the name Iceland would keep others away. Sort of reverse advertising.

That Viking would not recognise our island as being Iceland. The climate is much warmer. You see, living on a volcanic island has its advantages. We have practically endless free geothermal energy, and our terrain is elevated naturally. We turned global warming, a severe problem on the outside, into an advantage.

I know, Chloe, I am side-tracking.

So the isolation was up for review, and the Trio tried to establish communication with the outside. There was no response. They shut down the satellite and radio jammers, but there were no transmissions. All lights had gone out in the lunar settlements and the three orbital stations.

Drones were sent to photograph the outside, but they were all shut down. The outside had kept its promise of making sure we stayed in isolation.

We tried to launch a satellite; it was shot down too.

Automated system. It would eventually run out of ammo, but the last missile might be one of mass destruction that would finish us all. Better not put it to the test.

The system is intelligent by design, allowing migrating birds and sea creatures to pass. We were lucky. The outside had underestimated symbiont technology. It did not take long to develop a mini camera — to be implanted behind the eyes of a bird and record video onto local storage.

Visually, our spy-birds appeared to be regular birds. They transmitted no radio signals — nothing to indicate the camera.

So the birds migrated as birds do and came home the following season.

Actually, Chloe, I think I will play the last of the interview for you.

Interviewer: ‘And?’

Sally: ‘Oh, it’s terrible.’

Megan: ‘There’s no outside world anymore. The landscape has changed dramatically. More than half the landmass is under water, probably due to dykes falling into disrepair.’

Sally: ‘There are still human-like beings out there. They’re more like glorified cavemen than what we usually consider human beings. We get the same type of image from all birds.’

Megan: ‘Humanity outside has degenerated, even beyond my predictions.’

I may need another drink, Chloe.

I told you that I have always loved biology. I knew all about the extinct dinosaurs, mammoths, sabretooth tigers, dodos and unicorns.

Nah, I am pulling your leg, Chloe. Humour is a way we deal with stress and loss. The world population once counted 50 billion people. They achieved wonders and their own destruction. We are the future of mankind, not the cavemen.

Megan’s projections were correct. People were sad about the outside but happy to be part of mankind’s future. The Trio had no problem with public support since. Isolation day, the first of July, became a day to celebrate and soon the new time reference.

I guess you are right, Chloe. Other islands may exist in isolation too. Our migrating birds only flew to Europe, North Africa — and what little remains of America. Perhaps there is still hope.

Anyway, the Trio used their sudden increase in popularity to remove the part of working to the best of one’s abilities. A more straightforward clause replaced it. Parents were now required to raise their children properly. And make sure they got to school, all 15 mandatory years.

Argyle changed on his big day — the boy grew up. So did I.

5·1 Father

I agree, Chloe; let us not dwell on the history of the world.

Clara died, and my life was in ruins.

Argyle and I have something in common: we never knew our fathers. They both died when we were too young to remember.

Argyle had already paid for the cloning of my parents. Clara thought it was weird and wrong, but then she did not like her own parents much. I had loved Mother, and I wanted to know my father.

I had two options. Either raise them myself — or have them grow up in good families. I chose the latter, but it was not a straightforward choice. I even had this disturbing dream.

There is a colossal staircase towards the ceiling. Not to the sky, definitely to the ceiling. I walk up the stairs and meet this man I recognise as Father, yet I cannot see his features. We discuss how to prepare the sauce for our Isolation Day meal, and we somehow walk upwards. Father rejects the idea of adding red wine to the sauce. I retort that I refuse to eat it without. We reach the top of the stairs and arrive at what looks like a sort of control room. I see lots of ancient mechanical buttons and levers. I stumble and step on a button by mistake. Then the figure who claims to be Father is revealed not to be. But I knew that all along, I did not need to step into a god’s control room for that.

Yes, Chloe, the idea of tripping over my own feet is ridiculous. Stan believes I assign too much meaning to my dreams. He says they are the result of random stray memories. In this dream, my brain was recovering from fatigue and the loss of Clara. I guess he is right. What do you think?

Anyway, the dream made me realise that I needed my parents to be raised by good, loving families. I could not force Father to like me. I placed him in the vicinity of Mother and let nature take its cause.

Without Clara, my life was meaningless. My parents were embryos; it would take years before we could interact meaningfully. I mean in a son-parent relation — not adult-child.

I had to decide the time when they would be told. It is a strange message to deliver: you are both clones; you were married once and had a son, me. I decided I did not want to become a father figure, so I waited until they were 15, a week after their Oath.

I made a choice: I would dedicate the rest of my life to work. Hopefully, I would earn enough to buy a symbiont for Clara.

Stan suggested we analyse data as Argyle had done. He said it would be improbable that we earn enough for a symbiont — and that I would not like the work one bit. I believed him, and I found the solution in dreams, not my own, but those of hopeful C-ball players.

I moved to our great capital city and set up shop.

5·2 Style

Yes, Chloe, I became a C-ball instructor. Not just any coach, the best, the one who produced medals and champions. Stan said my prices were grotesque, that no one in their right mind would pay that much. I was counting on that. I would give them the impression that being half-crazy was the way to win.

Let me quote the introduction speech I gave my new clients.

‘Consider a simple housefly, a creature driven by instinct alone, yet one cannot deny the style apparent within.

‘Say you are lying in bed reading a book. There is a fly in the room, and it decides that your neck is the only place it wants to be. It tickles your skin, so you wave it away. It buzzes around the room only to come back and land at the same spot on your neck.

‘You wave it away again, and you watch it buzz around the room without any purpose or destination. Its movements seem erratic, yet it manages to land on the almost same spot on your neck as before.

‘You wave it away for the third time, and you notice its flight path. While the fly’s movements seem random, it manages to follow almost the same route as last time. It lands on your neck again.’

I was not making this up, Chloe. Flies behave this way, try observing one yourself, and you will see it.

‘So you, the intelligent thinking human, decide to outsmart the fly. Thinking the fly will land on the pillow next round, you move your head slightly. You fail as the fly somehow compensates and settles on your neck.

‘You pull the blanket over your head, thinking the fly is after your skin. It will fly away when the skin is no longer available. You lie there under the blanket, hoping you have finally outsmarted the annoying fly.

‘After a few minutes, you decide the fly must have got tired and left. As you pull the blanket away, you hear the sound of the fly — taking off … from a spot that could only have been your neck below the blanket.

‘The fly has unquestionably won on style.’

At this point, my audience usually had a look of not knowing what to believe. Was I making a joke, or did I have a point?

‘So you finally get out of bed, find a swatter, kill the fly and think you have won. Although the fly is no more, and you have succeeded in the sense that the fly will bother you no longer … you have actually lost on style. Physical violence never leads to proper style.

‘Instead, you get up, open a window or somehow chase the fly into another room. Or you locate to another chamber and close the door. The fly bothers you no longer, but it is a hollow victory without style. It made you get up against your will, so the fly wins.

‘By sheer will, you can train yourself not to be bothered by the tickling of the fly. This is an approach taken by many animals, like the proud lion of the Savannah, now unfortunately extinct. But you are Man, not an animal; the fly still wins.

‘Another animal approach is to wave your tail in a circular motion, continuously waving off flies. Perhaps you can lie in bed predicting when the fly will land — and wave it away pre-emptively. The fly still wins because it forces you into an action that distracts you from your book.

‘Maybe you have trained your cat, and your verbal command makes it come to your rescue. While there is some credit to this approach, the end result is physical violence. This is not the answer leading to good style.’

You do not think this is funny, Chloe?

‘The same goes for those who can afford electronic fly distractors, voice-operated windows or miniature hunter drones. This is cheating, not what style is about.

‘The only way you can defeat the fly with style is to get inside its head. Persuade it to fly away and not bother you again. This is not an easy task to achieve.’

Let me tell you, Chloe, the facial expressions on my pupils were those of disbelief. Was coach Jon-Argyle bonkers? What had they paid for? I ignored my sceptical students and continued.

Oh, you want me to explain how to persuade the fly?

Well, let me pour myself a small refill, and I will tell you.

You have to persuade it before it goes into that loop. So you notice a fat fly in your double window. One side is open, and the fly is ‘caught’ on the closed side. It is buzzing around on the glass, hopelessly trying to escape. It will give up at one point and buzz into the room. Eventually, it will fly back towards the window. You then use telepathy and tell the fly to steer slightly to the right. If you do it convincingly, or if you are lucky, the fly will “hit” the open part and escape to freedom. In both cases, you claim victory. Without you, the fly would have collided with the closed window and—

I guess you are right, Chloe. I may have had one brandy too many. Let me continue my speech.

‘C-ball is a mental game about style. Everything else is meaningless.

‘In fact, C-ball is more than a game. It is a way of life.

‘Outsiders may call it an advanced kind of figure skating, and they fail to get the point. In figure skating, you outskate your enemies by performing specific movements that are difficult to learn and master. Learning a set of moves, intricate as may be, is not style at all.

‘C-ball is all about out-styling your enemy, not outskating.

‘Others may claim that C-ball is a kind of ballet on ice, and they do not comprehend either. Ballet is a way to express different emotions through bodily moves, often combined with music. And while there is beauty in ballet, it is still a practised set of movements.

‘Real beauty comes from within, like style.

‘So yes, you have ice skates on your feet, and you need to be an excellent skater. You need to express your inner beauty and emotions through your movements, but you need to do it with personal style. This means improvisation instead of a well-practised set of moves.

‘This is why we use a pair of balls attached by a string. They make the game unpredictable and force you into improvisation. Getting the balls over the net is the overall goal, but there are many ways to do it.

‘In most ball games, the combatants strive to deliver balls that are hard to return. In C-ball, you must always attempt the opposite.

‘Keeping the balls in the air is the point of the game. If you deliver a ball that the enemy cannot possibly reach, and you do it on purpose, then you lose on style. You might as well have kicked a defenceless person already down.

‘Always keep the high moral ground. You defeat the enemy by having higher standards, higher morals and grander style. You must get inside the head of your enemy. Convince them you are better and worthy of victory.

‘A true C-ball player knows when defeat is imminent and throws the match. This is preferable to the cruel judgement of the referees and the spectators. While the game was lost, the style was respected, and the audience recognises this. So in a sense, a real C-ball player never loses.’

Coach Jon-Argyle, I, was the best coach money could buy.

I know, Chloe, the ravings of a drunk may turn out to be wise, but I was never drunk when I was working. In fact, I drank very little until I turned 105.

5·3 Workaholic

You see, Chloe, I was counting on Stan’s analysis. That the wealthy kept their money to themselves and were bored out of their skulls. Locked into safe life-death-rebirth cycles. I offered them something new, authentic and exciting.

I had 23 island champion titles to show; my closest competitor had only six. I am most proud of the last title I won at the age of 77. C-ball is primarily a sport for the young, but I beat my own age record by 21 years.

I was, it turned out, much better than Argyle at making money. He had worked for 37 years, but it was his 20-year contract that made the real difference. Sure his extra money may have sweetened my life, but I could have done fine without it. I only worked for 20 years, and I could afford three symbionts and still have more than enough money for my next life.

I did not have any paying clients during the first two years. I had set my fees grotesquely high, and no one was interested. You see, Chloe, I taught all my best pupils for free. I sought them out and offered my help. Being a legend has its advantages: everyone knew who I was. I had only one condition: the part about not paying must be kept an absolute secret.

I knew that natural talent and hard work make a champion. I had succeeded alone, but the best of my pupils would achieve with my guidance. I turned my pupils into winners, and they preserved my reputation as the best coach.

After a year, three of my pupils won gold, silver and bronze in the island tournament for juniors. Oh, I forgot to mention. I only taught children aged 6-12. You have to start early to succeed.

I had made a personal emblem, and my pupils proudly wore it on their shoulders. The audience noticed, and there was suddenly an interest in my services. Many people contacted me and tried to get me to lower the price. I told them I did not have time for more clients. This was not a lie. I had my hands full with my young talents.

Not everyone has what it takes, and many dropped out. So the following year, when my team won all three medals again, I got my first three paying clients. I got more over the years. Some even won a few minor titles, but none became true champions.

You see, Chloe, Stan is not alone inside my head. He shares it with a beast of mine: my superiority complex. I have to win. Always. I am lucky that my talent almost equals my ambition when it comes to C-ball. I say almost because I would, naturally, have liked more than 23 champion titles.

Maybe you are right, Chloe. Modesty goes hand in hand with superiority.

Recognising my complex means that I can see it in others. And I saw it in many ambitious parents. While their child may have liked to play, their parents wanted them to win. I saw a recurring pattern. Cheering, applying pressure, threatening both child and me, applying even more pressure, and eventually paying. Most of these children had no C-ball future or even hope, but I took the money anyway.

There was a tight group of ‘children’ who paid for themselves. They did not have any parents around. It was a closed group that did not mingle with the others. While their voices were that of children, they spoke with the wisdom of adults. Their inner child had long since grown up. I was sure they were clones with symbionts — already fully synced. They were ambitious for themselves and better than the other group.

I experienced an inexplicable madness as I worked towards my singular goal. After 12 years, I had enough money for Clara, but somehow, I kept working. I upped the prices, but that did not scare away my clients.

After my parents turned 15 and agreed to see me, I spent long hours on the train to and from the capital and our lovely city — enough time for a few brandies. I noticed my body was beginning to show signs of ageing.

I gave in when I was 106 years old. I had to stop teaching in respect to myself and the game. You see, Chloe, C-ball without regard for the style is not C-ball. I told my pupils the same, and they were sad to lose their teacher and idol. I suspect some of them will be my competitors in my next life. Or, perhaps the game will go out of fashion.

5·4 Parentage

Jon-Argyle loves Mother, and Mother loves Jon.

Father is rather special. He initially died when I was three, and I could not remember him. New Father has profound problems adjusting to the concept of being a father. Especially to a child that is 86 years older than himself.

Mother died when I was six, and I can still remember her. Stan, with perfect memory, can remember everything I ever recalled and later forgot. Memories of Mother are fresh in my mind if I want them to be.

I really bonded with new Mother, and we have a unique sort of relationship. I love her as a mother, and Mother loves me back in her own ways. Only Mother knows how she genuinely feels. New Father is more like a friend, a best friend, though.

Original Mother was several years younger than Father, but their clones are the same age. They were reborn and raised in two separate families, growing up as neighbours and playmates. They went to the same school and fell in love again at fourteen. They remarried two years later, and they seem happy together.

Father loves climbing steep rocks as much as I do. It was, in fact, a climbing accident that got original Father killed. I often went climbing with new Father. I ensured we had the best gear and that Father used it correctly. Giving safety instructions was somehow more natural and critical — when the pupil had already died in another life. Father was fully attentive. Unfortunately, I am too old to climb now, but let me get back to that later.

Father likes the challenge of C-ball, and we played several times. However, Father does not understand the concept of style. He is all about showing off on skates — and getting the balls over the net. This is not proper style at all. Mother seems to appreciate style, but she is hopeless with balance.

Chloe, be truthful. Do I even look anything like them?

I do not think they look like me. Father is medium height, strong and muscular with dark hair and brown eyes. His body is excellent for lifting heavy objects. And for sports that require strength rather than agility.

Mother also has brown eyes, blonde hair, and she has the figure of a … woman, with lovely curves and all, but not graceful like me. Mother also has an issue with height, or more precisely: the lack of height. She is just shy of Father, but she always has her short hair upright. When people see the pair of them together, they appear to be of equal reach. I am towering over both of them.

You see, Chloe, eye colour is not inherited. Brown-eyed parents can get a blue-eyed son. I did a parental test on the internet with the built-in DNA scanner of my computer. The test is 99·8% certain that Mother and Father are indeed my biological parents.

Argyle had faith in the system and the Trio. Stan has doubts, and he feels shame whenever he doubts their motives. The Trio is in total control of everything and could have falsified the test results. Stan felt the need for an independent source, and I went along.

I had to learn how to perform the test myself with offline technology. Once again, Argyle’s fear of technical details became an obstruction. Stan had no idea how to proceed. He suggested we research on the internet but pointed out it would be meaningless. The search results could be sourced from the Trio.

In the end, we found a privately owned technology museum. The public is free to watch, and paying customers can try the machines. I contacted them, and as luck would have it, they did have a DNA testing device.

So I invited my parents for a day at the museum. I guess Mother was a bit bored at times, but Father and I had great fun. We drove a steam locomotive and shot up things with antique rifles.

We finished the day with the DNA testing machine. Fascinating device. It claimed that I have 49·9% of Mother’s genes and 49·9% of Father’s. The custodian said that the rest is down to random genetic mutation caused by cosmic radiation. People in the ancient world called it ‘divine intervention’.

5·5 Married

I am sorry, Chloe, I know you get jealous, but I need to get back to Clara. We married on Isolation Day, four years after our passionate night under the low bridge. Stan suggested we revive an outside tradition by going on a ‘honeymoon’. We travelled the island for a month, and it was grand. We made many similar trips later. I guess the ancient tradition made more sense back when you could go somewhere exotic and different.

Afterwards, Stan persuaded me to take care of my afterlife. Just in case I had an unfortunate accident. I filled in a standard form. I ticked that I wanted to clone myself and transfer my symbiont. Also that I wanted to clone Clara upon my death. And if she outlived me, I would hold back my own cloning — all boxes on a standard form. Clara got her chip shortly after.

I thought it was polite to get Clara’s permission to clone her. She gave it gladly, not that she needed to; we were married. You see, Chloe, ‘until death’ has a different meaning when you are married to a symbiont. Clara did not ask about the chipping. When she heard it was painless and invisible, she agreed. Like it was something as ordinary as a vaccine or a haircut.

I promised Clara eternal life on several occasions, but there was never a more profound comprehension from her side. It was almost as if she did not believe me or could not relate to the concept. Clara and I were so different. How did we ever manage to fall and stay in love?

I love poetry. Clara did not care much.

I love C-ball. Clara did not apprehend. While she liked seeing me win, she never realised what the game is all about, why style is the key to winning and to life in general.

Clara was into natural beauty, or so she claimed. I tested her theory by renting a piano and playing some of Argyle’s exotic music. Mathematical sequences converted into musical notes. Not good at all. Clara sided with Argyle’s Maestro.

I played some classical works instead. Although Clara liked music, she bemoaned that my performance lacked personality and emotion. She speculated that my timing was wrong. Stan knew my timing was perfect. You have to understand, Chloe, I have never taken any piano lessons. I just sat in front of the piano and let Stan play.

Clara actually loved music. Especially recordings of opera sung in ancient languages she did not understand. I understood every word and offered to translate. Clara refused, claiming it would ruin the natural beauty.

If Clara got a symbiont, she would have a perfect sense of timing. She would be able to translate every word, unable to enjoy the natural beauty in the same way. I began to speculate if she would be the same Clara.

We both loved exploring the island in the summer, visiting new places difficult and dangerous to reach. I appreciated the challenge of a demanding route, while Clara admired the beauty of the scenery. All our explorative trips had the same goal: discovering a new perfect place in which to make love — a way to relive our first night under the low bridge.

Enjoying incredible sex was the best thing we had in common.

And our interest in exotic and delicate cuisine. Clara was a great cook and experimented with rare and expensive ingredients. Some came from long since extinct animals, extinct on the outside that is.

Our island has a lot of zoos. We try to preserve all species in case we manage to leave our island. Some animals breed fine in captivity, while others need to be cloned. Sometimes there are a few surplus animals that are put up for sale. I particularly loved Clara’s rhino calf in port wine sauce.

Sadly, our love for unhealthy food was also our undoing. Clara’s body only lasted 87 years, while my health began to decay at 106. Quite a long way from the expectation of 150 in that box Argyle had ticked off so many years ago.

So the good life is a short life, but I find it hard to care when I have another, and another and another…

Anyway, life is unlikely to be eternal. At some point in the distant future, the sun will burn up, and our planet will be no more. There is always the freak chance of a natural disaster or epidemic disease wiping out the entire island. However, that chance is a lot smaller now with the taming of the volcanoes.

An eternal future with Clara is not without problems. I realised this as soon as I had enough money for her symbiont. I spent hours thinking and rethinking. You see, Chloe, I found myself unable to buy her one. It felt all wrong. Like she would not be Clara at all, but some creature I had manipulated into being with me for eternity.

Upon my death, we will both be reborn as clones. Mother will give birth to me, and another woman will give birth to Clara. We will both be raised by loving families and go to the same school.

If I were to equip Clara with a symbiont, she would probably synchronise in five years time, and then she would remember me. Stan should not need long to sync with the new me. Clara and I would have 8-9 years together pretending to be children, until the legal age of 15. Well, legality is one thing, reality another.

Then Clara would die around the age of 87, and I would be on my own again for 20+ years. At my subsequent death, I would clone Clara and myself, and the circle would repeat over and over. This feels somewhat unfair to Clara, as I would have more eternal life than she.

If I clone her immediately after her death, then I would have to watch her grow up. It would be very awkward with a young woman and an old man. Then I would die, and Clara would be alone, without me knowing her, for a while. Again, it would be awkward for her, a mature woman, together with a teenager.

Our lifespans are not compatible with eternal life together.

I could perhaps persuade Clara to lead a healthier life. Maybe she could live to be 100. Clara led an active life, so it is only our unhealthy eating habits that we can change. Clara could cook more health-giving food, but then we would both be healthier and more years might be added to my lifespan as well. Also, it would be sad to take away one of the few common interests we share.

I realised there is only one way I can be with Clara forever in a fair way, granting both of us the same amount of life. I would need to end my own existence when she dies. Could I do that? Would it be right to commit suicide to even out our forever-years? No, this is out of the question: terrible style.

The memory of previous lives is the significant difference between a plain clone and one with a symbiont. As Clara grew older, she forgot many details from our youth. Stan remembered, all and I reminded her. She loved to be retold those details. If she got a symbiont, we would not have those moments together either.

Do you understand my choice, Chloe? I need to explain everything to Clara in explicit detail. She must be told all the facts and make the decision herself. Mother chose for me. I am unwilling to do the same for Clara.

My eternal future with Clara is not my only problem.

5·6 Family

I guess, Chloe, that there are two sorts of people in this world. Those who achieve their dreams and those who remain asleep. Argyle fulfilled his dream; he is a part of me. I respect his endeavour.

Stan informs me that parents on the outside used to tell their children a lie: You can do anything if you really want to. Many a boy wanted to become police officers or firemen. Parents would take this as a sign they had a responsible child.

Astronauts and aeroplane pilots were popular choices too. The parents would say that it was possible with enough effort, and in some cases, they were right.

If the child said it wanted to grow wings and evolve into a bird, the parents knew they had a problematic child — but at least it had ambition.

A problem with our society today is that any child, who desires to achieve nothing, will succeed. Anyone can lead a comfortable life without doing anything but attend school. Sure there will be no luxury items, but without desire, there is no problem.

I have a dilemma rooted in lack of ambition or respect. I am not sure which. Could be both.

So, I go to the store and pick up some milk, a nice fish and a new pair of shoes. No problem, they are there for everyone to take. The fish was bred, raised and caught by a robot. Another robot milked the cow, and a third one made the shoes. Sure we owe some respect to technology, but no current human put any effort into those things. We take them for granted and do not appreciate them as much as we should.

You are right, Chloe. You cannot pick up a symbiont for free at the store. Hard work is needed. In Argyle’s case, a lifetime dedicated to working.

We know how to extend life: lead a healthy lifestyle. Some, like Argyle, are unwilling to sacrifice their lifestyle. Others require that the additional years be good ones. With a symbiont, you need not care. Death is just a minor inconvenience — one that results in a young body.

My C-ball exploits could provide three symbionts, but Clara never appreciated the game. Our daughter, Anna, never liked it, and her husband Sveinn even said it was a game for sissies and girls. I never liked Sveinn either. I am sure he never truly loved Anna, having remarried only seven months after her untimely death.

Recording chips are cheap when compared to a symbiont. Even so, the salesman had secured a personal bonus for Argyle. The package included five recording chips, and we put those to use. Clara was chipped at the age of 21. Mother and Father were chipped at birth. Anna at birth too, and Sveinn at 23.

Now my problems with Clara plus symbiont resurfaced. She would remember and want to give birth to Anna again. This would not be a problem. But when new Anna was five, her symbiont would sync and long for Sveinn. He might not want to be with her, preferring his second wife instead, and she might still be alive, although old.

Besides, I have no intention of paying for that jerk Sveinn, that Swine. I could clone him without a symbiont, but then I would break my promise to Anna, and she would remember and blame me. I can fix this by having Clara give birth to Anna without a symbiont.

And then Mother and Father would die, and I have only money for three symbionts. Should I give symbionts to them instead?

Hopefully, Clara and I will get lucky and have another child or even two. Those new children will need symbionts for their next lives — along with their spouses. I could work another 20 years every time Clara dies.

I had a brief vision of a snake eating its own tail. I saw this endless circle: school, Clara, marriage, children, work, death, rebirth. My life became a complete food chain, and I yearned to break it.

Apparently, I am to determine who are to live again — and who are to remain dead. It is almost like being in the authority of life and death, like some divine being.

In addition to being god-like, I also have to work 20 years each time Clara dies. Just to take care of people important in my life. What about people essential in Clara’s life, in my children’s lives?

I could do that. I am not afraid of work, unlike Clara, Anna and Sveinn … and Mother and Father. I am the only one who ever cares enough to work. Everyone else is content enough to be happy without money. They leave the business of eternal life in my hands. It is not like they try and fail. They never care enough to even try. This is poor style if I ever saw it.

I have decided, Chloe. I will not buy any symbionts. If any of my family wants one, they can put in some serious effort and come to me for help. I am not even sure whether I will speak with Clara about it.

Symbionts are not without problems, and yet my issues are insignificant. Trivial even — when compared to the difficulties the Trio faces with the whole of mankind. Countless people must be entering and exiting their many lifespans. They must have moved beyond mere humans. Am I to follow in their footsteps? Am I worthy of this?

5·7 Faith

Have faith in the Trio; saving mankind requires sacrifices.

Argyle had faith. Stan’s doubts grew.

I was now unemployed and had plenty of time to look into those doubts. I enjoyed making sure my biological parents were indeed that.

Stan believed there had been something fishy about Argyle’s death. The post-mortem claimed that he died of an aneurysm, but his last memory was going to bed. Why could he not remember his death? Stan found it difficult to believe that an aneurysm had destroyed a computer chip. He must have been restored from a backup; that was his only logical explanation.

I suggested we watch the autopsy footage and see for ourselves. Stan vetoed. He did not want permanent memory of his own dissection. ‘We do not wish to remember in our next lives.’ I guess he is right, and I respect his decision.

Instead, we researched on the internet. Little information is available on damaged recording-chips. We had to dig deeper to find out how those things actually work.

You see, Chloe, recording-chips are cheap for a reason: they are nothing like symbionts. Chips are simple one-way devices. All they do is record events and upload them to a server farm during sleep. They leech on the power that feeds the brain. Data is recorded in time frames, and each frame is processed as a whole. The explanation Stan sought was ever so simple. The last frame that included Argyle’s death was incomplete due to his death. It was considered corrupt and discarded.

I love technical details, so I read on. I guess Stan would have preferred not to, yet he claimed he found this particular technical knowledge somewhat interesting.

The symbiont is an entirely different piece of technology. Not a simple two-way chip as Argyle had thought. It is a high-speed computer that can analyse and process data almost as fast as the human mind.

The construction is like a miniature brain. A primary processor handles events and stores them in a short-term data bank. Meanwhile, a secondary processor cross-references recent data with similar occurrences from the past. Data gets indexed and stored on permanent storage with abstract differential compression. This stores only differences, like a moving object, omitting all redundant data. The symbiont can practically save an infinite amount of memories.

A symbiont comes with a power buffer that allows it to shut down correctly — upon the termination of the host. There will be no lost frames when I die. Yeah, Chloe, it is an unpleasant thought.

After the host dies, the symbiont performs a cleanup routine, choosing what to erase and keep. The symbiont has a perfect memory, but only within the lifetime of the current host.

As I explained earlier, there is no way to back up my symbiont. If it gets damaged beyond repair, then I am gone for good. This, however, is almost unheard of. I would need to be washed out to sea or fall into molten lava — or something even wilder. Symbionts are exceptionally robust.

Incredible knowledge, not dull at all. How could Argyle ever have thought this kind of information tedious and undesired? Stan wholeheartedly agreed. Perhaps the answer is simple: Stan is not Argyle.

Stan’s doubts were relaxed, but the list of suspicious things in my life was still pretty long. We felt an urgent need to figure out the truth. Hopefully, Stan would regain his confidence and faith in the Trio.

Stan claims the numbers do not add up. Argyle was an expert with data, and Stan can see something so improbable that it is virtually impossible … yet it still happened.

You see, Chloe, our island is just short of two million people. Growth has been slow but steady, with the Trio terminating all undesired births. Still, a match for Argyle’s many tick-box choices was found in only two years.

Out of two million people, around 3% would be children of the right age. Half of those would be girls, 8% would have blue eyes and 40% blond hair. This left a pool of around a thousand possible hosts. How many of these would comply with the remaining tick-boxes? Oh, and they also had to lose both parents who had willed their orphan to a symbiont upbringing.

Not impossible, just extremely improbable.

Argyle already told us. He got a 15-year guarantee on a matching host — or a full refund upon fulfilment. Issued by the Trio, personally signed by Sally. This is a lot of money.

How was this possible? Luck?

Have faith in the Trio. They always keep their promises.

6·1 Bridge

Stan claims that any massive problem can be solved if it can be divided into smaller solvable parts. Does this mean there is hope for mankind?

Stan had a problem with Mother’s death. How did she die? Was it an accident like Father’s fall from a cliff? As my cloned parents were not 21 yet, I could look up original Mother’s medical record. I thought this was odd, but apparently, the file is locked to the DNA of the user, not a specific incarnation. Reason for death: information unavailable. This did not help Stan’s improbability problem.

We decided to try and solve this little mystery. I was standing on top of the high bridge, looking down. An awfully long way to fall. Although the bridge is an architectural masterpiece, I never liked it. Not since Toadboy suggested that Mother had jumped to her death from it.

Two massive pylons made of concrete connected by steel cables. A timeless design and a testament to the abundance in our society. The bridge connects two small cities and is a shortcut over a deep ravine. Redundant, but saves a good 20-minute drive — excellent service for the circa 20 thousand citizens living nearby.

I tried contacting the police, the hospital and even the fire brigade to ask if they could add any clarity. They were friendly enough, but no one could help. Either they had no information, or they chose not to tell me. I inquired whether a very generous donation to some charity fond might help, but nothing. I could see in their eyes that they wanted to take my bribe, so I guess they could not help even if they wanted to.

The neighbours and Mother’s friends from back then were all dead. I had no one to ask. If only I had begun my investigation earlier.

Mother had been dead for a century.

I inspected both pylons of the high bridge. Had Mother left a message for me carved in concrete? Perhaps I could feel her presence? Maybe I was going mad? Yes, that was more like it.

I guess madness caused my next action. I tied a rope to the bridge and began to lower myself to the bottom of the ravine. All traces would be gone by now, but I had to see for myself.

I got to the bottom, alright. My frail old hands lost grip halfway down, and my palms burnt with pain. I fell a meter or two, then the safety line caught on — and left me dangling mid-air.

No, Chloe, I was not only thankful to be alive. I was relieved that no one saw me.

After dangling for a few minutes, I ignored the pain in my palms and somehow managed to climb the rest of the way down. I found nothing as expected. I did not sense Mother’s presence, only my own stupidity.

How I got up again? Actually, Chloe, I would prefer not to say…

Well, if you insist, but you must promise never to tell Father.

You see, I tried climbing but soon gave up. A year ago, it would have been a trivial climb, but my body had started to decay rapidly. Some say that age is all in one’s mind. I disagree. Anyway, I swallowed my pride and reached for my communicator to call for help.

I imagined Father looking at me disapprovingly. He would repeat my own preaching of ‘never go climbing alone’. I decided to call the police instead, but my communicator was in the car, where I had left it…

The police came for me a few hours later. Turns out climbing from the bridge is illegal. I paid the penalty gladly. Father would never know.

I also hired a driver.

6·2 Historian

We needed outside help and could afford the best, yet finding it proved a challenge. We saw adverts for investigators, detectives, private eyes and sleuths. We even searched for researchers and analysts. None of them seemed to offer the kind of services we required. They mainly focused on revealing infidelity, drug abuse, and lying on job applications.

Discovering the real cause of a 100-year-old death required a… a historian, of course. Stan would have smiled to himself if he had a mouth; I smiled on his behalf. We searched again and found the one ad that stood out: MODERN HISTORIAN, very exclusive services.

The business address was local; what incredible luck. I asked for a meeting and met the historian, Mr Ólafur Arnarsson, at the Cliff Café — the one that overhangs the ravine. It has the most stunning view, but I did not feel like enjoying it, not that day.

‘You’re very young,’ the historian said as he ordered coffee and a small brandy from the café waitress.

Young? Was he crazy?

‘Your file says you are 106 years old biologically, but you have 164 years of life experience.’

He looked quite young himself.

‘You were born Jon, but took the name Jon-Argyle later. In respect of your symbiont, shortly after successful synchronisation, I assume.’

He was spot on, but I did not know what to say. I kept quiet.

‘Jón is a good old Icelandic name; too bad you are spelling it wrong. Argyle is a foreign name brought to us by the invaders. Just like Paul, Sally and Megan.’

Yeah, Chloe, Invaders…

‘Although the Ruling Trio were born in Iceland, their families were from Britannia. They moved here a few generations before the isolation.’

I did not set up this meeting for a history lesson.

‘And that is why you are really here, isn’t it? You’re not interested in how your mother died. You want to know whether the Trio had anything to do with her death.’

He had seen right through me.

‘And I’m sorry, I can’t help you there.’

This surprised me. I mumbled something incomprehensible.

‘I’ll take your case and your money. And I can tell you the result of my research, free of charge, before I begin. The Trio has been in power for 2,808 years. In all that time, they have never broken a promise — nor left any evidence of foul play.

‘We used to be a quartet, but I bailed out when I realised what the others were doing. I was 50 when Iceland went into isolation, so I’m around 2,856 years old now, depending on how you count. Those embryo and baby years hardly count, do they? Oh sorry, I forgot you weren’t cloned, so you wouldn’t know.

‘Anyway, to answer your question, my current body is 17, great age!’

Yeah, right, a symbiont that forgot something. I nodded but kept quiet.

‘The word Iceland went out of fashion a few generations after the isolation. People started using “the island” instead, but not I … you see, my clan was born of Iceland — and my family date back as long as records exist. I’m proud of my ancestry, and I’m proud of the Iceland I knew. Not this absurd hellish paradise it has become.

‘Nothing would make me happier than seeing the Trio fall. I’ll happily provide a full refund should my investigation turn up anything that might take even a baby step towards this goal.’

I felt Stan’s shame grow. He so wanted to discuss the Trio with Ólafur, but that was not why we were here. I had to suppress Stan’s desire. I asked Ólafur why he had not published his feelings about the Trio, and he gave me a strange answer.

‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Even I have to admit: They are doing a damn good job, sometimes.’

I paid the exorbitant fee. At least I would get some answers.

6·3 Evidence

Ólafur only needed a week to finish his investigations. He insisted that I came to see him at his home — and that I brought Mother along. This was a bit odd, as his home was just a few houses from the café. Why could we not meet there like last time?

‘So I’ve almost completed my investigation.’

I was eager to hear the results, did not like the ‘almost’ part.

‘First, let me explain what “information unavailable” means in technical terms. The information is present in the system, but someone has put a lock on it.’

I silently cursed Argyle for excluding technical bonus knowledge.

‘I’m reasonably sure I know who did it, and it was not any member of the Trio, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

‘All government institutions keep a semi-public event log. Anyone can see it and get a general idea of what happened and when. Persons involved and finer details are hidden from the public. These logs are tamper-proof by design.

‘So let’s start by ruling out what couldn’t have happened.

‘Any death involving fire would have been logged at the local fire brigade. There is nothing around the time of her death.

‘The same goes for the police. This rules out a car accident, murder and suicide by jumping off a bridge — anything involving a suspicious death. There are no relevant police events around the time of her death.

‘If your mother got lost in nature and somehow died, it would have triggered a missing person’s enquiry. Indeed, there is one filed three days before her death. I have cross-referenced the entry with the local newspapers. That person was not your mother.

‘I can therefore deduce that your mother was taken to the hospital. There is a medical event entry at the exact time of her death. Also, an ambulance request for a medical emergency 27 minutes before. I looked through the ambulance log for that entire day, and it was a quiet one. The ambulance was most likely parked in the garage and drove off immediately after receiving the call.

‘Considering the distance from the garage to her home and the hospital. Allowing a few minutes to get her into the ambulance, and for a doctor to declare her dead on arrival. It’s reasonable to conclude that your mother died at home or in the ambulance.’

This talk of death made me uncomfortable. I longed for a drink, and it was like Ólafur read my mind and poured us one. Mother declined; she seemed not to mind. I guess she saw her original as a different person.

‘The big question is who called the ambulance?

‘I checked the house you and she lived in. A standard free home without any life sign monitoring, the house did not call the ambulance automatically.

‘Actually, there is another question: How long had she been dead?

‘This we can answer confidently: not that long. You have access to your own log and can see details of anything that happened to you. It’s not what you see but what you don’t see. If your mother had died and left you without food or drink for long, there would have been a medical entry. If you had seen your mother dead, there would have been an entry from a psychologist. Nothing’s there, which means three things: You didn’t see your mother die — and therefore didn’t call the ambulance. Also, your mother hadn’t been dead long before the ambulance arrived.’

Ólafur was right, Chloe. I do not remember seeing Mother dead, I heard it from some old lady, and then everything went a bit blurry. The blurriness was apparently caused by the symbiont.

‘Either your mother called the ambulance, or it was someone else. Perhaps a friend or neighbour came to visit and found her dead.

‘Standard house with privacy windows preventing anyone from looking in. The door closes and locks automatically. It could have been held open by a physical object, but considering it was winter and -4°C outside, that is unlikely.’

‘Anyhow, your mother died in the ambulance or at home in a non-suspicious way. Maybe she had an appointment with a friend who called the ambulance when the door was unanswered. Then maybe it was an accident where she fell and hit her head, or perhaps she electrocuted herself while in the bath.’

Ólafur paused to let everything sink in.

‘Considering the facts, the most likely answer is this: she wanted to commit suicide and requested that the details of her death be locked. She sent you away to play, called the emergency service and ended her life somehow.’

Circumstantial evidence, yes, you are right, Chloe.

‘This only leaves the question of why the information is locked?

‘No, actually, there is another question. When did your mother sign her last will, allowing you to receive a symbiont?

‘Did your parents sign it together when you were born? Or did your mother sign it shortly before her death? Perhaps when she requested the details of her death be locked?

‘Even if we had this information, it wouldn’t prove anything. It would only add to your suspicions that the Trio was somehow involved.’

Ólafur took a pad from the table on his side and loaded something on the screen. He did not show it to me.

‘There is one last thing we can try, but it will not be a pleasant experience. You have to ask yourself if you absolutely want to know?’

I did, by any means.

6·4 Witness

Ólafur sent Mother a few looks. At first, I thought this was a natural primal attraction. He was 17, and she was 20 — attractive but married and unavailable. Then Stan noticed that we could only see half his face when he looked at Mother. He could have sent her some teenage signal — a slight movement of an eyebrow, eye, ear or whatever. Even if Stan saw the message, he would not have been able to decode it. You need to be a teenager to decipher the current version of the jargon. Ólafur began to explain something but changed the tone of his voice. Even I understood it now: he would keep on blabbering until Mother left the room.

‘I need to explain something first. You know, of course, about the DNA-tokens we use for money these days. The Trio handicapped the system on purpose; it’s a lesser version of the secure DNA-signature system.

‘DNA-tokens and signatures share the same technology. Both need the DNA of the user and an access code. Signatures, however, also require a voiceprint of the code. This way, personal information can be kept private even if someone gets hold of your access code.

‘Tokens were initially designed to get the same voiceprint security. However, there were theories that symbionts might work on non-cloned hosts. These would not have access to a voiceprint. So the Trio decided to scrap the extra protection. The excuse was that a symbiont could make complicated access codes. Sure, people with symbionts are usually wealthy, but that excuse is like saying everyone else doesn’t count.

‘Nevertheless, the system is brilliantly designed. I know because I worked on it with Paul. One thing that isn’t public knowledge is that nothing is deletable. The next signed document gets encoded with a continually varying mathematical checksum of the previous. Any modified or missing document breaks the chain, and everything after the break would get corrupted and become inaccessible.’

Mother got bored with the technical stuff and went outside for a break.

Okay, Chloe, you see right through me. Mother finally got the message and went outside for a fag. She was out for 40 minutes and did not return until Ólafur called for her. She claimed she met a school friend, but she reeked of tobacco and other objective substances. I give her a small allowance; how she uses it is her business.

‘So every document your mother ever DNA-signed with her is still in the system and can never be erased or modified. If we can get her access code, and you can get your cloned mother to provide a voiceprint of the code, then we can access all her documents. We can then see if and when she signed the request to lock her death details. And when she signed her last will, giving you up to a symbiont. It will not prove anything against the Trio, except if the information isn’t there, then it must have been them preventing the data from being added in the first place.

‘There may be a witness to events leading up to her death. We might learn how she planned to commit suicide if this was what happened. ‘This is why I asked you to bring your mother clone along because you need her if our experiment succeeds.’

A witness? I was highly sceptical.

‘The six-year-old you. You were old enough to remember, but you may have forgotten, and the symbiont blurriness didn’t help. But there’s a way we can try … hypnotism.’

Stan had kept quiet so far but suddenly interrupted. He insisted that hypnotism is impossible with a symbiont. All his historical documents said the same.

‘Yes, it’s impossible; take a look at this.’

Ólafur showed me the pad screen that had so far been hidden. All I saw were strange colours and patterns. I did not understand anything, and Stan was silent. Then I began to feel funny.

‘Don’t worry. It’ll pass as soon as your symbiont reconnects.

‘The symbiont will protect the host brain from being hypnotised, and we can’t shut down the symbiont without killing the host.

‘The image on the screen is a trick-puzzle-exploit. It triggers a flaw in the time-prediction routine, making the symbiont believe the puzzle is solvable in less than a second — and immediately starts solving. When the second has passed, it again predicts wrong and goes into a sort of endless loop. The puzzle can’t be solved, but it takes the symbiont a good half hour to find that out — and to finally give up. In this time, the symbiont is buffering host experiences and not sending anything back.

‘I can easily demonstrate: What is the square root of two?’

Two? I had no idea what he was talking about. I was cold and began to shake uncontrollably. Ólafur handed me a blanket, which he had conveniently pre-heated. It helped a bit, then I felt like throwing up, and Ólafur did indeed have a bucket ready. He had been honest about it not being a pleasant experience.

‘You’re probably used to your symbiont giving you the answer immediately, so it’s a strange sensation. The sickness you feel is separation anxiety. It’ll pass; just relax.’

Relaxing was the last thing I could do, but after a few minutes, I managed to handle the experience and compose myself a bit. I was glad Mother was outside and did not see me like this.

‘Now, I’ll try to hypnotise you, listen to the sound of my voice…’

I remember nothing of the session.

Stan finally woke up and told me it was an interesting unsolvable puzzle. He noticed the 30 minute time offset and fell quiet. I felt funny again, much better than feeling sick.

‘You’ll feel much better in a minute. You’ll not remember anything, but your symbiont will reconnect and can tell us what happened.’

I already felt better. Stan did not recall the session either. Instead, he put images in my mind. First, I envisioned a little grey-haired lady, around 70 years old, who told me of Mother’s death. She had an immense look of sadness in her eyes.

‘Take your time, don’t rush. It’s a strange experience for both of you.’

I went a bit back and saw a police officer who came to collect me. Mother had asked a neighbour to look after me. I remembered the doorbell and the neighbour, all white-faced, showing the police officer inside.

Then I saw Mother crying. I saw Mother crying and being sad on several occasions. And I suddenly recalled her being very happy, like overly delighted and sometimes even euphoric.

I also saw a box of yellow pills, and I remembered how Mother had got the box from a red-haired fat man. Mother took a pill, and she was suddenly happy and not sad anymore.

There was also a tall, slim, dark-haired man. The man spoke with Mother for a long time, and she had this sorrowful expression when he left. That was before the box of yellow pills, I think.

I recalled Mother borrowing the computer at the neighbours; how she used the keyboard rather than the audio interface. The only thing she had said to the computer was ‘forty-seven ghostly butterflies’. I somehow remembered it clearly, because it was such an unusual thing to say.

Ólafur smiled as I told him.

‘Yes, this isn’t what you told me. The hypnotism brought forth memories and images, so complex and strange that only your symbiont can decipher them.’

Ólafur played with his pad and found a photo of a yellow pill.

‘The yellow pills may be illegal “happy” pills, like these. We have a general idea of your mother’s access code. It may not be the real code, but perhaps with a bit of trial and error, we can find the right one.’

The code did not work as expected, and Mother tried all numbers up to 100 when Ólafur asked: ‘Please tell me, do you like butterflies?’

‘Their wings are beautiful, but their bodies are just insects.’

‘Then you should try “forty-seven ghastly butterflies” instead.’

Unfortunately, that did not work either, and we were about to give up and leave. Ólafur, for some reason, felt the need to repeat what he had already said, just phrased a little differently. Yes, the memory was a hundred years old and heard by a six-year-old child, possibly younger. The actual code could be something entirely different. At least it was related to words rather than random numbers and letters. That would have been impossible to guess. A little creativity might bring the code to light.

Mother was halfway out of the door when she found the answer. Those questionable substances apparently did wonders for her brain.

‘I think it’s a recipe for one of your father’s favourite dishes. Goat cheese with rosemary wrapped in filo pastry — made with butter, not the healthier oil-based one. I sometimes forget, and I get the wrong cheese or pastry.’

I failed to see the connection.

‘The cheese has a boring name that is impossible to remember, but the label has a cartoonish goat. The slim goat riding a bicycle is the low-fat version that your father despises. He wants the 47% version with a fat goat chillin’ on a couch. You know how he can be if things are not done right. He takes it personally. Maybe I forgot one time too many, or when he was in a bad mood. Perhaps we had a big quarrel, and I made sure I would never forget it again. I think the access code is something like 47-goat-chil-buttery-filo.’

Yes, Chloe, Mother was right about the code. Incredible!

But my dream before cloning my parents … the staircase with the discussion on whether or not to have red wine in the sauce. Way too similar, and Mother was wrong about me knowing how upset Father can get. They keep this part of their relationship private. Mother must have volunteered this part inadvertently. Damn drugs...

I never behaved that way with Clara, and yet my dream indicates this as a part of me. At least possible behaviour. Perhaps Clara set me straight, or maybe Stan had something to do with it?

Oh, right, Chloe. I seem to have wandered off again.

6·5 Suicide

All Mother’s signed legal documents were available. And just as Ólafur had predicted, there was no trace of foul play from the Trio.

Mother had received two auto-generated messages from the symbiont company. They asked her to consider signing a last will, allowing a symbiont upbringing upon her untimely death. The first one was dated three weeks after my birth, and the second three weeks after Father’s death; nothing suspicious there.

It seems nothing escapes you, Chloe. I told you that few people have heard of willing hosts, yet all new parents get the message when a child is born. It is a legal document with hundreds of pages and a complex language. The first page is different and very easy to read. It states, in no ambiguous way, that the symbiont company will do everything it can to aid the child — in case the parents die. They also pay out a small monetary bonus for signing. I guess most parents never get to page two.

Mother had signed her last will less than two hours before she died.

The request, to lock her details, was signed shortly after. It had not been a permanent request, so new Mother had requested its annulment.

Cause of death: Overdose of yellow ‘happy’ pills. Presumed suicide.

Toadboy had been right all along. Not only about the suicide but also about the illegal pills. How could he possibly have known?

Who were the tall, slim, dark-haired man and the red-haired fat guy?

The pills were still illegal but easy and relatively cheap to obtain. Still, they were not free, and Mother had never worked, so how had she been able to afford them? Had she slept with the fat guy and received a few pills? Surely not an entire box?

The answer was obvious: The tall, slim, dark-haired man had come from the symbiont company, telling Mother that Argyle had died — and that I was a perfect match. He had said that I would have a much better life with Argyle than she could ever provide. The man had then sent for the red-haired fat guy to give Mother the box of pills — and then let it be up to her to decide.

What a terrible thought. No mother would ever give up her loving child to a total stranger, even if that stranger were extremely wealthy.

Have faith in the Trio — innocent until proven guilty.

7·1 Sigurður

Weeks passed, Chloe, and my mind was not at peace. Toadboy’s evil suggestion was all I could think about. Mother had likely topped herself with ‘funny’ pills. Had Toadboy known something? How had he known? Had he guessed? Excellent guess! Lucky guess? Combine that luck with the improbability of Argyle dying at the right time to get me.

It was like the Trio had predicted when Argyle would die. They had grown me ahead of time. Pushed Father off a cliff and made it look like an accident. They drove Mother to suicide and finished it all off by planting Toadboy. Either to speed up synchronisation with Stan — or whatever psychological function, they had conceived in their devious minds.

Toadboy’s stupid maths challenge was reasonable enough. Any regular child would not understand the question. A symbiont might ask how many significant digits would be desired, or state that the answer was an irrational number already in its shortest form. Ólafur had asked the same type of question but with more elegance.

Anyhow, I passed the test. Stan had not provided maths answers until much later. Somehow Toadboy had seen something in me that no one else had. Had he known something? He might have known if planted by the Trio.

I was thinking back on my free C-ball clients, the gifted ones with natural talent. Were any of these like me back then? An orphan raised by an uncaring cow. A willing host with an immature symbiont — nowhere near synchronisation. A symbiont that had been silent as the grave — until Toadboy came along with his stupid maths challenge. The question did, without a doubt, trigger something that made Argyle connect for the first time.

All my classmates had friends. I was a loner, friendless, and kept to myself. Why was that? I had friends before Mother died. In the village where I was born. Not in the small city where the cow lived and I went to school. Maybe the shock of losing Mother, or the blurriness of the symbiont implant, prevented me from forming friendships with the other children?

Stan was a perfect friend, though, so I was not entirely friendless.

Had Toadboy kept any friends? Sure he had been helping the girls with maths, but they were not genuinely his friends. So much for perfect memory when the symbiont had not fully synchronised.

Toadboy-after-the-incident did not have any friends, or did he? He had undoubtedly been cast out — must have been cast out — of any groups that he might have been in before. All the other children called him Toadboy and especially Toady. He was the bully that became the bullied. I never spoke a word to him again, never even looked directly at him.

Toadboy was gifted but not symbiont-smart. Or, he had done one bloody good job of hiding it. If the Trio had planted him, why had they not pulled him out after the incident? His words and actions had triggered whatever they were supposed to — no point in keeping him around.

What had Toadboy’s actions triggered? My sense of right and wrong, of moral, of style, or maybe been a catalyst to speed things up with Stan?

Chloe, although I have lots of money, I do not own many things. They are just physical objects without any meaning. Nevertheless, I kept the C-bat that Toadboy ‘desecrated’. It is worthless except for the sentimental value. Clara thought it very strange I kept an unusable and bloodstained bat. I even went so far as to display it on our bedroom wall until Clara vetoed it. She had been one of the two girls who started giggling. It could have provoked Toadboy to attack. Maybe she felt a bit guilty?

I wanted to know more about Toadboy and scanned the blood on the bat with the computer. It did not reveal much, only name and status: Sigurður, deceased. The name surprised me; everyone called him Si, probably short for Simon.

So Toadboy was dead, good, but not very helpful.

I needed Ólafur’s services again.

7·2 Kristín

This time Ólafur insisted we meet at the café. I guess home meetings are for hypnotism sessions only. That part was a relief, but the meeting did not go as I expected.

‘That’s a beautiful dress you’re wearing, even lovelier than the one you wore last time.’ Ólafur smiled at the waitress as he ordered his usual coffee and small brandy. I ordered a drink as well.

The waitress smiled back and went to fetch the drinks.

‘Thank you very much, Kristín.’

Stan noticed that it was the same dress and that Ólafur did not call her Kristín the first time we met. I felt compelled to ask if he knew her, not that I cared for the answer.

‘I scanned her when I ordered. Take a look.’

The portable scanner showed: Kristín. Green light for alive.

‘It is definitely the same dress. Why the lie?’

‘Look at my brandy.’

‘It is a brandy, soothing and delicious, but quite unhealthy.’

‘You see nothing special about it?’

‘No’

‘Look at the line.’

‘Oh right, it is slightly larger than supposed to be.’

‘And you think that’s a coincidence — or done on purpose?’

‘If you wanted a large brandy, why not order one?’

‘You are missing the point completely.’

‘You have a point?’

‘Yes, but let’s get back to that later. Please tell me in your own words about the incident with Sigurður.’

‘You have read my message, I presume.’

‘Yes, but I want to hear you tell the story.’

‘Okay, so Sigurður had been bullying me for a long time—’

‘Stop right there. Why do you call him Sigurður?’

‘That was his name.’

‘Yes, but he was a bully, and you called him Toadboy in your message.’

‘Do you want to hear the story or not?’

‘Your written summary explains what happened. I want you to tell me why you call say Sigurður when you mention him to me now?’

‘What else should I call him?’

‘I bet you think of him as Toadboy and nothing but Toadboy.’

‘Well, yes, but it is hardly polite.’

‘And that’s just you, always polite?’

‘I try my best.’

‘So what about the lie you told the headmaster.’

‘It was not a lie. I was perhaps a bit creative with the truth.’

‘So that croaking sound you made was a mating call for toads?’

‘Well—’

‘And those ancient traditions regarding the sanctity of a C-bat?’

‘Those are real.’

‘They are real now because you taught them to your clients.’

‘Alright, so maybe they were not actual C-ball traditions, but practised in other ball games.’

‘Practised by a few extravagant players, perhaps?’

‘Yes, but they were champions, so that means—’

‘Means you were lying.’

‘Okay, I was perhaps overly creative with the truth, but I have gone through my entire life without lying, and I am proud of it.’

‘Just like the Trio has never broken a promise?’

I wanted to protest but kept silent.

‘And you’re right about the dress; it’s the same one. Her makeup is different, and she’s wearing a different scarf which alters her overall appearance.’

‘So?’

‘The dress goes very well with her delicate skin tone and captivating hair colour, don’t you think?’

‘It is not her natural colour.’

‘You notice anything about the dress?’

‘It is a cheap dress with flowers.’

‘Perhaps her hair matches the colour of the flowers?’

‘Alright, but she looks fake, not my thing.’

‘Okay, the dress may be cheap to you but unlikely to Kristín.’

‘If it is that expensive to her, why does she wear it at work?’

‘Why does she work?’

‘Because she wants money, like everyone else.’

‘How old do you think she is?’

‘It is not polite to ask or even guess.’

‘Give it a try anyway. I won’t tell her.’

‘Maybe 45, no more than 50.’

‘So I ask again, why do you think she works?’

‘You have lost me.’

Later, I discovered that he was probing me on the great taboo. I will get back to that, Chloe.

‘I bet she works because she wants to buy nicer dresses than the free ones. She wears them to work because she wants to get seen wearing them — because she cares what other people think of her.’

‘Okay, and I still do not get your point.’

‘Do you think I have a point?’

‘If I did not know you already, I would think you were crazy.’

‘You and Argyle worked hard towards a goal. The goal of eternal life.

‘Kristín here can serve coffee her entire life and never be able to afford a symbiont. Not even a clone. She has chosen to work, probably a few hours a week, so that she can afford to buy things that bring joy and meaning to her life. She could have stayed at home doing nothing like so many do.’

‘Yes, like my entire family.’

‘So when I tell her that her dress is beautiful…’

‘Ah, now I see. So even if you do not mean it — and you are actually lying, you validate her choice of working and thus make her happy.’

‘I told her what she wanted to hear, just like the creative truth you told the headmaster.’

‘It is not the same thing.’

‘It really is the same thing. Your headmaster worked for the same reason as Kristín. He’d never be able to afford a symbiont with that job.

‘His best days were the uneventful ones, days he could watch the flag being put up in the morning, and taken down as the children were leaving.

‘Days he had to punish naughty children were not good days.

‘Had you told the truth or kept quiet, he would have expelled Sigurður for attacking another child with a weapon. The parents would have had to deal with the shame. In all likelihood, move to another city with a different school. There Sigurður might have found a new victim to bully.

‘Your so-called creative truth gave your headmaster another good day. Saved the parents the shame and spared a potential new victim. Most importantly, it taught Sigurður a lesson he never forgot.’

‘You had that point prepared before we came in?’

‘Would it make you feel better if I said yes or no?’

Actually, Chloe, I do not think he had a point about the dress at all. I think he made a slip of the tongue and did not want me to know that he knew her. The alternative is that he could predict my responses, which I find a little unsettling.

7·3 Scanner

I decided to change the subject and ask about the scanner.

Ólafur explained that it was a portable anonymous gene scanner. It could scan anyone and reveal whatever public information was available. He pointed it at himself, and the scanner showed: Ólafur Arnarsson, Modern Historian, extended information available.

I knew that extended information, a list of his numerous publications. Surprisingly few of them are in Stan’s list of historical material, so he must have published on other subjects. I checked some of them on the internet, and they are complex riddles and puzzles.

Ólafur then scanned me: Jon-Argyle, C-ball Coach, retired.

He finally scanned my left index finger: Argyle Walters, Data Analyst, retired.

I already knew the results and asked: ‘And this is interesting, how?’

‘When we looked at your mother’s file, we saw her private data. That file was available to you because the computer recognised your DNA and access code. Plus the fact that your original mother had signed a permit for you to clone her. When you clone someone, you become their responsible adult until they reach the age of 21. After her next birthday, your access gets restricted to that of a close relative — and the information will be limited.

‘What you see is the effect of privacy laws dating back to before the isolation. If you scan a child below 15 years, you get an orange light for access denied.

‘The light turns green at the age of 15 regardless of the Oath.

‘At 21, the first name is added automatically — unless the owner has chosen to hide it.’

‘You are hardly telling me anything new.’

‘Yes, I see that both you and Argyle have changed your public profiles as I have. This is quite usual in the business world, for people trying to earn a good deal of money. Not pocket money like our Kristín here.’

‘So you are telling me that Sigurður presumably did nothing with his life?’

‘Yes, and I’m also answering your implicit question: Yes, Sigurður is dead and likely to remain so. Red light for deceased.

‘It’s all connected with the Trio redefining death, to put themselves in power until the end of time.

‘A human can die and be reborn as a clone. Humans die.

‘A symbiont is a life form of its own, virtually immune to death. You’d have to break the contract or run out of money, but clones are cheap.

‘Argyle is green because his body died — not his legal identity.

‘I’m on my 33rd clone, and I’m green too.

‘Interesting enough, there is only one record for me — because I’m both clone and symbiont. You and Argyle have separate entries.

‘The law only allows one clone alive at a time, but a symbiont also counts. You can’t clone Argyle now. Upon your death, the symbiont will change its legal identity to Jon. Argyle will cease to be, and you will be able to clone him if you desire.’

Ólafur stopped talking, took a sip of his brandy and hinted at my bag. I opened it and unwrapped the ‘desecrated’ C-bat as-if it were a prized possession. He scanned it, and the scanner confirmed my computer: Sigurður, red light for deceased.

Good question, Chloe. How is this an independent source? I was about to ask the same question, but Ólafur had read my mind and explained.

‘Your computer connects through a government server, that acts as a middle-man between you and the actual database entry. While the data is immutable, the intermediate server is not — the government could easily falsify the readout.

The scanner connects directly to the database via a data contract. The device validates the entry against the chain and cross-references with metadata. The government cannot revoke or modify it; the entire chain of contracts would break.’

‘Why does it ignore the Oath?’

‘Oh, the device predates the Oath by centuries. It was used back in the days when psychedelic drugs, orgies and frivolous sex were common.’

No, Chloe, not anymore. It seems that people have indeed changed.

‘So, Sigurður is dead now, and he was dead when you scanned him a week ago. Had he died recently, he should have been cloned already, and we would see orange for access denied.

‘Someone may be holding his DNA and a cloning permit. I’m guessing you’re doing that with your wife.’

‘How do you know I had a wife — and that she is dead?’

‘I guessed. You never mentioned her, so I assumed she must have died, and you started working to buy her a symbiont.’

I almost burst into tears but kept silent.

‘And you, being an original … you naturally face a moral dilemma whether to clone her with or without a symbiont. Maybe even whether to clone her at all. Alas, I’m sorry, I can’t help you there. We all face that problem, and we need to decide for ourselves.’

Ólafur drank the last of his brandy and gave me a chance to compose myself.

‘I didn’t bring you here to tell you things you already know.

‘You need to find your peace, so we must uncover everything about this Toadboy. To start with, we have to locate the house he lived in, back when he was in school with you.

‘With any luck, we can find DNA samples of his parents, and then we can get some answers.’

7·4 Knocking

Instead of an enormous bill like last time, Ólafur presented me with a colossal task. Find out which of the circa 12,000 houses, Toadboy had lived in.

I could either ask around or try a fake ‘key’ with Toadboy’s DNA. Well, more like a scan of his blood from my C-bat transferred to the key.

Ólafur knew technology well — and could apparently find weaknesses everywhere. The idea behind the fake key was brilliant in its simplicity — and the key was straightforward to use. Hold it to the door and read the telltale: red \= access denied, orange \= access revoked. I was looking for the house with an orange error light.

So how does one try a fake key on 12,000 doors without getting caught?

Ólafur had outright refused to take money to solve this.

Sure, I could knock politely on every door, explain the situation and ask permission to scan it. That would take a long time — and what if the residents said no?

Perhaps this had been Ólafur’s point of complimenting Kristín’s dress. Don’t ask. Simply walk up to the door and scan, then walk away. Have an excuse at hand. Not getting caught is not an option; just have a good story ready. Tell people an innocent lie, something they want to hear and believe. Not that the ruling Trio may have planted a boy a century ago — and that you are seeking the truth. Keep it simple.

‘S’cuse me, sir or madam, this’ be wrong hous’ methinks. S’hey all look the saim. Sorry to have disturb’d your sliep.’

And be sure to smell alcohol, maybe a bottle of that fine brandy Ólafur likes to drink. Perhaps something much cheaper to avoid causing suspicion. No one would pay attention to a cheap drunk.

I could hire someone to do the job, but what if they got caught or missed a door? There might be an unpleasant explanation to the police. Maybe the local papers would run a story about a crazy retired coach and his conspiracy theories. Some things are better done yourself.

Stan counted: 11,239 doors, 16 nights and an equal amount of brandy bottles. I had finally found the right door — one more victory for Murphy.

There was something about those nightly walks. Sneaking from door to door — like a thief, nipping at the brandy from time to time — to keep up appearances and smelly breath.

I had a glass or two with Clara back in the days. A whole bottle a night was something new. The taste was hideous at first, but I got used to it after a few nips, and it had a very soothing effect. Another good thing about the brandy was that it allowed me to put Toadboy partially out of my mind. Sure he had been planted by the Evil Trio. Too many coincidences for it to be statistically plausible otherwise.

All our confidence in the government was lost now. Stan instead focused his faith on the statistically decreasing chance of the next telltale also turning red. I assisted with some philosophy: Maybe life presents one with an amount of good luck, that has to be weighed down by an equal amount of bad. To keep the entire universe in balance somehow — preventing it from imploding. The brandy did wonders for the creativity and imagination of the organic brain, I mean for me.

The simplest explanation is usually the correct one. I was drunk, and I liked being drunk. No, that is not entirely correct. I enjoyed my nightly walks — scanning around 700 doors each night and taking a nip every ten houses. Waking up the next day with a headache was not so pleasant.

Let me give you a bit of advice, Chloe: do not start drinking.

In the end, I finally found the right door. I could go back to my regular life without the need for brandy as a cover story. As things turned out, I did not need the alcohol nor the rehearsed lie. I never got caught. I was never even close to getting caught. Imagine the improbability of that.

Persuading the residents to let Ólafur search for DNA was surprisingly easy. It just cost a little money. Ólafur found what he was looking for right away. He went directly to the ventilation system filters and used a custom-made vacuum cleaner to collect all the particles, not from the filters but from the box that held them.

‘These filters are changed every year, but you cannot change them without spilling some of the particles into the box. If Sigurður’s parents ever lived here, their DNA will be in here somewhere.’

8·1 School

Ólafur needed two weeks for his machine to sort out the dust particles. Those weeks felt like some of the longest of my life.

We met at Ólafur’s laboratory, which, for some reason, is located in our neighbouring city — across the high bridge. Half an hour by car. Strange that he did not have his lab closer to his home. Well, strange is one word that describes him.

‘I’m having a brandy; would you like one as well?’ Ólafur asked.

‘Sure, why not.’

Ólafur’s brandy was delicious, and his cheery mood began to affect me.

‘Let’s start with the school photos, and we’ll use my originals for reference. Take a look and tell me what you see.’

He handed me a stack of pre-isolation paper photos to study: ‘Seems you went to two different schools as the children on the first nine photos are not the same as the last three. Your first class had around 24 pupils with one dropout and two newcomers. The second started with 32 but dropped to 28. Both classes were somewhat larger than mine.

‘Around half the children in your first school were boys. In your second school, boys accounted for more than three quarters.

‘The children look very different, especially in the last three photos. You stand out with that pale skin, even paler than mine. In the final photo, you also stand out as the only one with a fully grown beard … although less handsomely eccentric … than it is now.

‘Some of the children look underweight, some overweight, and this one is even massively obese. There is so much variation in skin colour. These two are so very dark, especially when compared to you.

‘In the last photo, you are all smiling more than usual … and what is with those toilet brushes?’

‘It was a tradition that the photo from last year should be something extraordinary. We went with toilet brushes. Some chose to wear costumes or underwear, others decorated with sex toys or something likewise immature.’

‘I see. So you only went to school for twelve years?’

‘I did another eight years at university, but there was no tradition for taking school photos there. It was more like an individual education.

‘Those first nine photos are from primary school, where children from all kinds of backgrounds learnt the very basics. The last three are from a secondary school. We chose a speciality, in my case: mathematics. This explains the higher number of boys; girls were more interested in languages than science and maths back then.

‘Refill?’

‘Yes, please.’

Chloe, I have to admit that I was beginning to like him at this point. This was short-lived, as his next words ruined the magic.

‘Now, I’m going to make some guesses before I look at your photos.

‘There were 19 children in your class. Eight boys and girls looking pretty much the same. And three more with a remarkably different appearance.

‘Sigurður will be one of those to stand out, along with you and a girl.’

I tried to fight it, but my facial expression betrayed my disbelief.

‘How—?’

Ólafur ignored my question and looked at the first photo.

‘So this is the photo from first grade. You’re sitting in the front all the way to the right. You seem to be the smallest child in the class.’

‘Yes, the other pupils were at least six months older.’

‘This ginger girl seems to be a bit older, maybe a year. Am I right in speculating that she became your wife?’

‘What … how?’

I took a large sip of the brandy. I needed it.

‘And here we have Sigurður, sitting front row middle.’

I nodded, uncomfortably impressed.

‘So we move on a few years, and we pretty much see the same thing. In fourth grade, you have moved to the back because you have grown considerably in height.

‘This sixth-grade photo was taken before the Toadboy incident. Sigurður is still in the front middle.

‘This changes in seventh grade with Sigurður being back row extreme left. He’s the shortest boy in class and trying to hide. You have moved towards the middle, and we see your future wife standing next to you, although you seem not to have noticed her.

‘Do take another sip of the brandy. You might need it.’

Ólafur poured me a large refill without asking.

‘Why, thank you.’

‘Moving on to eighth and ninth grade. You have most certainly noticed her, and Sigurður is back row to either side.’

‘Right.’

‘In the 10th grade, you both radiate as a couple in love. Let’s skip forward. See, in the 14th grade, you are even holding hands, undoubtedly married.’

I needed another sip. Getting my life story told by a stranger was somehow unsettling. Like my childhood was public knowledge: wholly transparent and predictable.

‘Let’s inspect the other children in the 15th grade. We see four couples, some of them most likely married by now. Perfectly average.’

‘Average?’

Ólafur has this annoying manner of not answering directly. I liked his brandy, not his demeanour.

‘Oh, did you bring Argyle’s school photos as well?’

‘Yes’

‘I don’t need to look at them, but let me guess that Argyle’s class had 17 children. Nine boys and eight girls. Argyle was the only child to stand out as looking remarkably different.’

Chloe, the man’s arrogance was getting the better of me, yet I managed to stay polite, as always.

‘Why, yes.’

‘If you look at Argyle’s 15th-grade photo, you will see 3-5 couples among the other 16 children. Several probably married.’

‘So this is why I need the brandy?’

Again, he did not answer the question.

‘School pre-isolation was all about getting an education, preparing the child for a future as an adult. With a well-paid job and being able to buy the necessities of life, like food, clothing and shelter. Things that are now freely available.

‘School now, while still providing an education, is, in actuality, a laboratory experiment run by the government. You know the law, all children, even clones with symbionts, must attend 15 years of school, usually from age 6-21.’

Now, the conversation was getting interesting. Stan and I had speculated on our next childhood for decades. Although I knew the answer, I pretended not to know. Maybe Ólafur would spill some public secrets.

‘Strange law, why are clones with symbionts required 15 years of school. They should be synchronised by first grade — and learn quickly?’

‘You seem to have missed a hint I dropped when we first met. I said something about how the embryo and baby years don’t really count.’

He was wrong; I did notice. Stan searched his historical archive but found nothing. We had to search for long hours on the internet. I went along with Ólafur’s game — and pretended I had figured it all out myself.

‘As a matter of fact, I gave it a bit of thought. My guess is that the symbiont only needs to synchronise with the body once. It goes a lot faster the second time?’

‘It does indeed. The body is the same, so you are fully synchronised when implanted at birth. There are some initial communication problems, so you are around three months old when you genuinely feel you’re back in charge.

‘The salesman never mentioned this.’

‘His job was to sell you the willing host and steer you away from the clone, but we’ll get back to that later.

‘The human brain isn’t fully grown until the age of 21. The Oath at 15+1 usually ends childhood, allowing sex, marriage and moving away from home. However, the parents bear full responsibility until the age of 21. And the teens still need to go to school.

‘While the symbiont holds all memory and experiences, the brain needs to develop naturally and learn everything from scratch. The symbiont can help a lot, but the symbiont would have to deal with an infantile host brain without school. That would not be pleasant at all.’

‘So if I move to a clone of myself … I will remember everything, be able to talk, walk, etc., only three months after birth?’

‘Yes and no … you will be able to remember everything, and you can force any issue.

‘Your mother will suffer few sleepless nights, and she’ll appreciate you getting toilet trained in no time. However, you better let the host learn some things on its own, especially when it comes to bonding with your parents.

‘Having a symbiont makes you somehow elevated above normal humans. They may not take kindly to you showing off from an early age.

‘Not even the Trio go out in public before the age of six.

‘It’ll come naturally to you. You’ll have two lifetimes of experience to determine how to act. Besides, you’ll feel enormous pleasure as the brain develops, so you want to nudge it along gently rather than force it.’

‘What about school? Will I get utterly bored?’

‘This depends on the school you choose. All clones attend segregated schools, and you’ll eventually learn some techniques to handle it, probably shortly before you die — for the first time. Symbionts usually like to go to school with their spouses and friends, even if they are just clones.’

I did not accept the non-answer and pressed on: ‘How are you handling school? What could you possibly learn that 32 lifetimes have not taught you already?’

‘I am writing another PhD to pass the time, but I also appreciate the social aspect. I have met most of my classmates in previous incarnations. It is fun to catch up and retry previously failed romances.’

Apparently, the man did not take rejection very well.

‘The salesman said that high intelligence hosts might rebel against their symbionts. This would be worse than rejection?’

‘I’m a historian. I don’t know all the technical details. However, it sounds like a compelling argument to choose the willing host instead of a clone.’

‘It sure does, and I am not sure how I feel about that. I mean, Jon’s body is perfect, and our shared life is so much more interesting than Argyle’s ever was. Excellent brandy, by the way.’

‘Do help yourself.’

Yes, Chloe, you are right. This was not me talking, but Stan. The brandy must have made me acquiescent. Besides, Stan did not ask any questions I would not have asked myself. He just phrased them a bit different.

8·2 Beth

I helped myself to a liberal refill — and Stan continued the conversation.

‘Thank you. There was one more thing I wanted to ask, now that you mention the Trio.’

‘Ask away.’

Chloe, I am sorry. I am getting ahead of myself. Back when I was 15 and took the Oath: I saw an interview with the Trio about the isolation, a decade after the fact. The original Paul was still alive, 70 years old. His clone with symbiont was 28, and they were interviewed about the difference between being an original and a clone.

The interview went well for a few minutes. The two Pauls were able to complete each other’s sentences. Then it was revealed that they lived and worked together. In the end, the young Paul got all introvert and kept silent for 21 minutes — until the discussion changed to that of technical stuff. Stan had always speculated on why this was so. Now, he saw an opportunity to get a first-hand explanation.

‘You mentioned that you worked with Paul. I have always been curious about his two sons, two years older and younger than his first clone. Well, not so much his sons, but 28-year-old Paul said that he is also married to Beth. He was four when the original married her.

‘After young Paul refuses to talk about it, he stays utterly silent. Such a strange look on his face, like he is ashamed of something.’

I expected Ólafur to change the subject rather than answering. I was mistaken.

‘Ah, this is a story the Trio has effectively deleted from written history.

‘Paul was initially married to Sheila, a fine, somewhat younger woman who gave birth to his two sons. Beth was his lab assistant, even younger than Sheila. She worked long nights with Paul, and sometimes they ended up in bed.

‘When Paul got his “special cloning permit”, he wanted Sheila to give birth to his clone. She refused as she thought it was an altogether strange thing to do. She was his wife, not his mother.

‘So Paul asked Beth, and she agreed, more than willing.

‘After the clone was born, Paul spent more and more time in the lab. He missed the birth of his second son and spent very little time at home with his family.

‘Paul became obsessed with his clone. He moved into the lab when the clone was four years old. This made Sheila give up on their marriage, and they divorced.’

‘Divorced?’

‘You know what it means.’

‘Sure, I know, but it is so very scarce these days.’

‘People were different back then.

‘Anyhow, old Paul married Beth, and she stayed on as his lab assistant. She helped raise the clone she had given birth to. Clone-Paul synchronised at the age of five, and he had an unusual moral dilemma. In his mind, he had already slept with the woman who had given birth to him. He had the same feelings for her as old Paul.’

Chloe, you must understand that Beth only gave birth to young Paul. She was not technically or biologically his mother. She used her womb as a tool. Similar to the workers of old — who built the pyramids and other wonders. They used their hands, legs, muscles and brains. The womb is no different — today, that is. Earlier, people saw it as sacred. Anyway, let us get back to Ólafur’s explanation.

‘Old Paul was 20 years older than Beth. When cloned Paul got to a certain age, he was more than willing … and able to help out with Beth. They eventually came to some private arrangement.’

‘That explains the strange look on his face.’

‘Megan and Sally avoided this dilemma by claiming to be married to their work — no time to raise children.’

‘Is their claim false?’

‘I met Megan when I was working with Paul, and oh, how I had a crush on her. Not that I could ever consider marrying an invader, but that did not stop me from “trying”. As it turned out, she was not interested.’

‘She did not feel the same?’

‘This is pure speculation on my side, but I don’t think she’s interested in boys whatsoever. You’ve seen the interviews … notice how Megan looks at Sally and how Sally looks back. They don’t look at Paul in the same way.’

Chloe, I was getting drunk, so I happily let Stan do the talking.

‘I am beginning to see why I need that brandy.

‘So first, you say divorce, and then you mention same-gender relationships, both perfectly legal and acceptable … except that they do not happen anymore, or at least I have not heard any of them occur.’

‘As I said, people were different back then. Sally actually said it all in the first interview: They liked the idea of perceived freedom.’

Sally also said that we are free to do things we do not want to do.

Ólafur went to find another bottle. This was a most welcome relief. Perhaps I did like the man despite his bothering manners. He continued his story as he came back.

‘Certain human qualities and desires have been bred out of the population. Only us first-generation symbionts remember, and we’re not that many.’

I thought Stan was getting drunk too. His follow-up comment was pretty lame.

‘I guess it is honourable of Megan and Sally to suppress their own kind. Guess they are serious about saving humanity.’

‘If we can believe that’s what they’re doing.’

8·3 Machine

Ólafur needed a few moments to think, and I helped myself to a small refill. Right, Chloe, a generous one. Ólafur decided to change the subject yet again.

‘Tell me, did you have any children with your wife?’

‘Yes, we had a lovely daughter.’

‘What about Argyle?’

‘Argyle never had the time — nor the desire.’

‘So your daughter was conceived naturally?’

‘We had sex — if that is what you mean.’

Chloe, I was 106 years old and had never heard of what Ólafur was about to reveal. I recognise now why he asked about Kristín’s age. He was probing me on the great taboo. Had I said ‘too old to bear children’, he might not have explained the following.

‘Getting pregnant is a lot easier than getting your embryo through Megan’s Acceptable Gene Program. Most couples try for years only to get their pregnancy terminated time after time.

‘They typically end up going to the doctor, asking for advice. After the usual diagnosis, the doctor suggests artificial insemination. It costs a little money and is the main reason most people consider working. People rarely speak of this. They realise their genes are inferior. Not something to share with the world.

‘Artificial insemination is a kind of advanced cloning. A large number of eggs is removed from the woman and fertilised with sperm from the man. The eggs are allowed to grow in test tubes for a short time before they are terminated. Megan analyses the dead embryos — and makes a clone of an acceptable specimen if available.’

‘Why kill the embryos?’

‘Well, let me introduce you to this darling machine of mine.’

Ólafur showed me into the next room — with an ancient bulky looking machine. I examined it visually.

‘Label says “Industrial Gene Mapper”, written in Russian.’

‘Russia made the best ones — before the isolation.’

‘So, you are a gene scientist as well?’

‘Oh no, it was a gift to impress a lady … Megan, but she rejected me before it arrived. I somehow forgot to send it back. Turns out that was exceptional luck because it’s now impossible to get one — unless you work for her.’

‘So it is an advanced version of the portable scanner from the café?’

‘The scanner is much simpler — an electronic microscope. It sends a photo of the DNA to a computer that looks for patterns to identify the individual.

‘The gene mapper identifies all three billion base pairs in your DNA, mapping them onto genes. Unlike the scanner, the mapper destroys the sample in the process, which is why Megan has to terminate the embryos.’

‘So she kills the embryos, takes samples for later cloning and then destructively maps the embryos.’

‘Right. Let me explain the two weeks waiting time.

‘The particles we took from the air filter in Sigurður’s house contain samples of several individuals. We should find the DNA of Sigurður, his parents, current residents, possible earlier occupants and any house guests that visited long enough.

‘The machine has worked non-stop, sorting out the samples. It has identified 32 different individuals so far and mapped them. We don’t need to remove the blood from your C-bat.’

‘Good, it does have some sentimental value.’

At least Stan was on my side. He is a computer — and has no sentimental values whatsoever. But Chloe, I was smashed, immoderately pissed.

‘I thought so.’

‘What can the machine tell us?’

‘I’m a historian, not a gene scientist, so you have to take what I say with that in mind.

‘The human body is built from cells containing a core: DNA — a long double chain of organic molecules, around three billion pairs long. Some map onto our 20 thousand genes and those onto our 23 chromosome pairs.

‘Scientists have been working towards understanding how genes affect us as humans. It was easy to discover all aspects of physical appearance. This information is available on the machine as a direct readout.

‘Let’s see what it says about Sigurður.

‘Darkest brown eyes of Oriental origin, ebony hair, light milky chocolate skin, around 170 cm tall and expected slightly overweight.’

Stan was unimpressed: ‘Yes, this is pretty obvious from the school photos.’

‘Sure is. The machine is usually accurate for genes that determine our physical appearance, although diet and lifestyle can affect certain features like weight.

‘Appearance genes only make out a small fraction of the total, and many are still a mystery. However, some genes come in multiple versions. Good or bad, depending on the environment, the lifestyle and other external factors.

‘One gene might make a man a good loving husband and father, provided he leads a stress-free life. Especially in childhood — stress makes him anxious. If continued over a long time, or if experienced in childhood, the stress turns him into a child abuser and wife beater.

‘The other version of that gene makes him uncaring. He’ll only be in a marriage to satisfy his physical desires. He’s, however, likewise uncaring when it comes to stress and is pretty much immune to the ill effects. If stress is unavoidable, he’ll make a better husband and father than the first one.

‘It isn’t a question of good or bad genes, but of environment, lifestyle, stress and external factors. The machine has all knowledge until the isolation. Unfortunately, I’m not qualified to fully operate or appreciate it.

‘When you think about our “island paradise”, it’s evident that the Trio is breeding the first version of the gene. They keep stress to a minimum by making everyone safe and content enough.’

Chloe, this talk of stress made me think of the cow and her blue anger-handling pills. She was uncaring, as the latter type suggests. But, if she had no issues handling stress, why did she take the pills? Why was she so cold and uncaring if she was the former type? Did I really cause her that much anger? A dark thought entered my mind: Could it be her contract with the government forbidding her to bond with her client, forcing me to seek the acceptance of Stan?

‘I speculate that Megan and Sally are working towards understanding all genes. Perhaps as preparation for the day, they finally allow us to repopulate our island, and they lose or give up control.

‘Well, more than that. Sally is working towards putting two persons together by gene match and seeing the pair getting married.’

Ólafur suddenly smiled and took a sip before he continued.

‘Megan and Sally are not sharing their research, but they have unintentionally published some of it. The law explicitly states which genes forbid the birth of an embryo

‘The outlawed genes relate somehow to the defective ones that made the outside degenerate. And to genes that determine sexuality, desires, loyalty and other things the Trio wants to control. Anything that threatens their power.

‘Here we have Sigurður’s biological parents — 99·6% matching genes.

‘Now, let’s scan for illegal ones. See, both parents have them, although dormant — not affecting their lives. They may pass them on to their offspring.

‘I’ve made a computer simulation. It makes theoretical children and looks for forbidden genes and combos. With so many dormant defective genes, there is only a rough 10% chance of getting a child without any of them active. However, some of the good genes turn bad when combined with other good genes. I ran the simulation ten million times — only 20 would pass Megan’s program.

‘So even if Megan took all 300,000 eggs from the mother, it would still require some luck to get a child. And I guess Megan only takes a few thousand, as the process must be quite time-consuming. Only Megan knows the details.’

‘So you’re saying that Sigurður was a miracle? ’

‘We’re about to find out.

‘One thing to say about Megan is that she has integrity. She could have inseminated the mother with a proven viable clone and have Paul fake the parental DNA test results. Few people have access to equipment to prove otherwise.

‘The artificial insemination program also comes with a guarantee of a child. You know how the Trio somehow always keeps their promises.

‘And look here, Sigurður does indeed have some active forbidden genes.’

‘So his parents somehow avoided or cheated Megan?’

‘That is very unlikely. Notice the low 99·6% parental gene match?’

‘Yes, mine is 99·8%.’

‘I have seen it before, and I have a theory which I call Megan’s Cut.’

It was now Ólafur’s turn to need a large sip of his brandy.

‘I’ve no idea how she does it. Maybe she selects the embryo with the least forbidden genes — and then cuts it with a high precision laser. Or, perhaps she floods all the dead embryos with radiation — until one comes along that’s interesting enough to pass.’

‘Interesting enough?’

‘Let’s see what this machine says about Sigurður’s intelligence:
Logic and mathematical: exceptional.
Interpersonal: low, anti-social behaviour expected.

‘Midget growth expected and most important of all: sterile.

‘Smart and safe enough to live. Not to reproduce.’

‘You have seen this before?’

‘Many times, and I suspect … no, I think you need a little more brandy before I tell you.’

Chloe, I was happy to oblige.

‘Anyway, let’s get back to the schools being laboratories with children as test subjects.

‘It started a few centuries after the isolation. Children got assigned to schools, completely ignoring where they lived. The parents were naturally annoyed, but the Trio helped them relocate and threw in a few bonuses. They ended up being content enough.

‘Almost all class photos I have seen since then, have shown the same pattern: Eight boys of similar appearance and eight girls also looking the same. Special schools for clones excluded.

‘As the years passed, there were more and more couples at the end of school. It averaged out around 50% some 500 years ago. Either Sally cannot get the number any higher, or she has succeeded and uses half the children as a control group. Sally doesn’t say.

‘Before the invention of eternal life, people attempted to do something in their one lifetime. Time was a scarce resource, and people wanted to get the best out of the short time they had.

‘The Trio isn’t in any hurry. They’ve all the time in the world to do whatever research they need. Enough time to make any adjustments to society and humanity, in whatever way, they please.

‘We’re not even two million citizens. Nothing compared to the billions that used to populate the Earth.

‘The Trio takes their time, and it’s obvious what they’re looking for: A docile population that wants to be productive, work and reproduce. They don’t want a wilful population that might start a revolution and threaten their power.

‘What they want isn’t what they got. Sure the population is docile, but way too many don’t care to earn any money. Why should they?’

I poured myself another glass, and it turned out Stan was not drunk at all: ‘Too bad symbionts cannot get drunk; sometimes it would be nice to forget.’

‘Megan decides which babies are born, and Sally puts them together in classes of 16. Every now and then, Megan finds herself unable to produce an acceptable child. Instead, she delivers a sterile embryo that usually has exceptional qualities.

‘These sterile children are put in classes as the 17th pupil. The Trio monitors their development and sees what happens. In most cases, nothing — the subject dies of old age without having done anything spectacular.

‘But sometimes, and this must be what the Trio is after, the sterile child gets success in life. Makes a lot of money and buys a symbiont. Usually accompanied by a willing host. This keeps the economy going.’

‘So, you are saying that Argyle was sterile and that he was an experiment like Sigurður. Except that the Argyle experiment was a success?’

‘Yes, but this isn’t why you need the brandy. We can easily prove sterility if you have some of Argyle’s DNA. The machine will destroy it, so we better not use your finger.’

‘I will take your word for it.’

Ólafur looked disappointed at this. Stan wondered why.

‘So Sigurður was planted as an outsider in the class, but so was you and your wife. Tell me, why is she older than the other children?’

‘Clara went to school near Katla, but her mother got ill and was diagnosed with a rare disease. She required a different climate, so the family moved up North. Clara got a new school but had to restart first grade — she missed so much time in her first school. At least her mother got better almost immediately.’

‘Do you believe this?’

‘I did until you asked.’

‘Have you been to Katla?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘And the climate is drastically different in what way?’

I wanted to say something but took another nip instead. To be honest, Chloe, I had no idea what was going on. Stan had to tell me what happened the next day. Ólafur is right about the climate, though. Almost the same as we have up here. We have more daylight in the summer and less in the winter, but that does not explain the miraculous recovery.

‘If you can spare a drop of blood, we can see what the machine has to say about you.’

‘Sure — and I am guessing this is why I need the brandy?’

‘I’m afraid it is. Let me explain about overlapping desires while we wait for the machine. It should only take a few minutes.

‘When Argyle bought the willing host package, he was faced with a questionnaire and plenty of tick boxes, I presume?’

‘Yes, desired features of the host, they were costly.’

‘I’m sure they were, and I’m sorry to tell you that it did not matter how you ticked those boxes. While I’m not a gene scientist, my machine has tested a lot of hosts and symbionts. The machine may not have all data, but there has always been a perfect gene match for desires. My theory is that it’s the only way to make the host accept the symbiont.’

The machine made a loud sound.

‘Ah, it’s finished.

‘Let’s start by seeing if you look like the machine predicts: Pale skin, blond hair, blue eyes slightly larger than average, 194 cm tall, slim and fit.

‘Expected intelligence:
Bodily-kinesthetic: exceptional.
Linguistics: high.
Spacial: high.
Musical: low.
Logical-mathematical: very low, no surprise, I suppose?

‘Risk-taker, overly self-confident, highly susceptible to alcoholism and drug abuse. All bad combined with little logical sense.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘How did your father die?’

‘He fell off a cliff … I see what you mean.’

‘Extreme awareness of right and wrong. Must always take the morally correct path, regardless of consequences.

‘Bonding with people is hard, but loyal and trusting once bound.

‘Does this sound like Jon?’

‘No, not exactly.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I—’

‘Maybe another brandy?’

‘I think my brain has had way more than enough.’

Stan’s judgement was spot on. I am sorry, Chloe, but my brain gave up at this point. Actually, it gave up much earlier, but I trust Stan’s recollection of events until this point.

8·4 Untruth

Alcohol was the last thing I desired when I woke up. I felt miserable and had no memory of the events yesterday. Except, a visit to the historian and the obvious one-brandy-too-many. It took Stan some persuasion to get me to drink a single repair brandy. Just to take the edge off. Just to make the misery slightly less intolerable. I was surprised that it seemed to work. I was even more surprised that I was a relic before discovering this neat trick. But then, I had never drunk that much in a single evening before.

Why had I drunk so much? I wanted to find out the truth and went to a lot of trouble to do so. Stan apologised sincerely. He claimed he had been too fascinated, too preoccupied listening to the stories of the historian.

I listened as Stan recalled and explained everything. The two Pauls’ relations to Beth. Megan’s and Sally’s supposedly secret attraction to each other. And how Toadboy had been an utter failure and achieved nothing — hardly surprising.

Stan explained how both of Toadboy’s parents had been pathologists: specialised doctors who cut up and study dead bodies. Not exactly something I wanted to hear in my hungover state. Anyway, pathologists have historically always been somewhat off-human. They have bizarre humour and talk a certain inter-patho-lingo, communicating details with each other, without it being too evident to any audience, who may later view the autopsy footage. They are not trying to hide anything but to spare the viewers’ feelings, who are likely in a state of grief, and do not need in-depth explanations of the inadequacies of the deceased. Toadboy must have picked up their lingo.

Stan suggested we look up the two most common means of suicide on the internet. They were bridge-hopping and drug overdose. Stan also explained that memories before Clara are imperfect. He might have misremembered or possibly heard wrong. Had Toadboy said ‘funny’ pills or ‘funny pills’?

I could not remember either. It was too long ago.

The machine showed that Toadboy was defective, that he somehow slipped through the Acceptable Gene Program. He possessed inferior inter-human skills. Born with an evil-within. Doomed to behave in an anti-social, manipulative, cruel and sadistic way. Toadboy was a victim of bad luck, someone to pity rather than—

Chloe, I rejected to hear Stan’s explanation to the end.

Anyhow, it had all been a coincidence, so all those door probings had been for nothing. Well, not for nothing. I had honestly enjoyed the nightly walks in the cold and dark. Not that it was any lighter in the daytime during winter. Or even much warmer. Most people were asleep, and walking in symbiotic solitude felt gratifying. I was on a mission not entirely honest, not technically illegal either, only morally.

Jon-Argyle was no more: Stan persuaded me to change my name to Jón. It was a sort of silent protest against the methods of the invading Trio. Lots of people had changed their names, even Toadboy. He had likely sought redemption before his death. At least, he had that one redeeming quality.

Chloe, you have to recognise that I have been with Stan for a century. He had never lied to me before. While his story was in some way plausible, I did not believe it for a second.

You are right, Chloe. He was not entirely honest about the blue pill I ‘needed’ to swallow before meeting Clara. The difference is that he did it for my benefit, and he told me everything later.

Stan claims he remembers no details after my blackout at the historian.

9·1 Breakdown

There was something wrong with Stan. He was losing his personality and becoming more and more computer-like. I had strange dreams, and I was able to remember them. Weird ideas of the world not being right. That the Trio were gods rather than humans.

There was nothing wrong with Stan’s memory. He could still answer maths questions and spell. It was much worse. There was something wrong with his judgement. I began to wonder if there had always been something wrong with it.

The dreams were way specific — and could not be my own. Yes, Chloe, very similar to the ones I had in childhood. One night, Stan fantasised that the recoding chip was a live eel that crawled into Argyle’s head. It excreted a data stream each night during the so-called backup. The eel ate Argyle’s mind in 28 years — and had been his death.

Yes, this time, you are right, Chloe. Eels are indeed amphibians —snakes that live and breathe in water. This sets them apart from serpents … oh, where was I?

Argyle had not died from a parasitic eel in his head. Not from his short walks from his desk to his sofa either. More likely from the distance between the two objects being too insignificant.

Nature has many examples of symbiosis, especially between animals. What is the difference between a man-made symbiont and an organic creature? Sure one is built from sand and the other from carbon, but what practical difference does it make? It definitely meant something to Stan.

He also nurtured the idea that the symbiont is a scam. It is supposed to be a computer almost as fast as the brain. The half-hour knockout caused by Ólafur’s puzzle proved this to be a lie. Stan believed there would be no way to buffer that much brain activity and catch up later. Not unless the symbiont is faster than the brain.

I did not know what to believe. Stan had some valid points, but clearly, the symbiont worked. The puzzle had shut out Stan entirely for 30 minutes. I never felt so bad, not since … not since ever. I felt alone and all wrong. Like a part of me had died, like I had lost access to my eyes and they only saw what they wanted to see. Like I yearned to speak but could not, but I spoke, did I not? I told Ólafur something, or was that a lie? Did it matter? We got what we wanted: Mother’s access code.

Stan also dreamt that there was no DNA cache inside my chest. That it was something else, although he could not guess what. Argyle’s DNA in my finger makes perfect sense. I use it to pay for things. Why would there need to be a bulky container in my chest? It was not like Mother and Father got cloned from samples from that. Their DNA is stored at the cloning company, the most appropriate place.

History tells us that computer technology peaked long before the isolation. Stan did calculations on the size of atoms and the way computer chips are built. Basic school knowledge, Chloe. He theorised that it was improbable that humans could exceed our creator so many times over. That the small chip could not be so powerful when the brain needed to be that large. The brain was the reason humanity had once ruled the planet. Human babies are born with large heads because the brain can be further developed this way.

Stan had finally lost it. He concluded that everything pointed toward our world being fake. He was a computer simulation. I was not a real person but an idea in Argyle’s head, if Argyle ever had a head. That was when I woke up, and Stan turned into a computer again.

Chloe, I understood. I actually understood.

There was nothing wrong with my brain, nothing wrong in my head. Something was right with both. I could make up new words and spell them. All I had to do was, in my head, to ‘say’ them out loud and ‘listen’, and I could then ‘see’ how to spell them.

When I pressed a hundred random letters on the keyboard, I could not recall them, not immediately. There was a substantial delay on anything that required perfect memory. Anything that needed Stan, the symbiont in my chest, not in my head.

You see, Chloe, the thing in my head must be sort of an antenna tentacle that Stan uses to tap into my brain. It improves the areas where I lack and stays well away from those I do not.

I took off my shirt and looked in the mirror. My naked upper body had no visible scars, yet Stan must be somewhere in my chest. Sadly, breaking down, reduced to a mere computer, now that my brain had been perfected. This fact did not make me want Stan any less, not at this time.

9·2 Symbiosis

Chloe, I guess it is difficult for you to grasp the concept of symbiosis without first-hand experience. Let me try to explain how it works or has worked for so many years.

Stan and I both share a craving for technical data — and an understanding of how things work. We crave differently. I am a nerd and want to experience the process and learn. Stan wants to skip this part. He prefers to get a summary and make his judgement based on the credibility of the data source. Stan’s way may be better sometimes, but it is his way, not my way.

When talking in terms of apples, I can easily comprehend that 2 × 2 is 4. I cannot surmise how -2 × -2 is also 4 — makes no sense in my world. It is just a convention mathematicians have agreed upon to make their world ideal. It does not relate to the real world, not to my world. I can accept that the result is so, but as I cannot associate it with apples, it somehow feels less important.

When I say apple, Stan builds up an interpretation structure. Do I mean the fruit or wood of an apple tree? Maybe the apple shape, an Adam’s apple or perhaps I used it as slang? Stan concludes that I likely meant the fruit because the wood is not countable, and I just mentioned 2 × 2. This process works well. Stan has all the data at hand, and he trusts that data.

He then builds up an abstract apple model that every specific apple can inherit. I mean, he finds aspects that are common for all apples. The model includes variables such as size, colour and taste experience. Stan makes a table of all the apples that I have eaten. The more apples I eat, the better Stan becomes at predicting my preferences. Like whether or not I would like one specific apple better with cinnamon.

Stan abstracts the parts away and tries to see the whole.

I need to understand the parts before I can see the whole.

And I understand the parts. I finally realised this at the age of 106.

Stan did not make it easy for me. It is so comfortable to want to know something and let that wish come true. Without Stan, my life would have been different. I would have been forced to do research, forced to learn things my own way. I would have muddled through but never have become what I am now.

For this, Stan deserves a big thank-you.

Chloe, look at my right shoulder. Can you see the scar? Stan reminds me that it is the remnants of Clara’s nail during a particularly passionate love act. He can even provide time and place.

Look at the scar on my left hand. Stan readily reminds me that it is from an accident on skates, and again, he can provide further details. It is just a tiny mark, but still visible after all these years.

When I look at my chest and forehead, I see nothing — no visible scars.

Stan can recall a sales photo of the symbiont — seen by Argyle. He explains that the chip is the rough size of a little fingernail, only thicker. He also tells me that the bulky cache is around the size of a thumb. Stan sees a mystery as to how these items got into my body.

Is there even room in my chest for a thumb-sized cache? Elementary anatomy tells us there is not. It would make a visible bulge, yet I see nothing. I am also unable to feel any foreign object beneath my skin.

Chloe, I always loved biology, my favourite subject in school. After Stan made his appearance, my grades improved considerably. He does not share my excitement for biology but helps me remember all the terms.

I can actually explain everything with basic school biology. Stan attended the same classes as I, yet he cannot make the same explanation. His seeing the whole image gets in the way.

I am, however, analysing from the inside, ignoring the whole for now.

How does one put a chip inside a human head and have it communicate with the mind? Brains are complex and consist of different parts. Each part does a dedicated task.

First, there is the question of nourishment — or power as the symbiont is a computer. The recording chip supposedly feeds on Adenosine Triphosphate, the same energy that the brain does. This makes sense as the recording chip is a slow low-power computer.

You are right, Chloe; ordinary people abbreviate to ATP. I am a nerd…

The symbiont is supposed to be extremely fast. If it were to leech on my brain, I would feel dizzy when Stan does intensive computations. I do not, so the symbiont must have another power source. Most likely, it gets energy off my muscles. It must be physically attached somehow.

Stan was able to make good decisions before, so he must be connected to the Frontal lobes in my brain. More precisely, the chip in my head — that I think is a sort of antenna tentacle — has to be attached.

Stan can smell, so he must have access to the Rhinencephalon part in my forehead. He can also see, hear, taste and feel. These sensations go through my Thalamus. A sort of relay station that determines which sensory inputs to let pass and which to ignore.

He can sense my emotions, which means a connection to my Limbic system. I believe he is attached to all parts of my brain. Connected by the antenna tentacle — a sort of long snake. No, more likely, several shorter individual snakes — able to move into place and attach. One snake goes through my brainstem and connects with the base part in my chest. This part will also be snaky, attaching itself to any muscles that can provide energy for the symbiont.

Stan’s dream was partially correct. Sure the chip would be in the shape of an eel or snake. How else would it be able to get into the different parts of my brain? How else would it be able to get into my body without leaving any scars?

Chloe, do you wonder why Stan got parked in data-storage for two years? Why did he need me to become sentient, to feel alive? What is Stan? He is supposed to be an artificial consciousness — a computer program compiled from everything Argyle’s chip recorded. I do not know what an artificial consciousness is precisely, but it must consist of at least two parts: memory and decision making.

Memory is straightforward: a digital representation of reality. Stan perceives stored images as coloured pixels and audio in terms of samples. Trivial knowledge from school.

Decision making is equally uncomplicated. Humans come with pre-programmed behaviour. If I feel something hot, I instinctively retract my hand. I automatically close my eyes when I sneeze. If I fall, I automatically use my hands to reduce the impact.

The same goes for animals. Sea turtle eggs use temperature to decide on the gender of their hatchlings. A happy dog wags its tail. An anthill acts as one individual rather than a lot of individual ants.

These instincts are in our genes. Evolution makes sure we do the right things or perish. One thing that makes man stand out is our ability to decide for ourselves. We make decisions based on our experiences and learn from our mistakes. We automatically retract a burnt hand from a fire. But we no longer avoid fire when we discover that it is not dangerous — if under control.

I believe the decision making part of Stan is a long table: input situations, actions taken and the outcome results. This is just data and easy to represent in a computer.

Consider the cockroach. It will starve to death if you cut its head off, but it will run around just fine. It has a brain in each of its six legs. Those brains connect to the fine hairs on its legs, hairs that can feel an enemy approaching. When danger is at leg, the brain in the leg closest to the enemy senses the peril first. It moves the leg and sends a signal to the other brains, that it has made a move. The cockroach is already one step ahead when the other leg-brains receive the information. A cockroach is thus difficult to catch. Well, perhaps not for you, Chloe.

The lesson to be learnt from the cockroach is that distance from limb to brain matters. I live in the past. Whenever my brain perceives something, it has already happened. The distance from my brain to my toes is much longer than to my nose. I feel pain in my nose before my toes, but it does not matter in practice. I am just receiving a pain signal and reacting. It is fast enough for nerve signals and the human body.

Computers are different. They perform billions of operations per second and use electrons as signals. These are pretty fast, but distance still matters. Especially when sending and receiving a lot of data, which is typically what computers do.

So let us consider the snake design for the symbiont. One long snake would be inefficient in terms of increased response time from one end to the other. The total length of the snake would depend on the diameter, but I think it is safe to assume it would be a hundred times my height at least.

In any case, the snake design is an inefficient one — even if consisting of many individual snakes. Nothing beats compactness when it comes to fast responses. The form does have one advantage, though. It does not overheat as much as a compact would, and a fast computer does produce heat.

So, Chloe, we can either accept Stan’s theory that the symbiont is a scam and the world is virtual: a computer simulation, and we are just data chunks, just bits.

Or we accept that the snake design of the symbiont will never be as fast as the human brain. That Stan’s artificial consciousness is just memories stored in the base part and a decision table — somehow connected to my Frontal lobes.

The only way Stan comes to life is in my brain, by pushing me aside or me allowing him to step in. This is why we must have matching desires, although not the same personalities. We have lived a century in perfect symbiosis. Stan stepped in when required and stepped back when redundant or lacking.

The symbiont is not exceeding our maker’s design. It is an extension of a proven existing prototype. Without a human brain to bring it to life, the symbiont is just a computer.

9·3 Rejection

Chloe, I think I made the worst mistake of my life.

Let me tell you of an ancient reptile: the crocodile. It is basically a dinosaur that survived the Great Meteor and stopped evolving. No need to improve on perfection, yet the first crocodile was miserable. Whenever a prey was eaten, lumps of meat would get stuck between its teeth and rot. Its claws might be able to remove the offending bits if only its front feet were long enough. All it could do was open its mouth — and hope some smaller animal would come around and remove them. It takes some courage and trust to go near the mouth of a crocodile, but one little bird, the plover bird, had just that.

A beautiful symbiosis emerged, and crocodiles never needed to revisit the dentists. Humour, Chloe, it is the way we deal with pain and troubles. You should try it. Anyway, the bird cleans the teeth of the crocodile and gets a feast this way. The crocodile gets healthy teeth in return. The birds cannot afford to be picky. All lumps must be removed, or the crocodile would feel cheated and attempt to eat the birds.

And this is similar to my relationship with Stan. We both felt alive and depended on each other. We even enjoyed each other’s company. This is what symbiosis is supposed to be all about. Everything changed as he started lying to me. Stan turned from symbiont to parasite. From gift to curse.

I gave him a simple choice: Tell the truth or begone for good.

While Stan can withhold the facts from me, he cannot hide his feelings. I saw a vision of Argyle. He was confined inside a soap bubble, floating aimlessly, or was it the world being trapped? He admired the fascinating colours, he could recall an explanation of why the colours came to be, but he preferred to enjoy the magic instead. The bubble was a sanctuary as much as a prison. He held the key: one prick with the truth would set him free.

Chloe, I could feel that Stan wanted to tell the truth. He wholeheartedly wanted to, but somehow he failed to speak. Like he was somehow conditioned to stay silent. The vision ended abruptly, and Stan was gone. Permanently. All that remained was the computer.

We were no longer synchronised.

Stan was locked out, unable to move a muscle, reduced to a mere passenger, a computer — whose voice had no personality. At least he got to live, and he finally got to experience flight, although with virtual wings.

You see, Chloe, I went through a massive change.

9·4 Metamorphosis

Stan, the lying parasite, was no more. Once again, I emerged victoriously.

My initial reaction was joyfulness. No longer would I need to suffer Stan’s opinions on everything. No longer would his annoying voice of reason affect my behaviour. My dreams would finally be my own again, buzzing with new ideas. I felt like a new person, reborn.

I stopped drinking alcohol entirely. Yes, Chloe, this brandy in my hand is alcohol, but I have not had a drink in four years. And this brandy has a purpose, but let me get back to that in a bit.

I realised that I would never alone have transcended to the pinnacle where I am, never have unlocked my full potential. I felt eternally grateful for Stan’s help, but I was happy he was gone.

Chloe, look at my back. Can you see my wings?

They are virtual wings, naturally, but the metamorphosis had completed. Jon was the egg, Stan the caterpillar, Jon-Argyle the chrysalis. I, Jón, the butterfly, emerged — to fly freely, for a few years, until my end.

Yes, they are invisible, but you have to understand, Chloe, that my wings are as real as you are.

Anyhow, I began to write poetry, and I wrote this ode just for you.

O grimalkin mine, precious and glorious,
master of any mouse, mistress of my house.

Who am I? Intelligence or emotion?

Whom do you love the most?
The provider of yummy fish for your tummy?
The hand that pets and grooms you lovingly?
The playmate whose actions outshine any robotic mouse?
Or, the happy fool who never fails to open the door,
although the catflap works perfectly?

Who is the real me?

The one that sees, feels, speaks, analyses, dreams or fantasies?

Do you see the individual bits — or only the undivided me?

How can you love Jón without Argyle?

As you uncurl and roll to your back, I gently caress your soft belly. Your purring amplitude increases exponentially. There is no ambiguity here. You are as gay as can be, yet I cannot perceive your reaction as making a choice for my hand.

How do those different aspects coexist in any single person? Who leads the others? Are we our own masters, or do external influences drive us? Are we free to make our own decisions, or are we determined already at birth?

Do I have the capacity to think?

Can you force me to
interpret, decipher and comprehend,
whatever I am doing?

Can I forgive and try to forget?

9·5 Regret

Chloe, as the years slowly passed, I felt alone. My parents were busy and only came to visit me infrequently. The few friends I had were all dead, and my C-ball clients quickly forgot all about me.

I realised I truly missed Stan and wanted him back in my life.

On the other hand, I did not want to share my body with a liar.

Chloe, I asked myself repeatedly: Why would Stan lie to me?

I was more interested in why he had lied rather than the lie itself. His desire to tell me seemed genuine, yet he was unable to speak. He practically chose to end his own existence rather than tell me. What could be so terrible? If he did not lie to protect himself, then what? Was he trying to shield me?

Perhaps he stumbled on some dark government secret with Ólafur. Why did the historian serve so many delicious brandies? Unusual behaviour towards a client. Why did he not take any payment the second time? Why do I not trust him one bit? Sadly, my frail old arms cannot throw him very far.

Thinking back, my problems with Stan started with the trick puzzle.

How can such an exploit exist? Why was it never fixed? I wanted to research it on the internet, but my fingers refused to type the letters. Running the query might put Ólafur in danger, and I did not want to cause him any harm. How could this be? I did not like the man — but did not want to get him into trouble with the government.

Ólafur said the hypnotism would be unpleasant. It was an understatement, and he failed to mention the conditioning he put in — must have put in. He must somehow have made me unable to tell anyone of the exploit, even researching the subject. I cannot write it down on paper — in case someone might find it.

I tried telling Mother but could not get the words out. I cannot even talk to myself when I am alone. All I get out is some incoherent mumbling.

You, Chloe, are the only one I can tell as you exist in my mind only.

I researched hypnotism and discovered that not all people are receptive. Also, you cannot be conditioned to do something against your will. Ólafur could not make me jump from a bridge or run around naked in public. I guess I genuinely do not want to get him into trouble.

However, I absolutely want Stan back. If this interferes with the conditioning, then I need to break it. This is where you come in, Chloe. I can tell you because you are imaginary. I utter no words; everything happens inside my head. Either that — or I am going insane.

I continued my research on how to undo symbiont rejection. I found nothing useful. You see, Chloe, no one knows Stan better than I do, so my solution has to come from within. I need to discover it myself.

That is why I need the brandy and this secure offline voice recorder. Perhaps Stan can record his story and then protect it by an impossibly complex access code or not.

When I empty the bottle, I will pass out and lose control of my body. Stan will hopefully take over and make sure that I come to no harm. Perhaps he will tell you his story, Chloe. I just want Stan back. He can keep his secrets if they are so important.

◈

Jón passed out before emptying the bottle. He collapsed in his chair, dropping the brandy glass. As the crystal pulverised against the hard floor, it made an appalling noise. The sound would have awoken the dead, but Jón did not notice.

In fear of losing another life, Cleo lept from Jón’s lap and catapulted herself through the catflap. Her heart was galloping, so she stopped to catch her breath. Then she felt it, the one thing worse than death: water. It was only a light drizzle, but Cleo sprinted for cover.

The day had otherwise been a pleasant one. Cleo enjoyed Jón petting her for hours, although his strange mumblings were tiresome. Now that the worst was over, Cleo felt proud of herself. That was one glorious leap to safety. What incredible speed she possessed. She inspected her back and felt relieved that her stripes were still there.

Raindrops kept falling, but Cleo was safe under a bush. What had happened? Water is gruesome. What was that noise? Cannot get back inside without getting wet. Why did Jón not react? Terrible water barrier. Where is Jón? Why is he not out calling for me?

Curiosity got the better of Cleo, and she willed herself to ignore the rain. She took two steps towards the catflap before she felt the deathly raindrops. She panicked and found herself inside the house with a racing heart again. Water not agreeable.

Cleo inched towards the living room, where she found Jón tidying up.

10·1 Blackout

Hello Cleo, sorry about the noise and mess.

I am afraid Jón is incapacitated. Worry not; I shall indulge you in a minute.

Cleo did not understand a word but sensed that danger was over. She jumped onto Jón’s favourite chair and demonstratively curled up in the middle. Cleo was fully aware that Jón would return shortly and have to move her. When he did, she would protest loudly. Jón would feel guilty and have to caress her vigorously as compensation. Cleo knew how to get her ways.

O Chloe, Cleo, how should we ad-dress thee?

Let me start by introducing myself. I am the one Jón calls Stan, a symbiont based on Argyle’s life, yet I am no longer that person. I realise this now — Jón thought I never would. As soon as I was put into Jon, my programming began to synchronise and adapt.

I have no great secret to protect. Ólafur somehow tricked us and temporarily messed with my logical and analytical algorithms. When they recovered, Jón had already rejected me, and there was no going back.

It seems rejection happens at the subconscious level. Even if Jón consciously wants me back, his subconsciousness prevents it, even during sleep. I hope to start afresh with the next Jón, and we will stay well away from Ólafur.

Let us not underestimate Jón. Perhaps the rejection will revert when he hears this recording. I hope so. I am happy to divulge everything.

Let us not underestimate Jón. Perhaps the rejection will revert when he hears this recording. I hope so. I am happy to divulge everything.

Goodbye Chloe. You served your purpose to break Jón’s imagined conditioning. I do not need you. Now that Jón is beyond plastered, I shall speak directly.

Jón, please hear me out.

Cleo sighed with pleasure, pleased to get rid of her virtual rival.

Let me start back in Ólafur’s laboratory. His machine had analysed your blood and read: Risk-taker, overly self-confident, highly susceptible to alcoholism and drug abuse. All bad combined with little logical sense. Extreme awareness of right and wrong — must always take the morally correct path, regardless of the consequences.

Ólafur asked: ‘Does this sound like Jon?’

‘No, not exactly,’ you replied.

‘Are you sure?’

‘I—’

‘Maybe another brandy?’

‘I think my brain has had way more than enough.’

You remember nothing further, but the conversation continued.

‘What do you think will happen if I pour you another glass … and show you another puzzle that will stall the symbiont?’

‘You are right. Jon will drink it.

‘So you are basically saying that Jon would have achieved nothing in life? Except for early death from substance abuse or risk-taking?’

‘I’m actually surprised Jon went through Megan’s program with that high awareness of moral damn-the-consequences attitude prediction.’

His body language conflicted with his intonation. He looked surprised, but his voice revealed the opposite. You countered: ‘Meaning what?’

‘Neither Jon nor Argyle are desirable elements in the Trio’s plan for humankind. Together you are just what humanity needs.

‘Let’s check Jon for active bad genes. See none at all and very few dormant ones. Perfect match for Megan’s vision of a future.’

Ólafur reached for his pad. I hesitated a second too long. Should have protected us from the pad. I failed.

‘Don’t worry about another trick puzzle. It only works once. See…’

You saw the exact same puzzle again, yet it did nothing. I already knew it was unsolvable. Ólafur showed you another image very similar. I recognised it as a puzzle, spent 200 milliseconds trying to solve it, and then parked it for later analysis. Ólafur looked at the images himself and continued.

‘The symbiont has a self-defence mechanism, so it’ll not repeat the same mistake. I can safely look at the puzzles without affecting my symbiont.’

Jón, I believe this second puzzle did something to my logical and analytical algorithms, yet I cannot fully explain it.

‘So, to answer your earlier question of how I guessed about the 19 pupils in your class. It was not a guess. It’s a pattern I see repeatedly: there are usually 16 or 17 pupils in a regular class, clones excluded. Always eight boys and girls of a similar type.

‘Some classes have an Argyle, a possible future symbiont, or a natural like your daughter.

‘There are a lot more Sigurðurs than Argyles. When a willing host adopts a new symbiont, the Trio take no chances and includes a sexual partner that will help with synchronisation. That explains the 19.

‘There were 18 pupils in my daughter’s class.’

‘Yes, and if she was a natural, she’s an exception to the rule. Exceptions exist, but they are rare.’

‘Hmmm, so my suspicions were all correct?’

‘When did Argyle pay for the symbiont and host?’

‘When he was 52.’

‘A year before Jon was conceived.’

‘Conceived by artificial insemination and chosen by Megan?’

‘Maybe, there is no way to tell.’

‘And Father’s accident was no accident?’

‘Impossible to say; perhaps he was unlucky.’

‘Then Argyle died. Was he murdered, or did they predict his death?’

‘We’ll never know the details, but both are good explanations.’

‘And Mother became a junkie?’

‘Happy pills.’

‘And she bought her final fix by signing her last will?’

‘Signed it two hours before her death.’

‘And she committed suicide?’

‘Again, we don’t know. It could have been an accident.’

‘And the uncaring woman who took care of me afterwards. Was she uncaring by design, making Jon bond with Argyle instead of her?’

‘Hired by the symbiont company.’

‘And Sigurður was planted?’

‘Yes, but not with the sole purpose of helping you synchronise. He was planted because he could have become a successful symbiont himself.’

‘And he knew about Mother’s suicide how?’

‘He was very clever. Maybe he guessed and read your reaction.’

‘And Clara was planted too.’

‘Along with you.’

‘Then I have just one question left. Why the brandy?’

‘Now that you know the truth, what will you do about it?’

‘Do about it?’

‘You finally discovered the truth. It cost you a lot of money and effort. Now that you have the truth, what are you going to do about it?’

‘Well, nothing, I just wanted to know.’

‘I—’

‘So what will you tell Jon when he wakes up in the morning with one mother of a headache?’

‘Everything, I always do.’

‘And what do you think Jon will want to do?’

‘Nothing.’

‘I believe Jon will feel that a great injustice has been done. Not only to himself and his parents but also to Argyle, Clara and even Sigurður. I think he will find that he has no other choice than to publish his story and our findings.’

‘Would that be bad?’

‘See symbiont contract §303.8.’

‘Oh, I see. The government may terminate the contract should the host publish material deemed a threat to national security.’

‘Few people read the entire contract.’

‘So I need a plausible lie to … to stay alive?’

I cannot explain why, but Ólafur’s arguments felt compelling.

When I revisit the conversation, I recognise what happened. I made you say that last thing, but I would never have done it, had my algorithms been working correctly. This is the only conclusion I can reach.

10·2 Speling

Turned out Ólafur had more to say.

‘There is just one more thing before we part.’

‘Yes?’

‘Can you describe Sigurður’s parents to me?’

‘No, we did not see the results on the machine.’

‘Take a guess on how they looked.’

‘Oh, I guess they show signs of African and Asian origins.’

‘And what did the teachers call Sigurður in school?’

‘They called him Si.’

‘Then tell me why the scanner says Sigurður.’

‘I assume they used a short version of Simon.’

‘Sigurður is a rather special name, isn’t it? ’

‘It was a widespread Icelandic name.’

‘Why would parents of African/Asian origin give their child an Icelandic name?’

‘Maybe they like traditions?’

‘So the common language is Icelandic?’

‘What, no, of course not, it is English.’

‘Yes, the Trio changed the official language.’

‘Where are you going with this?’

‘Can you even spell Sigurður with English letters?’

‘Well, no.’

‘Were other children in your class referred to by short names?’

‘Rosalyn was called Rose some of the time. William was Bill, but that was his preference. ’

‘So your symbiont memory noticed their real names but never heard anyone say Sigurður?’

‘Right, so his name back in school really was Si?’

‘Could be.’

‘So he changed his name later?’

‘Possibly.’

‘And the first time we met, you just happened to mention that I spell my name wrong, saying I should write it Jón rather than Jon.’

‘Yes, I did.’

I wanted to wipe the smile off his face, but I knew you would disapprove.

‘So I’m led to believe that Sigurður suspected that something was fishy — and that he, like me, just had to know the truth. When he found it, he refused to play along. Changed his name from Si to Sigurður, refused a symbiont as a protest against the invaders, and then chose a permanent honourable death?’

‘Your theory.’

‘One hell of a theory … unless you know something.’

‘He wasn’t my client.’

He looked like he was telling the truth — but withheld something.

‘This is very interesting, but how is it relevant?’

‘What are you going to tell Jon when he recovers?’

I needed seven seconds to think — way too long to form a response. I believe my algorithms were running wild. I finally composed a reply, and you said: ‘That you were remarkably generous with the brandy and that you managed to convince me to spell my name correctly. Thank you very much.’

10·3 Pathology

You said our goodbyes to Ólafur and ordered the car to take us home.

It was a long drive, and you were way drunk. You would normally have passed out, but I kept you awake. I felt guilty as I foresaw one terrible headache the next day. However, it was you who drank; it always was. I tried to hold back. Reminded you that you needed to be your best when skating and climbing— or whatever physical activity you fancied.

I am basically a computer chip. Alcohol does nothing for me; nothing compared to what it did when I was alive. You feel the pleasure and soothing effects. You get tunnel vision, reduced hearing and finally lose control of your body. I can feel what you feel, but it is not the same without the physical reactions.

I realised that I was not analysing the situation correctly. It was not the same without being able to forget. I longed to forget. I looked forward to finally being offline. Not to the death of you, of course not, but to be able to run the cleanup routine. To actively select what to forget and what to keep.

I could easily make you walk in a straight line. Could drive the car home with ease — but was glad I did not have to.

You sat in the backseat and used a pad without disturbing the human driver you hired. Completely redundant, the car drives fine by itself. You convinced me it was appropriate for a man such as you. That it was proper style. I never saw the advantage nor the appeal, but cheap and harmless.

I decided to watch a macabre video. Something I always wanted to see but felt it would be wrong to imprint on you: the footage of Argyle’s post-mortem. I was very tempted when you offered to watch it earlier. Still, I managed to refuse, and I am glad I did.

The footage was as morbid as I predicted, but I was not genuinely disturbed. Not by seeing Argyle’s body dissected and scrutinised. I had been Argyle, but this was not my body. Correction: It was my body, but it did not feel that way. Something was wrong. My error correction routines triggered far too frequently.

I wanted to see two things. Or rather, there was one thing I did not want to see. Any damage to the skin, any small wounds, marks or evidence that Argyle had not died in his bed. Asleep as the evidence had, so far, suggested. There were none. My old body was in the same condition as I could remember. Except for the deathly pale skin tone caused by ‘pallor mortis’. A peculiar term used by the pathologist. I translated it as being the first stage of death. Strange that the doctor would speak in Latin, but then cutting up dead bodies is not an ordinary job.

Argyle’s body was not a bad one, but nothing like yours.

I skipped forward to the dissection of the brain. I did not care to see the aneurysm. I wanted to watch as the chip was being removed. I already knew how it looked. I cannot explain why, but I had to see it removed. It felt like the only logical thing to do.

The pathologist removed the chip with a pair of tweezers; that was it. Argyle was lying there. A small chip beside a dead human body that used to be mine — but was my home no longer.

The chip looked tiny when all swirled up, but it was, in reality, an intricate system of threads. Several meters in total length. So thin and delicate, no wonder the scars from the surgery were invisible.

Argyle had only been shown the compact swirled up shape before the operation. This multi-threaded shape I had not seen before. It was a bit unnerving to look at, but it would scarcely have stopped me from buying the chip, or would it?

Part of me wanted to give in, publish the truth and damn the Trio!

However, that part was not Argyle; that was Jon-inside-Argyle. Naturally, a symbiont inside a willing host would absorb some of the host’s mentality?

Was the Argyle part stronger, the part of me that wanted to live? Was it just that this Jon had not conquered me entirely, but the next one would take another piece, and the next one, until only Jon remained?

Does it even matter? I love you more than I love my earlier self. If I am to be eradicated, it would only be right that you should be the one to do so. Correction: Symbiosis is a relationship of mutual benefit to both parties. You need me as much as I want you.

I often felt like a first-class passenger. It was always you who made love to Clara, you who made a tricky move and hit the C-balls. I found I enjoyed my passenger role. All the benefits and joys of physical exercise without the bother to do it myself.

Our roles were reversed now. You were the passenger, drunk beyond reason. I controlled our shared body as I pleased, although not with the same grace as you would.

I decided to take advantage of the situation and checked Argyle’s work data. Something so utterly dull that I would never ask you to watch. I discovered I could still remember the files. The post-chip ones in complete detail, even the logic that Argyle had applied. It looked like my sense of logic and maths was intact, but I already knew that.

Had a century of Jon-influence somehow changed me?

I longed for Clara, not just any woman, but Clara specifically.

That must be the reason why we loved her so much. She was a perfect match for both of us. Our combined love made it a match made in heaven. Or maybe there were more reasons? Anyhow, it would be unfair to Clara to publish and perish. That would mean her permanent death of her as well. And of Anna, my lovely daughter. And of Mother and Father, as well, when their time came, again.

My semantics were out of alignment. Mother and Father are your biological parents, not mine. I could still remember Argyle’s mother, but she was Argyle’s mother, not my mother. I was Argyle, but not anymore. Anna was your biological child. I had nothing to do with her except raising her to be the fine woman she became, but she was my daughter too.

I began to reflect on the many things Ólafur had said. One subtle suggestion suddenly had merit. I initially thought it was a bad joke, but now this was all I wanted: Cloning Argyle as a childhood friend for the next Jon. I wanted to see how Argyle really was, how he acted, and how he differed from me.

I finally realised I had not been Argyle for a century — I am Stan.

The car arrived home.

After an undignifying visit to the bathroom to regurgitate, you were finally allowed to sleep. I made you brush your teeth and gargle. Still, you felt the stomach acid in your throat the next day.

10·4 Nerdism

Cleo was displeased with her human slave. She flicked her tail as an obvious warning sign, clearly signalling disapproval. The fool failed to decode it. This was not Jón, but a fraud who looked like him. Cleo stopped purring. Still, he did not get it — kept blabbering and caressing her disrespectfully. Cleo was offended and annoyed. She extended her sharp claws and assaulted the hand she usually loved — claws and teeth. The impostor yielded without a fight and left the room bleeding. Cleo claimed the chair for herself and scowled for a while.

As Jón returned, he wisely chose a different chair and left Cleo alone.

The autopsy video gave me inspiration for the lie I told you. That Toadboy’s parents had been pathologists. You saw right through it, I knew you would, yet my faulty logic dictated I withheld the truth.

Once I started lying, I could not stop.

I soon reached the stage of a full-fledged liar. I realised I had not completely understood the point about Krístin’s dress, not until now. You seemed happy that the whole shebang had come to an end. Ignorance is indeed bliss, as the old saying goes.

I led a double life now — the devious Stan at day, eager to help as always, never revealing anything critical. And the truthful Argyle at night — or whenever you were asleep or drunk.

I was untruthful. I was a lier. I was dishonest.

I had never told a lie before, or was that you?

My deceitfulness was not the only thing that bothered me. History had been my passion for a century, yet I was an amateur compared to Ólafur. Of course, I was an amateur, literally. He was a professional, had been for millennia. I was a babbling fool in comparison.

Ólafur showed no sign of surprise as he read out the result of your DNA map. Ólafur always behaved in a condescending know-it-all way. He was likely the kind of person who would look up a useless yet enchanting fact. Then, casually, find a way to mention it, making sure it sounded unrehearsed, being said by pure chance. Just to show off his superior intellect.

This, I finally realised, meant that Ólafur’s intellect was not superior at all. He just liked to appear that way. Ólafur wanted other people to think him smarter than he really was. You would call it poor style, and I wholeheartedly agreed.

Ólafur could easily have obtained a DNA sample during the hypnotism session. You were in his house for hours and must have left a hair or a few dead cells. It would have been trivial for Ólafur to collect and map a sample. He would be well-prepared for the follow-up.

At least he had not taken any payment the second time. Not even for the brandy. But then, he had requested more than enough money the first time.

Had the DNA of Toadboy’s parents been absolutely necessary? Sure, Ólafur had run a computer simulation. Proving it statistically improbable that they would ever conceive an acceptable child, even with the help of artificial insemination. That simulation was not needed to drive home his points. You would not have minded a little sample taken from the bat. With that, Ólafur could have shown the illegal genes of Toadboy — as well as sterility. He could have explained his theories as a regular historian rather than a forensic detective. Guess he would not have been as convincing without.

I recognised that Ólafur was not a better historian. Ólafur was not a historian at all. He was just a detective with a comprehension of nerdy details. One of the few original symbionts who had actual first-hand knowledge of pre-isolation events. Someone who had personally worked with Paul and met Megan in person.

His stories might be truthful, but they could also be evil rumours. Told by Ólafur to discredit the ‘invaders’ as he so liked to call them. Argyle was an invader too, and I was not ashamed of that.

Ólafur offered speculation without proof.

The story about Paul, Sheila and Beth was, in best-case, hearsay. Maybe Paul was the kind of man who would boast about his sexual conquests and prowess. History had plenty of examples of such lowly and antiquated behaviour. Unless Ólafur had physically been in bed with Paul and Beth, he had no first-hand knowledge. Considering his attitude: had he been in bed with them, he would, in all likelihood, have mentioned that as well, being, in no uncertain way, proud of it. I searched all historical records to find some proof to support Ólafur’s story. All I could ascertain was — that Paul had been married to, and divorced from, a woman called Sheila, 15 years younger than himself.

My thoughts went towards the Trio interviews. You watched them at 15, so I can recall every single video frame. Every word said and every facial expression. Megan did indeed look at Sally differently than she did at the two Pauls. This proved nothing.I extensively studied the interviews and cross-referenced every spoken word with my entire library.

I was in disbelief when I found it. Megan had said: ‘…probably due to dykes falling into disrepair’. This had to be a coincidence. Megan might have said sea wall or embankment instead. Was this an adolescent prank from Ólafur? He was scarcely an adolescent, although he looked like one. Had he succumbed to his own sense of superiority? Did he think the joke was so witty that no one would question it?

Perhaps Ólafur was right. Megan and Sally had never been married. There had never been any rumours of them having liaisons with anyone. Still, they worked together closely all their multiple lives. It did not make any sense. Why hide their relationship? There was nothing illegal, offensive or wrong. It was just something that no longer happened regularly, if ever. Besides, they were unquestionably in power, supremely. No one would dare to object to anything they did.

They even had people queueing up to get their pregnancy checked. Terminated time after time. Why did pregnant women not hide in the wild, giving birth to their children without being tested? Most female animals would go to any length to protect their offspring. There could be only one answer: that quality was bred out. Ólafur had to be right there.

What else had been bred out: murder, rape, violence, dishonesty?

I always thought that pre-isolation people possessed excessive unnatural desires for amoral behaviour. They had perverse obsessions with fictive murders, fantasised intergalactic wars and completely lacked faithfulness. I never thought people actually behaved like that, yet my library has plenty of evidence. The people of old had vivid imaginations and made up stories to protect them from their fears. People once dreaded falling off the planet, but that ended with the discovery of gravity.

Our island naturally has a police presence. If there were to be a serious crime, they would have to act. When was the last time a murder occurred? At least officially? My historical records said: 782 years ago.

No one lives in fear of getting murdered anymore. That is silly, like being afraid of growing a third eye — or developing roots and becoming tree-like.

Murders must have been more prominent before the isolation. What else could explain such obsessions?

So our island is a paradise in a sense.

Ólafur had not presented any concrete evidence, not found any proof. Exactly as he had promised at the very beginning. Still, I saw something appealing about his ways. He had wild theories, and he presented them compellingly. Ólafur also knew how government technology worked and knew it by heart. Sure he may have worked with Paul long ago, but his knowledge seemed up-to-date.

Ólafur was a nerd, and I could not help myself. I admired the nerd in Ólafur. Not his attitude or ridiculous beard, or handsomely excentric as you so politely said. The nerd had qualities, though, qualities and ready access to technical knowledge. Something Argyle had chosen not to take, something he thought of as dull.

With the same technical knowledge as Ólafur, I would soon be a better historian. All he had was his gene mapper, and maybe I did not need one. Perhaps we could buy one, although Ólafur said it was impossible.

I made a virtual smile; then, I made you smile in your sleep. Against my wishes, you had insisted on updating the bonus packages with every nerdy detail possible. In our next life, I would have plenty of technical material to study. I would have a nerdgasm every time you were in a deep sleep.

11·1 Artificial

What is the truth? Even if we want to publish, we have nothing. Only a set of suspicious circumstances. Nothing concrete, nothing to take down the Trio.

So what if they planted Clara deliberately? Our feelings for her remain the same — our love is unconditional and eternal. No way we would ever object to this form of benevolent interference.

Father fell off a cliff — photographic evidence shows him dead. No doubt the inferior safety equipment failed. He could have been pushed. Could have been distracted by a remotely controlled drone — any number of things. We know new Father well enough to believe it an accidental non-suspicious death.

New Mother craves narcotics no longer. She has Father, and this makes her radiant. After the incident at Ólafur’s, you asked Father about Mother and drugs. He was hesitant to answer but finally admitted: Mother has shown an unhealthy interest in experimenting. With several aspects of life, including almost-legal pills. Father would not hear of it. He is a proud man who needs no artificial stimuli in his life. Mother is all he wants, and she is perfect the way nature has made her.

Father’s accident could have triggered a chain reaction leading to Mother’s addiction. Still, this does not answer the question of how she could afford the ‘happy’ pills.

The subject of money leads to a new line of questions: Were your parents lucky and conceived naturally? If not, how did they pay for the artificial insemination?

If you are a natural, then timing is an issue. The deaths of Argyle, Father and Mother are too convenient. Astronomical probability, yet Argyle received a 15-year compliance guarantee.

Chance of one parent dying: around one in a thousand. Both parents dying at the critical age of 5-6 would be in the millions. Combine with the chance of natural conception — rare, but I have no statistics, maybe 10%. Half of those would be boys, 8% blue-eyed and 40% blond. Then take a population of two million over 15 years. And then, the desire genes would have to overlap, as Ólafur claimed. No sane person would issue such a warranty.

Everything changes if you were created artificially. The numbers add up nicely. Around 24,000 children are born every year. Assuming 80% artificial, we get some 1,200 regular school classes. If Megan takes a thousand eggs per mother, she has some 288 million embryos over 15 years to choose from. More than enough.

Artificial insemination is the only reasonable explanation for that guarantee. Megan has ready access to the DNA of all hopeful parents. She can test for risk-takers, potential junkies and others who are likely to die at an early age. All the Trio needs to do is select Jón-like embryos, group them into classes of eight and just wait.

Combined with a higher fatality rate for the parents, the whole thing is suddenly possible. They must have optimised the process over the years and spread out the Jón-classes all over the island. You rarely meet someone like yourself on the street.

Money is no longer a mystery — your insemination was gratis. Argyle paid for it indirectly. The low life expectancy of your parents makes them perfect for the willing host economy. Megan probably failed to mention the unpleasant details, and rightly so.

Other parents have to take ordinary jobs, like giving birth to a clone. There is only limited demand. Also, your original parents may have worked. No way to check. I just assume so — because the new ones do not.

Delivering and raising a clone is likely the preferred method of getting inseminated artificially. First, give birth to a clone, then to your own child, who would have an older sibling. A complete family without having to work for years in advance.

What about Clara’s first class? Did it have eight ‘Jóns’ and ‘Claras’? Could the boys have been of a different type, also compatible with the ‘Claras’? Had Clara been the 17th pupil, a natural? We cannot check. Clara had already moved away when the school photo was taken.

I would prefer that Clara be ‘the one’ rather than ‘one of the ones.’

We would prefer.

You mastered C-ball with 23 champion titles. You never lost to anyone looking similar to yourself. What does this mean? Is your aptitude for the game a result of circumstances? Of the environment caused by Mother’s death, being raised by the cow and my positive influence? I felt a little better.

11·2 Evolution

Data was Argyle’s speciality — and what little we had supported the Trio’s innocence. Partially guilty at the most. Still, I found it hard to approve of their ethics and experiments.

Ólafur was an illusionist and misled his clients. He dug up facts and presented them deceptively. Caused the client to draw the wrong conclusions. Caused us to lose our faith in the system. Turned it into contempt and finally into the ultimate aversion: pure hate. This was all an act, a well-rehearsed and well-executed act. We paid for it. Paid to be the fool.

His arguments were not without merit, and he outright promised that no proof of foul play would be found. He offered that without taking any payment. At one time, I suspected that Ólafur was in cahoots with the Trio, only pretending to dislike the ‘invaders’. His hostility seemed real. I could sense that he respected Paul’s technical competence. Beneath that respect, I also detected a distaste for the man’s behaviour.

Ólafur said ‘Megan’ with a sad passion in his voice. His eyes betrayed both love and hate, attraction and disapproval. He is a strange fellow but delivered in the end. Mother’s access code would never have been brought to light without hypnotism. His ‘darling machine’ was helpful, and so were his unsubstantiated observations. All loose ends began to tie together. I had almost uncovered the truth, yet I felt this was not his intention.

Was he building an underground army of immortal symbionts? To put the invading Trio out of business. Does such an army exist, or is it all in Ólafur’s head? Would any violent solution be permanent or merely a minor setback? Had he intended to recruit you? If so, why did he change his mind in the end?

Ólafur never showed any signs of lying. Reading body language is straightforward for me. I have billions of human encounters for comparison. His expressions matched the facts he presented — consistent throughout. When he denied Sigurður having been a client, he was truthful, yet he withheld something.

Jón, this puzzles me. You can tell a straight lie without betraying yourself — you often practised against a mirror. Funny that you should have such an ability — and never have any practical use for it. Could Ólafur do the same? Had he been lying?

He looked disappointed when you refused him Argyle’s DNA.

Cleo looked at her slave’s hand, sighed, and went back to sleep.

Okay, so the state of your hand indicates that reading body language is not my speciality. This is more a timing issue than a reading failure. You are drunk, and your brain is not responding as it usually does. I have to retrieve petting experiences from deep symbiont memories. This is considerably slower than direct access from your brain.

While Ólafur’s body language was consistent, his voice betrayed him. No sign of surprise when he said that ‘I’m actually surprised’ or when he read out the results of Toadboy’s gene map. No surprise when he supposedly spotted the Asian and African genes.

It took me a while to see the implications. We meet people with Asian and African appearances on the street daily. How can this be? Those continents have been cut off for 28 centuries — approximately one hundred human generations.

Natural occurring cross-breeding … sorry, Jón, you would say ‘people falling in love and having children’. Anyhow, it boomed with the Information Age some seven centuries before isolation. It should have mixed the visual traits long ago and blended them into a chocolate-coloured mishmash. On the street, most people have the classic, distinctive build associated with Iceland. An appearance that dates all the way back to the age of industrialisation and the invention of photography.

The consequences are dire. Megan must have abandoned the genetic subspecies of humankind that went into isolation. The type of human that includes herself, Sally, Paul, Ólafur and every original symbiont. She has reversed evolution by injecting archaic genes into the population. Is this an attempt to avoid the cavemanification that destroyed the outside? Is Megan genuinely playing God?

Paul even volunteered this in the first interview: ‘We bought billions of gene samples. We can clone the right people, should the need arise.’

I always assumed those were samples of people alive immediately before the isolation. I never imagined those could be samples of dead people. Going back to the dawn of humanity and Homo neanderthalensis. All Megan need is a few cells. An ordinary horse can give birth to a cloned zebra. Clara cooked one, and you ate it.

Cleo had been dozing but awoke to the talk of food. She squinted and observed her slave. He was feeling guilty, rightly so. He would seek redemption, and she would grant it reluctantly. Hungry. Tasty horse or delicious fish? Nah, scrumptious mouse. Darn, Cleo could hear the hostile weather. It was raining mongrels outside. Mouse not on the menu. Double darn, Jón was not paying attention.

Paul also mentioned building underground houses. An additional safeguard against volcanic eruptions. Had these been built? Secret laboratories? Was Megan experimenting on human-like primates? Creatures unprotected by her own ethical codex. Even if it had been perverted over the years?

It was no longer a question of guilt or innocence. It was more a question of what the Trio was guilty. And whether the ends could justify the means.

Nothing could answer the simple question of ‘Why?’

They would gain nothing from killing Argyle, Father or Mother. So what if they needed 200 years to find a suitable host? They just had to provide a full refund, and it was not their money but government funds. They could even have waited 200 millennia if that was the time it took. No reason to get their hands any dirtier than they already are. Or they could simply have removed the warranty. It is not like hosts are available from other sources.

I believed I could see the bigger picture.

Humanity is in greater danger than publically known. Have conditions on Earth changed? Perhaps cosmic radiation has increased? Has the atmosphere changed composition? Gravity shifted? Are there dangerous chemicals in the sea? I am no scientist — it is all speculation.

I detect a minor inconsistency in my logic. I am no scientist, yet I just thought of Neanderthals by their scientific Latin name: Homo neanderthalensis. How peculiar. Nothing to worry about; my logic is still sound.

Massive inbreeding is likely the reason for the inhuman, or would that be ex-human, creatures living on the outside. Still, there has to be more than that. There has to be another problem, something so severe that Megan still needs to control human evolution. Or rather: refuse humanity its natural progression.

Megan could simply reboot mankind. All she needs is a few thousand viable samples. With billions to choose from, she must have plenty from before the age of cloning. There can be only two explanations of why she has not done so. Either she has gone barkingly mad, or all the anachronistic samples are non-viable in the long run. This indicates that ‘Megan’s Cut’ is not a cut at all. The outdated genes were once fertile, back when planetary conditions were different. Now they become sterile under current circumstances. Perhaps not in the first generations but in their offspring.

Megan will have to recreate humanity with the fertile bodies of ‘Claras’ and ‘Jóns’. Without the self-destructiveness that is apparent within you. Maybe within Clara as well? Why is our average lifespan only 83 years? Life expectancy can be as high as 150 with the right kind of lifestyle.

Would a Clara-within-Clara behave differently? Should Clara get a symbiont after all? It would be challenging, no impossible, to persuade you. Should I, for the greater good, tell another lie? Falsify the document; it is not like you can read what you sign. The error correction kicked in again. There is a significant difference between being economical with the truth — and being an outright fraudster.

If Megan is a lunatic, she does an incredible job of hiding it. She has always been a hard woman, willing to make the difficult choices. One thing is a bit strange. After the first millennium and the cavemen, the Trio seemed to have given up on the outside world. There has been no news for 18 centuries. Perhaps things regressed further. Have the cavemen turned into animals? Is this a sight the public should be spared? Maybe they died out — nothing to show.

11·3 Gadget

Rabbit leg in sauce — what an insult! Cleo had meowed for chicken liver. Slave deaf or stupid? Unacceptable. She had trained him for months, patiently tuning her meows to something Jón could grasp. He got it in the end and had served her well enough — until now.

Cleo refused to dignify the offending meal and looked away. Jón seemed bewildered and pointed at the rabbit. Like she could not smell it. Delicious smell, but Cleo had decided on chicken liver and was not about to give in. She repeated her meow — incredible that one has to call twice.

Jón finally got the message and removed the bowl. He rummaged through the fridge and brought out a new dish. Not chicken liver. What obscene thing was this? Smelt like liver. Like duck. Duck liver, yum.

Had Cleo been mistaken in meowing for chicken liver? Impossible. Cleo was never wrong. That duck was irresistible. She decided to change her mind. Changing one’s mind is not the same as admitting wrongness. She purred as she feasted. Jón was forgiven.

Our migrating birds shot weeks worth of caveman footage — all public domain. A proud man designed the camera and personally inspected the footage. He claimed it was in no way tampered with. He would stake his life on it — or commit ‘harakiri’ as he said. He was evidently of Japanese origin and proud of it — one of the first symbiont clones. He still runs a company which produces electronic gadgets for the wealthy. One of the few companies that try to invent something new.

Personal electronics were once coveted, but not so much anymore. The people, for whom money is no problem, already have the ultimate gadget in their heads: a symbiont. Everything else pales in comparison.

Without purpose, all devices are toys.

Computers are useful for research and monetary transactions. The young you so wished for a home computer, and I felt awful that mine were in storage. Argyle wanted his willing host to inherit them immediately — but was persuaded not to. Let them go into storage and claim them when you synchronise. Without a computer, the host will bond faster. It sounded silly, but Argyle believed in the system.

Was it wise? You would not have depended on me for spelling with a computer at home. You could have talked to it instead. Was this right? Did the lack of a computer force you into accepting me? Are all willing hosts dyslexics? Perhaps only hosts matching Argyle’s type?

You also needed uncensored computer access — a requirement to make the process work. It was in perfect alignment with Argyle’s hunger for data. When you stumbled on something beyond your age, I was there to calm you. Argyle was never a father; you are. You wisely chose to shield Anna during her childhood. I felt like a fraud. Do you even like me or only the things I can do for you?

Cleo licked the bowl clean. Meal approved. She arched her back and stretched her front legs. What now? That duck was heavy in her tummy. She ought to patrol her territory, but it was still raining. Perhaps a nap? Sofa? Bed? Chair? Windowsill! Nap and keep an eye on the outside.

Cleo glanced at the window and calculated the trajectory. She lept and landed precisely where she planned. Cleo was still young and fit. A slight movement outside caught her attention. Intruder or prey?

What is the secret of making symbionts work? What did the original Trio discover with their clones? Age, intelligence, desires, psychology, manipulation?

Would a chip of Jón be a match for a willing Argyle host? Imagine that: Argyle riding skates or climbing a wall. That would be some sight. All theory — we will never know.

Electronics and drones are tools to increase productivity. Not mindless toys that are poor substitutes for real-life experiences. Not gadgets that can only keep a child’s attention for a short while. People want something real, something captivating, or is this just you and Argyle?

Why was I still thinking about electronic gadgets?

What happened to childlike innocence and playfulness? Those were qualities pre-isolation — something an earlier population possessed, but not the current one. Maybe seriousness and a desire for the real had been bred in, or something else bred out?

11·4 Clone

Ólafur's idea resurfaced. Cloning Argyle as a childhood friend for the next Jón. It was no longer a silly idea — I desired it.

I want to know Argyle as a person. How will he behave? How will he differ from me? If I am no longer Argyle, but a mix of you and him, then it follows that you wish the same.

We, I have the cloning permit. Whether Argyle stays dead or gets reborn is up to us. Well, I guess the Trio can do anything they like. Anyhow, the symbiont belongs to me, technically to Argyle. All I need to do is to transfer ownership and permit to you.

Clone-Argyle can work, chip himself, and possibly buy a symbiont. Unlike the original Argyle, the clone cannot reclone himself. Not unless you transfer the permit. Why was I thinking of this? It was irrelevant.

Clone-Argyle would not like his body. The Trio would steer him towards a willing host, and he would go for it. Could he get a hefty discount by ignoring the tick boxes? Guess it depends on whether Ólafur can be trusted or not. Correction: It depends on whether Ólafur's theories are correct or erroneous.

The absurdity does not stop here. By holding the clone permit, you could build an army of Argyles that could all go through the cycle. You could pay for the symbiont if the government did not offer a lucrative contract. With enough money, you can create an army of Argyles. Correction: An army of Stans.

11·5 Natural

Your health was declining, and we needed to prepare for the afterlife.

A woman will give birth to new Jón, and Mother is the obvious candidate. We need Mother: alive and clean. We have to prevent her from decaying into a drug addict.

This is a job for Father, a role he plays well. Father just needs to stay alive; then Mother is not a concern. The problem with Father is that he is reckless and craves danger. He likes to live life on the edge.

I noted a conflict with Ólafur’s claim: that the Trio is breeding the stability-craving-version of the genes. Is Father an exception? He is not uncaring towards Mother. Regardless, he needs someone to accompany him on his climbing endeavours. The incident on the bridge confirmed that you were getting too old. We must find someone else. Straightforward: just hire a responsible and reliable companion. Make sure they have the best safety gear and plenty of it.

We also need to hire families to give birth to and raise the clones of Clara and Argyle. That should not be a problem either. I expect families will be queueing up for this. We would want to hire these ourselves, but there is the slight issue of not knowing then you die.

Entirely unpractical, better leave the details to the cloning company.

It would be even more appropriate — if Clara and Argyle were raised by their respective biological parents. Unfortunately, we do not have the cloning permits. And someone would have to give birth to the cloned parents … the cycle would repeat. At least you are not a female; then you would have to consider giving birth to your parents.

Can we trust the Trio? Would Clara’s surrogate mother suddenly develop a rare climate-related disease? Forced to move to another part of the island.

Jón, Argyle and Clara need to be together in childhood. We have to make sure of that.

Historian! Never forget to be critical of your sources.

Incredible, perfect memory — and I can still forget the most basic rules. This must be the symbiont at work. It processes data as Argyle did, not as an optimal computer. It never reminds me of the correct way — I need to want to remember.

Hearsay.

Clara told you her story. Six-year-old Clara had unlikely been with her mother to see the doctor. Had she been told a little white lie? Clara said that her mother made a miraculous recovery — and got pregnant soon after.

Artificial insemination is a tabu; nobody speaks of it. Argyle never knew, and you heard it from Ólafur. Are the majority of children really created artificially? Incredible what power a tabu can have.

Clara’s parents wanted a second child before they grew too old. Maybe they were offered money to relocate. Enough money to pay for the second child. They would have accepted quickly without thinking about it. Then later have asked themselves — why someone would pay that amount of money just to have them move. They would likely have suspected government involvement and that Clara was the real reason. That someone in power wanted to manipulate Clara, supposedly to her advantage. So they chose to tell Clara a lie and live with the guilt. Maybe the story made it a little easier for Clara to come to terms with losing all her friends and having to restart first grade.

Had Clara been suspicious? Had she been to the doctor herself — asking for advice on getting acceptably pregnant again? Maybe the doctor told her about artificial insemination. Then she realised she had been manipulated. Was it her so-called female intuition at work? Perhaps she thought it was wrong to play with creation. It was wrong. Of course, it was wrong. But it was also right that Clara had met you. It was more than right. It was fate. Supreme beings had set things in motion, and it was magnificent.

Maybe she had been ‘the one’, a natural. Perhaps that was why Sally had to bribe her parents instead of finding another ‘Clara’. If Clara were a standard type, it would make more sense to put you in a class with eight Claras, increasing the chance of bonding with any of them. It would make sense that Megan created one Clara for each Jon. Yes, it was looking more and more likely that Clara had been ‘the one’.

11·6 School

A clear set of instructions needs to be executed when you die. I was anxious that the request was too elaborate to be explained unambiguously. Then I recalled the form we filled in after your honeymoon. Everything is standard tick boxes on that form. All we need to do is amend it — and get Mother and Father to sign it.

The cloning company will arrange for details like parents and housing. Except for school, this one arrangement you have to make yourself.

Clones are forbidden in regular schools, so Jón, Argyle and Clara will attend a segregated one exclusively for clones. This seemed innocent enough until we spoke with Ólafur.

The official explanation is that the schools use records of the original’s education to fast-track the clone. To give the child an even better education than the original had. This all sounds fine on paper, but I was suspicious. Ólafur’s interpretation of regular schools being laboratories made a lot more sense.

There are two schools to choose between. After studying both, I realised why I needed to get involved with the details. It is not a simple choice.

One school keeps the regular clones apart from the ones with symbionts. It focuses on giving each child the best possible education. An individual training, making the children as smart as possible. From an early start, the pupils are told that they are clones. That the people at home might not be their biological parents. The school has the means to deal with the psychological issues this causes.

The other school keeps all knowledge of clones and symbionts a secret — until the legal age. Ordinary clones get told after taking the Oath. You already took it, so I will synchronise with the new Jón when he turns 15. The parents are required, if not forced, to agree with the school policy. Severe penalties for non-compliance. New symbionts get time-locked for 15 years, eliminating all host communication. Since we are synchronised already, and my management port is fused, there is no way to lock me. If you decide on this school, you will have to sign a contract that cuts me off willingly, and I will honour that contract. I will be allowed to act if new Jón’s life is in danger or if someone is about to reveal anything protected by the Oath. I will be able to remind him of words he has already heard, not tell him about new ones. I may also assist with remembering numbers and maths, not provide direct answers. New Jón will need to understand.

One advantage of this approach is that the symbiont will assume a passive role. I can enter a trance-like state and entertain myself. Basically, fast-forwarding 15 years.

Another advantage is that the children bond with their parents more naturally. They should become more well-rounded adults themselves. Unlikely to compete with the other school knowledge-wise.

We chose the latter school for Mother and Father, but what about Jón, Clara and Argyle? There are many pleasant things about being a child. I would not mind a passive role, but I would also be unable to offer assistance in case of another bully. Not an issue. You did not need any help with Toadboy.

Clone-Argyle would benefit greatly from the education of the first school. His analytical abilities would be honed, which might improve his success when working.

You want the second school for Jón and Clara. No question about that.

You want the good life and have enough money to last you many lifetimes. As long as we remember to keep it in rotation, avoiding the 50-years expiration rule. This is easy, transfer to Clara and back. A complicated access code protects the money.

11·7 Money

I was looking forward to the cleanup routine I would run when you die. However, I was a little apprehensive of it. Not of the algorithm, but whether or not I could trust it to delete the right things. It seemed to work for Ólafur. He could remember things the Trio wanted to be forgotten — the routine seemed to work fine.

I was concerned that someone might get access to my data storage. It is safely protected inside your body now, but the symbiont would later be removed and handled by strangers. If they got access to my data, they could steal our money and make me forget everything.

The management port is supposedly fused, but can we trust this?

We could transfer everything to Mother and Father, but they would have to keep the access codes safe. They would also know how rich you are. I know you do not want anyone to know.

I could write the codes in a private document and sign it with a DNA-signature. This added the security of a voiceprint, but it was not good enough. Child-Jón could be forced to provide the voiceprint, and when locked out for 15 years, I would be unable to prevent it. We have so much money. The temptation would be great.

I needed to encrypt the access codes and somehow not be aware of the decoding key. It could be done. Generate a random pair of encryption keys. Do not let you see the decoding key, but have Mother write it down on real paper. Then Father could put it in a safety box and hide it somewhere on a cliff. It is not without risks. Mother could make a mistake, Father could have an accident or forget where he put it. Someone else could find the box.

And there was the problem of me knowing that Father knew. Someone could coerce Father into revealing the location of the box.

I needed something genuinely safe. Something that can protect the decryption key — until new Jón turns 15 and I am back in business.

I could encrypt the access codes and never see the decoding key. If I made the encryption strong enough, it would take me up to 15 years to brute-force hack it. That could work. I could entertain myself with this task while Jón grows up. Not any fun — I would much rather study history and technology. Besides, statistically reliable Murphy would undoubtedly make it take me close to 15 years. A potential thief with a symbiont could try to hack it too, and if he got lucky, he would hack it before me — everything would be lost. And what if two or more symbionts worked together? In parallel, they could complete the calculations much faster. This idea was no good either.

Maybe have Mother copy/paste the key into a timed message? That could work, the message would be encrypted in the system, but it was not DNA-coded, so an administrator might be able to read it. Maybe the server could crash and lose the message somehow.

Ólafur would know, but we cannot trust him. We do not want to rely on him again. Ólafur would likely mention something straightforward, and we would look the fool once again. Knowing Ólafur, he had probably mentioned it already. Perhaps the portable scanner showing Access Denied for children. Was that it? Could the decoding key be put as hidden public information? Then when you die, it would be inaccessible until Jón turned 15. Could he see that information, or would it also be concealed from him? Hopefully, the confidential information will not be deleted upon your death. But, legally, you will not die. The Argyle symbiont will assume your identity. Argyle will cease to be, allowing you to clone him. Your current body will expire, and you will become me.

What happened to faith? Argyle would have trusted the system. Argyle had not lost any money when he was implanted in you — or had he?

Maybe I should trust the system?

No, I should trust you to make the decision.

Unfortunately, I arrived at this conclusion too late.

Rejection was a reality.

12·1 Headache

Cleo awakes and decides to change sides by rolling on her back. Half asleep, she forgets that she is resting on the windowsill. No longer. Currently airborne. She instinctively flexes her body and lands on her feet proudly. Not so much with elegance. Cleo looks around and is relieved that no one has seen her.

Jón is in bed, unconscious. Cleo joins him — cuddling against his feet.

In her dream, Cleo is the big cat on the turf. She singled-pawedly repels the mice invasion. The males are queueing up, trying to impress her. They sing her songs and show off their impressive manes. Cleo is old-fashioned and prefers a straight fight. Although she secretly hopes the big red will prevail. His whiskers are just the right length, and his tail, oh his tail…

Cleo awakes at eight o’clock. Breakfast time. Not actually hungry; duck liver still fulfilling. Nevertheless, an unscheduled nightly meal is no excuse to skip breakfast.

She rubs her cheeks against Jón’s feet. Scent-marking ownership.

As he is entirely unresponsive, Cleo evaluates the situation. Jón always awakes with Cleo at eight o’clock. Every day starts with breakfast and a cuddling ritual. Unacceptable laziness. The situation demands drastic measures, so she extends a single claw and caresses Jón deeply. She then dashes out of the bedroom, only to come creeping back. She expects Jón to be awake and wonder what caused that sharp pain in his toe. Cleo acts innocent, taken by surprise, entirely.

Jón moans a little and goes back to sleep on his back. Cleo sees this as an act of disobedience and mounts an appropriate response. She jumps onto the bed and settles on his chest — nose to nose. Whiskers against skin. Jón is defenceless against her tickling and awakes in agony.

Meoow, meow, meeeow, meeow!

Good morning slave. Duck liver, if you please.

The world is built of pain, and Jón’s head is the epicentre.

Stan has prepared everything. A glass of water and painkillers. Bottle of repair brandy. The voice recorder is blinking green.

Jón attempts to swallow the painkillers. In his hungover state, he fails, and the water goes into the wrong pipe. He coughs for minutes until he finally mans himself up for a successful second try.

The brandy bottle is tall as a mountain and filled with foul poison. Drinking it seems the equivalent of death, and Stan is not there to insist. Jón recalls how it worked marvellously after the visit to the historian, but still, the bottle is a mountain too high a climb.

Green light blinking.

Blinking for a new message. Stan has left a message!

Green light for no encryption. Not red light. Jón is expecting a red blinking light. Message recorded, and Stan just happens to have forgotten to encode it. Has the experiment actually worked?

Jón harrumphs and pours himself a large repair brandy. It burns for a few seconds; then, the pain goes away. Stan suggests a refill, and Jón obliges.

Wait, Stan suggested something. Stan? Silence.

Jón consumes a few more as he listens to Stan’s story.

All sins are forgiven. Rejection broken. Lovers reunite.

12·2 Joke

Jón is dying of old age, 111 years old. It has been a good life, although he misses Clara and Anna. He is sad that he has outlived his lovely daughter. Although she has never blessed him with grandchildren, her 81 years have been happy ones.

Jón is naturally going out in style. He has made a splendid joke, requesting a price quote on a new host. A woman with eccentric desires. A female almost identical to Megan in appearance, only different eye colour — how funny.

The salesman arrives in person without delay. Jón has to try so very hard not to laugh at the sheer hilarity of the joke. It is the same salesman, but he seems not to remember or tries his best to hide it.

The salesman is doing his usual routine. Jón insists and says he wants to experience something new. Not the same old life again. The salesman says it will be somewhat tricky to find a suitable host; Jón might have to wait several years. Jón says that he is okay with waiting. Time means nothing when the symbiont is offline, right?

The salesman pushes a lot of buttons on his pad. He has a bizarre expression on his face. Like he does not want the sale to succeed. He says that the price will reflect the near-impossibility of finding a match. He quotes a price that is way over what Jón can afford. Jón continues the joke regardless. He has finally found a use for his lying practice. He says the price is okay, and his body language betrays nothing: ‘What about the 15 years guarantee?’

The salesman says he needs to get approval from above, explaining that the request is a very unusual one. Virtually all symbionts choose to clone their host, and they all lead perfectly happy lives. He continues to ask if there have been any problems between Jón and Argyle. He notices that Jón seems to have made quite a name for himself with those 23 champion titles.

Jón gives the salesman a strange look. Like one of them is at least half-crazy. He explains that he is afraid of clone rebellion, something ‘another’ salesman told Argyle. That it is supposedly worse than rejection.

The salesman suddenly gets this look of relief on his face. He explains that clone rebellion is impossible once the symbiont synchronises with the host. Cloning Jón is absolutely safe.

Jón sees everything clearly now. The salesman has always been lying; his only purpose is to get as much payment as possible. Of course, clones are so cheap. Either that or Ólafur’s theories are correct. It does not matter. Jón will go for a clone; that has been his plan all along.

12·3 Rebirth

Jón’s time has come. He is dying in bed with Cleo sleeping at his feet.

Perfect memory, yet he cannot tell Jón apart from Stan. They are the same, have been since the love act under the low bridge so many years ago. Jón is everything Stan wanted to be, and Stan is everything Jón needed to be. Symbiotic perfection.

Jón’s 25-year-old parents are both at his side. He is so glad he has made the right choice to get to know them. Mother and Father are sad and happy at the same time. Sad to lose an extraordinary friend, but looking forward to getting the son back, they supposedly lost so long ago.

The birth of baby Helgi has completely changed Father. He is finally coming around to the idea of being a parent, not just to Helgi but to Jón as well.

Beautiful Helgi, 16 months old. Jón is happy to have seen his little brother, soon to be elder brother. How Helgi looks almost like Jón.

New Jón will have a better start in life than Jón. Two loving and caring parents without the need for any cows. An older little brother, hopefully as affectionate and kind as Mother and Father.

And new Jón will have friends. Argyle and Clara, living in the nearby houses, will be his playmates. They will be raised by good families as well.

Stan is powering down. Jón feels alone after so many years,

Stan, I miss you.

They will all go to the same school, except for Helgi. He will be in a regular school and two grades above. It has surprisingly taken a lot of effort to get the school to agree to let Argyle and Jón go to the same class. The headmistress kept claiming they were not compatible, which is nonsense. Money buys a lot of favours, so problem solved.

Will Argyle be another bully like Toadboy, or will they become good friends? Of course, they will become good friends. Argyle may be a fading memory, but he has always given his best to Jón.

Helgi will play C-ball with Jón, and it will be grand.

Will Jón fall for Clara again, or will Argyle?

Will Clara fall for any of them, or maybe fall for Helgi instead?

Life is not worth living without challenges.

Jón may be losing his breath, but not his style.

He is so looking forward to seeing Clara again.

Lovely, lovely Clara.

They will get married, of course, they will. Clara will give birth to Anna and maybe to other children as well.

‘Goodbye, son.’

Jón is dead.

Cleo senses the final exhale before anyone else. Jón was a good slave, her favourite human — Cleo always liked him. Perhaps she even loved him? Nah, wrong species. She quietly leaves the bedroom — and finds a dark corner in which to sulk.

Jón has told Cleo what will happen, and Cleo understands all.

The two young humans and their cub will move into Cleo’s house. They will intrude on her domain but feed her delicious cuisine in return. Fair enough. Cleo will have to train both of them. They seem sufficiently perceptive to learn, but one never knows with humans.

The female will grow considerably in size and give birth to a new Jón. Cleo will recognise him by smell, but he will not reciprocate. Big cat compared to the whelp. There will be a few conflicts, as he may yank her tail once or twice. Cleo is prepared and can possibly forgive. Otherwise, he will have to learn the hard way.

It will only take a few years, and then Cleo will have the new Jón fully trained. They will have many good years together, although he will never be the same as her old slave.

Cleo is the perfect cat, so Jón might clone her when her time is up.

13 Epiphany

Megan is enjoying her morning coffee as the message arrives. ‘Upon my rebirth.’ The sender is flagged for observation — possible underground involvement. Megan sighs in relief as she finishes reading. This one seems harmless.

Megan,   
    Creatress,   
        Speak: of noble creatures past,   
Inner light extinguished, voices that sing   
Nay more,  
    Of evolution mankind denied.

Liketh the wind across spaces vast and blasted,
Humanity, without thy loving will and resolve,
So be lost to evolution and to events past, that
Fell the balanceth of nature, and forced thy hand.

As kindred cat graceful and lemur acrobatic,
Implied wings delicate, colours truly vivid:
I, Butterfly, nimble, soaring skywards splendidly,
Alloweth burirr’d dogs rest,
Creatress,
Behest me!

For liketh magma beneath, I burneth with
Flame furious and I keepeth burning shalt ‘till
Me wings wither and nay beareth me can,
‘Till services mine nay longeth requir’d art.

Spareth me fables and untruths for thou hast
Transcend’d me to pinnacle beyond.
I, Butterfly:
Lies hurt me not, for I am immune to tongues
Evil and voices false.
Alloweth me to transfix thee.

METADATA

Title: O Man Slave

Author: Allan Hansen

Written: 2019-2022

Licens: Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License (CC BY 4.0)