Читать книгу The Zima Confession - Iain M Rodgers - Страница 16

Richard slumped into a seat on the Jubilee Line. The train was packed and it had taken him several stops since getting on at London Bridge, to position himself to obtain such a prize. He had to use a few cunning moves to outsmart any of his competitors in a clandestine game of musical chairs.

Things like that gave your life a false sense of purpose. London was very good at giving you a general sense there was a buzz around and you were involved in its excitement. It gave you opportunity to think you had accomplished something. In fact, all it had to offer was illusory nonsense. Years could go past before you realised your life was actually empty.

But who said life had to have any meaning? Well, now, it did have meaning.

Today he was on the Jubilee Line because he had decided to walk from the office across to London Bridge tube station, as he sometimes did, hoping the walk would relax him. But it hadn’t helped at all; instead he had felt an increasing sense of panic and paranoia while walking through the crowds of people, that some- one, perhaps everyone, knew what he was up to. Slumping into his seat, and giving the memory stick another squeeze to make sure it was still there, Richard finally began to relax a little.

A lot had happened in the years since he was an activist. Everything had changed. He wondered if he still wanted to go through with it. Of course he did. Things were worse than ever nowadays. The attempts that capitalism had made to save itself had proved futile.

Capitalism was failing to satisfy the advertising-induced greed of developed countries. Nevertheless, it was claiming itself to be successful. Successful in raising the living standards of poorer nations. This process had been given the label of “globalisation”.

Successful? The world population was projected to peak at fifteen billion. Imagine fifteen billion people trying to live in the style of the USA! It would not be physically possible for the planet to provide the raw materials. It was doomed to failure. Catastrophic failure.

Meanwhile, the banking and financial systems, perhaps in combination with IT, were concentrating wealth and power into the hands of fewer and fewer people worldwide. The funny thing was that, because of taxation, this wealthy elite actually felt they were supporting the rest of the population, instead of it being the other way around. The wealthy elite were now so wealthy compared with the rest that they paid a significant percentage of total taxation, and therefore believed they supported, rather than exploited, the masses. They seemed to have overlooked the fact that the cause of this was the masses not being paid enough due to their exploitation. Eventually, there must be a breaking point. Either the elite would break away from the rest of the population, deliberately using social spending and welfare as a means of suppressing them, or there would be revolution. That, he reminded himself, was why he was not a Social Democrat. Welfare abuse was their raison d’être. He was no longer an activist either. He had been sleeping. In fact, Richard was a card-carrying member of the Conservative party. His reasoning was that since capitalism would destroy itself through its internal contradictions, he should help it along as much as possible. It was like being an actual socialist without the hypocrisy, he reasoned. Or, actually, it was like being a capitalist – with both hypocrisy and irony.

“Stanmore!” a woman’s voice joyously exclaimed, waking Richard from his daydream.

“This train terminates at Stanmore,” the invisible woman continued.

The breathless glee with which she said the word “Stanmore” led Richard to assume it was one of her favourite places and she was very much looking forward to going back there. The Jubilee Line had an invisible woman to tell you what stations you were at, or were approaching. Soon the invisible woman breathlessly cried out “Baker Street”.

He was there. Baker Street. Almost home and safe to take a look at what he had.

“MIND… THE GHYEP!” a stern male voice boomed out from the walls of the station repeatedly as Richard pushed his way out of the carriage onto the bustling platform. The robot man warning everyone to “mind the gap” had obviously been educated in Eton or some such place. The calm, robotic repetition of this advice conflicted with the chaotic flurry of the crowds of people who gave no indication they were minding any gaps whatsoever.

During every tube journey, commuters were accompanied by invisible people offering all sorts of advice and warnings. The Jubilee Line woman was particularly posh and enthusiastic. Other lines had imaginary people of different temperaments or social backgrounds (the woman on the Docklands Light Railway serving Canary Wharf was surprisingly common compared with her customers).

Advertising vied for your attention too. There was a bombardment of excitement, beauty, witty advice, things to do, places to go. Your brain had to process visual information where what was real mingled with images from TV screens and posters, and auditory information where real people were shouted down by electronic people who had more important things to say.

In the shiny, synthetic, Brave New World of the near future, real and imaginary lives would become difficult to separate. People already existed as avatars; there was already a Sim World where people were becoming real millionaires for activities they undertook in an imaginary, computerised existence. Bitcoin too was accepted as a genuine currency and were increasing in value (though the Chinese had recently put a slight dent in that value). There was the Twitter-sphere. There was the whole Facebooking world of bullshit friendship. Richard himself had more than a hundred Facebook friends, though the only people he knew well enough to drink with were a handful of work colleagues.

In the near future, dreams, reality and simulation would intermingle freely (and all that before we even start to ‘experiment’ with drugs). What was to become of actual freedom? How would anyone know if they were really doing what they thought they were? How would people know if they really wanted to do the things they did or were guided by companies trying to make them behave in some way that would be beneficial to company objectives? People primarily existed as consumers to sell to, not as individuals or members of society.

Richard stepped through the heavy, darkly lustrous rosewood doors at the entrance of his apartment block, and then traversed a greying black and white marble floor. He pulled a manually operated lever to open the gold-coloured trellis doors of the lift and took the gracefully slow journey to the second floor. The lift travelled upwards inside a dusty, gold-coloured cage within a quarter-turn staircase. The solid wooden balustrade of the staircase was still polished like new; shiny and smooth to the touch. He was lucky to be able to afford to live here. VirtuBank paid well.

VirtuBank paid well, but not so well that Richard could live in the style for which the building had originally been designed. Richard liked to use the lift, though it was old and slow, so he wasn’t reminded that, though they had once been sumptuous, the carpets of the staircase were threadbare. The solid wooden balustrade was pitted and scored. In places it was patched with sections of mismatching wood. The elegant, family-sized apartments had long since been butchered – downsized, downgraded, divided up and converted into studios or one-bedroom flats. Each of the resulting dwelling places had been separated off from its neighbour by flimsy partition walls.

He entered his shabby, one-bed apartment. Here, all trace of the building’s original magnificence had been erased. Here, it was obvious that it was worn out, dirty and even disgusting. If it wasn’t for the memory it had been a five-minute walk from Baker Street and the entrance hall had made some effort at keeping up appear- ances, you might presume you were in a slum.

He stepped over a fresh scattering of junk mail and bills. He could collect that together later and add it to his growing pile of uninteresting, unopened mail. Right now he was eager to find out what he had.