Glasshouse - Charles Stross [37]
“Yes?”
“I can be very creative when it’s time to get violent.”
5
Church
SAM picks up the phone and asks the Gatekeeper to connect him to Mick’s household. I linger at the top of the stairs and listen to him, down in the front hall. It sounds like he’s trying not to lose his temper. After a couple of cents, he puts the phone down hard and stomps back to the living room. I spend most of the rest of the evening avoiding him, instead worrying myself into a black depression at the possibility that I might have made things worse for Cass by getting Sam involved.
Points. Collective accountability. Stable couples. Peer pressure. My head’s spinning. It’s not that I’m unused to the idea of daily life having rules—at least, in peacetime—but it somehow seems indecent for them to make it so explicit. Societies cohere through tacit understanding, a nod and a wink and—very occasionally—a lookup in a legal database. I’m used to learning how things work as I go along and this experience, a headfirst collision with a fully formed set of rules to live one’s life by, has given me a big shock.
I speculate that I’d be able to handle things better if I weren’t trapped in a frankly inadequate body. I’m not normally conscious of my own size or strength, and I’m not interested in mesomorphic tinkering—but then again, I would never consciously choose to make myself small and frail. I’m borderline malnourished, too. When I go to the bathroom and use the mirror, I can almost see my ribs under a layer of subcutaneous fat. I’m not used to being a waif, and when I get my hands on whoever did this to me . . . Hah, but I won’t be able to do anything to them, will I? “Assholes,” I mutter darkly, then head for the kitchen to see if there are any high-protein options on offer.
Later on, I explore the basement. There are a bunch of machines down here that my tablet says are for household maintenance. I puzzle over the clothes washing machine. There’s something very crude and mechanical about it, as if its shape is rigidly fixed. It’s not like a real machine, warm and protean and accommodating to your needs. It’s just a lump of ceramic and metal. It doesn’t even answer when I tell it I need to clean my dress—it’s really stupid.
Farther back in the basement there’s something else, a bench with levers attached, for developing upper body muscle mass the hard way. I’m a bit skeptical, but the tablet says these people had to develop musculature by repeatedly lifting weights and other exercises. I find the manual for the exercise machine and after about a kilosecond I manage to reduce myself to a quivering, sweat-smeared jelly. It’s like some kind of psychological torture, a lesson that rams home just how weak I am.
I stumble upstairs, shower, and collapse into an uneasy sleep, troubled by dreams of drowning and visions of Kay reaching toward me with all her arms outstretched, begging for something I don’t understand. Not to mention faint echoes of something terrible, immigrants pushing and shoving under the gun, begging and screaming to be allowed through the gates of Hel. I startle awake and lie shivering in the darkness for half an hour. What’s happening to me?
I’m trapped in another universe. It’s true what they say: The past is another polity, but I don’t think most people mean it quite like this.
THE next morning, I’m in the kitchen trying to puzzle out the instructions for using the coffeemaker when the phone rings. There’s a terminal in the hall, so I go there to pick it up, wondering if something’s wrong. “Call for Sam,” buzzes a flat voice. “Call for Sam.”
I stare at the handset for a moment, then look up the stairs. “It’s for you!” I yell.
“I’m coming.” Sam takes the staircase two steps at a time. I pass him the handset. “Yes?” He listens for a moment. “What is—I don’t understand. Can you repeat that? Oh. Yes, yes, I will.” Listening to a conversation on one of these old telephones has an eerie feel. They