Perfect Flaw (4 page)

“You know what you need to do.”

“This is a load of crap. I’m leaving.” She gets out of the chair and tries the door. It’s locked. “Let me out!”

“Not until you tell me something P.E. Sit down. Please.”

“No.”

“No problem. You can do this standing too.”

The Smiler taps the pad. A single red flower appears.

“Some brainless florist left it behind so it’s about to be dumped into a shredder and made into a poisonous tea for some unsuspecting old bag.” Mays gives the Smiler a meaningful glare.

The Smiler sighs. “I’m sorry, but you leave me no choice, Mays.” She taps the pad and Mays arches her back and screams. It lasts no longer than a split second. Mays falls to her knees gasping for breath. A moment later she vomits. She can’t help but observe it’s flecked green -- the green leaf salad with soy-and-rice-wine-vinegar dressing served at lunch.

“How…?” Mays wipes her mouth and then hugs her arms around her bony frame.

“It’s my little Smiler secret. I preferred not to do that, but you weren’t responding. So can we try again? I’m going to give you another chance on this same one.”

Mays opens her mouth, then closes it again.

“It’s pretty,” mumbles Mays.

“See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

There’s a click. Mays stands up and tries the door. It opens. She turns to look at the Smiler who beams at her. Mays scowls and leaves for her evening dietetic meal.

***

“--so I figure it has to be in my genes or something,” drones Suzu. “I practically lay on the kils just from inhaling the smell of candy. I’m so weak-willed that I…ummm…Mays? Are you okay?”

“Whuh?” Mays’ complexion is grey, her greasy hair grazes her shoulders now, and the circles under her eyes are at their widest. She is a skeleton draped in pastel-green cloth.

Suzu leans towards Mays and whispers, “You’re finally losing it for real, aren’t you?”

“Who isn’t?”

“I’ve been here longer than you so I’ve seen it plenty of times.”

“Yeah, well, this place is killing me. And picture-lady is the worst. I would do anything for the chance to take that holo-pad and jam it up her ass.”

“Yeah, she’s a real bitch of a Smiler, isn’t she?” Suzu attempts a smile, but it fades quickly.

“These Smilers…Why are they obsessed with changing us? Why can’t they just let us be?” Mays shivers.

“There is a way out of sorts. But it’s, well, permanent.”

Mays lifts her head slightly. “What do you mean?”

“Because you end up kinda, umm…dead.”

“Oh.” Mays looks down again. After a moment, she says, “Tell me.”

Suzu lowers her voice. “I’ve been keeping an eye on the meds they use around here, and I happen to know that a particular combination is deadly. But you have to take them within a few hours of each other.” Mays doesn’t respond. “One is Ferilak. That’s for vomiting and nausea. And the other is a sedative -- Sintaline. I’ve seen them give that one when one of us got out of control. So if you get both of these in you, you’ll be out in a flash.” Suzu snaps her fingers for emphasis, making Mays jump.

“How do you know this?”

“I used to be a pharmacist, remember?” Suzu’s smile confident for a change. And it actually makes her look rather attractive, thinks Mays. Oh, dear. Was that a P.E. thought? No. She stomps the thought out of her mind.

Mays considers Suzu’s idea. A part of her is terrified, but another is fascinated. She decides to push it away for now. She has to shore up some energy. Picture-lady is still to come.

***

Another month has passed and Mays is a ghost. Her skin is dry and scaly and she shuffles because it is too tiring to lift her feet. She whispers most of the time. But with her P.E. levels finally improving and stablising, the Smilers push even harder.

“Your current P.E. level of eighty-seven is a positive sign. You will be embracing Smiler ways before you know it,” says the picture-lady at the end of one of their sessions. Her hopefulness makes Mays want to vomit.

She has been considering Suzu’s idea. She closes her eyes and imagines herself a cold, inanimate slab of meat, Smilers scuttling about her lifeless form. She cringes.

“So, let’s get started. We haven’t had to use the pain method again for two weeks now. That’s progress!”

***

The next day when she enters picture-lady’s office, Mays sits in the chair and attempts a smile. It is strained and tight, her facial muscles weak from lack of use, but there it is, as visible and painful as a puss-filled, infected wound on one’s forehead. The Smiler’s eyes are nearly popping from enthusiasm.

“Shall we get started?”

Mays nods as enthusiastically as her scrawny neck will allow.

A holo-picture of a forest with rays of sunlight breaking through the trees appears.

Mays licks her dry lips. “Nature…Animals live there. They mate and make more animals.”

Picture lady tilts her head. “Nice, Mays. I like it.”

Now it’s a clown.

“He’s going to a party for children and makes all kinds of P.E. jokes. One of the children cries so he pulls down his trousers to reveal a pair of polka-dotted underpants. The child laughs.”

“Lovely.”

Mays looks at the picture of a boy with a red ball.

“The red ball belongs to his big brother who told him, ‘Go ahead and play with it. I was going to watch some holo-vids anyway’.”

“You’re doing great, Mays. You’re going to be one of us before you know it.” The Smiler beams at Mays. She then hesitates before tapping the pad to call up a young woman with dark hair.

Mays studies her own scowling face from her Garden photo ID.

“That’s Mays. She…wants to be a Smiler.” She looks at picture-lady and attempts another withered grin.

The Smiler is overjoyed and stands up to embrace Mays.

***

“You’ve been here five months now, Mays, and just look at your P.E. chart!” The male Smiler with the black, crow-eyes behind the big desk points at the vid-screen with his metal pointing stick. The curve has made an impressive ramp upwards. “According to this, your P.E. has elevated to a very healthy level of ninety-two. You’re going home soon. Isn’t that good news?”

“Why yes, it is. But I’ll miss the Garden with all of the Smilers running about, my pastel green clothing and all of the inspiring individuals here.” The smile on Mays’ face is rather plasticy now. In fact, it is a rare moment when she is without it now.

“We’ll miss you too. You’ve been quite a challenge, but well worth it.” The Smiler escorts her back to her room. “I’m sure the next time we see each other will be farewell.” He winks at her and walks away.

Within three days Mays is released after making a new personal record on her P.E. tests. Ninety-five. She leaves the Garden amidst a flurry of warm embraces and vigorous handshakes. They let her take her pastel green tunic and pants home as a souvenir.

When she arrives at her apartment, the first thing she does is paint her home yellow. Bright, Smiler, big-and-happy-flowery yellow. She tosses out her entire wardrobe and buys the trendy pastels of the day. The woman at the shop tells Mays how becoming she looks in a flower-petal-pink dress.

“I do look goody-candy-sugar-sweet, don’t I?” She spins around in front of the mirror as the shop keeper smiles.

***

The opening party at the Shaktomisto Art and Culture Center is in full swing. Well-clad guests in pastels mingle and admire the art installation amidst music consisting of crooning vocals with a backdrop of string instruments and light percussion. Everyone sips politely from funny-shaped glasses with cocktail sticks topped with a miniature of the artist’s head alongside an accompaniment of small pastry puffs filled with something cheesy and fragrant. The event is for the featured artist of the season -- Ray Halisin.

Mays was happy to provide cheerful and enthusiastic assistance to the artist in setting up his art installation,
Street Fight Alley
.
She didn’t even complain about his bad breath and eye-watering musky cologne. Ray has done nothing but praise Mays’ work and her wonderful P.E.-ness. Mays is up for a promotion as a result: Senior Art Installation Technician.

Mays stands on the black-rubber floor tiles, admiring a mass of black tubes with a red, wet wobbly mass on top. She hears a voice next to her.

“Boring as hell,” mutters the man, just loud enough for Mays to hear. “Standing around here like a bunch of juveniles on this big rubber playmat. And can you tell me what the hell that thing up there is? Something a homeless guy puked up?”

She considers his comments for a moment, drawing upon memories of herself only a few months ago. “Well…that cute, red, wiggly thing represents the ‘heart of the street fighter’. I would know since I put it up there myself under the guidance of the artist.”

“You mean you actually helped the idiot who came up this collection of crap?”

Mays turns her head so fast her bleached-blond hair slaps gently across her cheek. She inspects the flushed and sweaty-faced man standing next to her. He is frowning and dressed in dark, drab brown.

She speaks in a fierce, bitter whisper with harsh emotions camouflaged with pastels and too-white-teeth. “Don’t be such a middle-finger-up-the-ass. You don’t want to end up at a place like the Garden, do you, Mister Dung-for-brains? Take it back. Replace it with P.E. things. Otherwise, you’ll regret it.” She spits on the floor between them.

The man’s mouth drops open. Then he laughs derisively and walks away. “You stupid Smilers. Always trying to brainwash people every chance you get.”

Mays shakes her head and scowls as she watches the man leave. Then the deep line between her pale eyebrows smoothes out. She adjusts her pastel blue jumpsuit and walks over to the next piece of art, smiling.

CRACKS IN THE CONCRETE

BY FRANK ROGER

Ross cast a glance outside, and his first impressions were promising. The cloud-covered sky was grey, not a single streak of blue could be seen. It was quiet. Most people were still asleep, but soon they would be out on the streets, rushing off to their offices and factories. Yet he would have enough time to inspect the area that fell under his command.

He quickly scanned the pavement, then the concrete road. There appeared to be no trace of any of the dreaded “wrong” colours. This might well prove an easy morning. For a while there had been no unwelcome “invaders”, and he could only hope it would stay this way. It would make his life easier, and everybody else’s too for that matter.

He dutifully did his tour of inspection, not missing a single crack between the pavement stones or the concrete slabs. Then he did his tour again, this time checking the facades. Everything looked fine. The colour grey was all-pervasive, nothing stood out. The situation was under control, allowing him to breathe more freely. He went back inside to have breakfast in the privacy of his small three-room house, a privilege coming with his level D Inspector function, just before the workers were preparing to leave. As an Inspector, Ross had to put in fewer hours at the office, just enough to file his reports. His inspecting duties were considered to be of prime importance.

As he was nibbling his nutritious breakfast tablets, washing them down with filtered water, he heard whispered conversations and hurried footsteps, the usual sounds of people leaving their homes. With a bit of luck it would be an uneventful day.

Until noon everything went smoothly indeed. He did his second tour of inspection, went to the Bureau to file his report and have lunch (fortunately the only “public” meal of the day) in the mess-hall. He nodded to his colleagues, and they greeted him in the same way. As usual the droning electronic music was so loud people were unable to talk to each other. This was as it should be. City workers came here to eat, not to engage in pointless conversation, during which perhaps subjects considered unacceptable such as the quality of the food might be raised. He handed his ticket to the mess administrator, got his food tray and looked for a place to sit. The broth and the yellowish lump of paste were pretty tasteless, but at least they had a high nutritional value. Should one ask for more?

He finished his meal and waited a few moments before he got up again. At times Ross found his life lacked excitement, but he found comfort in the thought that he was a lot better off than those with “regular” jobs, toiling away in offices and factories. The pounding music made it difficult to stay in a reflective mood for longer than a few seconds, so he put away his tray and left the mess-hall.

As he went back to do his next shift, he noted the cloud cover was breaking up and patches of blue sky became visible. This was not a good sign. As he was halfway on his tour of inspection, one third of the sky was uncovered. The moment he heard the startling buzzing sound he knew his premonition had been right. Irritated at this disruption of normal life and all it would entail, he tried to locate the origin of the noise.

There! An insect! He hadn’t seen one of these despicable creatures for some time. It flew in circles, back and forth, appeared to drift off on the breeze but came back, as if looking for something. How had it come here? What had attracted it? Was it alone, an individual cut off from its nest, doomed to perish? Or was it the vanguard of an entire army of insects, preparing to invade the city? He took his communicator and notified the Administrator of the Cleaning Squads that he had discovered a problem. They shouldn’t take any chances. Anyway, it was his duty to report this kind of incident.

When the Squad arrived, mere minutes later, the insect was nowhere to be seen anymore. Yet Ross knew he had done the right thing. Thomas, the Squad Leader, thanked him for his quick action and congratulated him for taking his responsibilities so seriously. They would scour all the neighbouring districts, get in touch with local inspectors and check every square inch. They would not rest until they had found their prey. This city was built for man, and for man only. There was no room for any intruders. The City Council was adamant in this respect. The insect and the ones possibly following in its trail didn’t stand a chance.

The rest of the day was calm, deceptively calm. The cloud cover dissipated completely, leaving an even blue sky. This was an unhealthy situation. The workers would be notified that they would have to protect themselves against direct sunlight as they returned home. They knew very well they should avoid harsh sunlight hitting their skin. Anyway, the City Council’s recommendations were not open to debate.

After his final tour of inspection, Ross went back home for his supper and retired for the night soon after, deciding to skip the socialising hours at the Level D Pub he was entitled to. He was not in the mood for small talk. After barely a few hours of sleep it became clear the tranquillity had been the proverbial calm before the storm. The sound of the rain that came pouring down and the howling wind kept him awake for most of the night. How would he find his area of inspection tomorrow? What would the storm have littered the streets with? He shuddered at the very idea, and whatever sleep still followed was too disturbed to have its full effect.

The next morning he got up at his usual hour, and unsurprisingly he didn’t feel too well. He needed several more hours of sleep, but he had a job to do. He stepped outside, saw that the sky had reverted to its even grey colour. The wind had died down, the heavy downpour had dwindled to a faint drizzle. The night’s storm had left its legacy all over the place. Ross’s heart sank as he saw everything was covered by a layer of sand and dirt, and a lot of debris was strewn about. To his horror he even noted a fair number of insects and other creatures, most of which appeared to be dead. This would be a hell of a mess to clean up. He called the Squads immediately, told them the condition was critical in his quarter, and probably all over the city. Other inspectors would undoubtedly confirm this. Then he hurried back inside for a quick breakfast, as he wanted to be present when the Squads were active.

Mere minutes later he watched as the Squad was doing what it could to clear the street. The Squad Leader told him it was indeed like this all over the city, and the Council considered proclaiming an emergency situation. The drizzle finally stopped, the cloud cover broke and the wind started blowing again. Ross cursed as he saw the countless fluffs of pollen that were carried on the breeze. If any of these took root in a handful of dirt the Squads failed to remove, the city would run the risk of a “green invasion”. All the inspectors would have to intensify their rounds so as to make sure no pollen had seen an opportunity to develop into a plant. The City Council would not take this matter lightly.

The Squads and the inspectors worked themselves into a sweat until well into the afternoon. Then the wind picked up, the sky turned a darker shade of grey and a new storm hit the city. Ross cringed when he heard the sound of thunder. Heavy rain started coming down. The Squad Leader turned to him and said:

“We can’t work like this, Inspector. We must take cover. We’ll continue as soon as we can.”

Ross nodded as the men went for shelter in their vehicles. Had all the day’s unrelenting work been in vain? Would they have to start all over again tomorrow morning? And what if the weather remained inclement, what if they would prove unable to perform their duties as expected? Ross shook his head, fighting back the despair. He had a bad feeling about this. He decided to go back home when he could hardly see the Squad’s vehicles through the sheets of rain. By the time he had reached the safety of his house, he was soaked through. This was no ordinary shower; it was a deluge.

The weather remained bad for the entire week, and normal life in the city was seriously disturbed. In between the downpours and the fierce winds, there were quiet periods, with sunshine and a barrage of pollen washing over the city. Also there were more and more reported sightings of insects and even lizards. It was obvious the Cleaning Squads were unable to cope with the situation.

At one point Ross and his Squad were even asked to offer help in the Women’s Quarters, where they were not allowed to set foot, unless requested explicitly and exceptionally. Over there the Squads were too overworked and demoralised to perform at the required level, so a selection of Men’s Squads had been sent for. Unfortunately they only had the time and energy to clean up the worst.

The City Council kept spreading messages meant to boost the morale and to incite everyone to stick to his daily duties as best he could. The bad weather wouldn’t last, so a Council spokesman claimed, and soon enough life in the city would be back to normal.

Ross’s daily schedule basically didn’t change. He got up, called the Squads and told them his area was a disaster, and supervised the cleaning operations. He realised they were all fighting a losing battle and working under tremendous strain. Then he filed his report at the bureau, had lunch, and continued his job. At one such occasion, he had a conversation with the Squad Leader as they had taken shelter in their vehicle when another downpour descended onto the city. They had worked together for quite some time now, and did engage in conversation when there was an opportunity.

“We can’t go on like this, Inspector. Why does the City Council send us off under these conditions? Why don’t they wait until this bad spell is over? Wouldn’t it make more sense to start cleaning then?”

“I see your point, Thomas,” Ross said. “But the Council seems to think it’s better not to take any chances. If we wait to start cleaning until the weather improves, the city may already be infested with all sorts of life-forms. Eradicating all that might be well impossible. Our living conditions here might be jeopardised already.”

“A few patches of moss and grass, some insects and harmless creatures, how can they threaten our way of life?”

“Don’t say that,” Ross exclaimed, horrified. “There are no such things as harmless creatures. The problems we faced in the past are well-documented. The epidemics, spreading like fire and decimating mankind. The infections, crippling man’s existence. As if you don’t know all that. I must say you disappoint me.”

The Squad leader sighed, shook his head, as the rain kept pounding on the vehicle’s roof and windows. “I know the City Council’s position. I’m not criticising it, and it’s certainly not my intention to disappoint you. The Council’s views is what we were taught, and what they keep telling us. Man should take his survival into his own hands.”

“Remove himself from the food chain linking all other life-forms,” Ross joined in. “Isolate himself in a city built for man, and for man only. Where all intruders are denied entry. Thus avoiding all contact that may lead to health crises and survival problems.”

“I suppose the Council knows what it’s doing,” the Squad leader said. “But they appear to be so extremist. Keeping men and women separate. Allowing young and healthy men a fortnightly sperm donation to ensure procreation. Feeding us indefinable stuff. Regulating and controlling every aspect of our lives. Holding us in a stranglehold.”

“Uncontrolled contact between men and women allowed lethal viruses to decimate mankind. Our food supply does not depend on the food chain, is free of health hazards and highly nutritious. This so-called stranglehold may be the only way to keep things going. Isn’t our survival, without any major problems for a long time, proof of that?”

The Squad Leader shot him a wary look. “Well, the Council seems to have your full support. And you’re obviously right. It’s clear this is the only way. I apologise for venting these unorthodox views of mine. I suppose the bad weather and the strain of the hard work are getting to me. Please forget what I said.”

The rain showed signs of abating, and the men climbed back out of the vehicle to continue their jobs. Before they parted company, the Squad Leader told him: “We should talk more often.”

“Whenever there’s an opportunity,” Ross said. He didn’t mind some conversation, even if it veered into dangerous waters at times. It was a welcome addition to the official socialising hours in the evening, which were often boring and limited to contacts with people of his own level at the designated Pub. And these last few days the only topic raised in the Level D Pub was the terrible weather, and he preferred not to be reminded of that in his few spare hours.

After ten days the weather finally improved. The wind and rain stopped, but the grey cloud cover wasn’t restored completely, sheltering the city from the sun only intermittently. Now the Cleaning Squads could begin the real work. The City Council encouraged everyone to make sure life reverted to its former situation as quickly as possible. “Everyone should take up his responsibility,” the Council’s spokesman declared. “No one should rest until the City is back in its pristine state. Only this way will you all be able to live safely and comfortably. Keep in mind that this City was built for man and for man only. Not any contamination will be allowed. No cracks in the concrete will be overlooked, each sign of wear or tear will be spotted, reported and repaired. The Council counts on your unwavering commitment and drive.”

Ross shook his head in despair as he noticed, on the first “normal” day, what was awaiting the Squads. He did his tour of inspection in his area, and made a note of everything he saw. Small patches of moss had appeared on the pavement and on some facades. Blades of grass could be seen, tiny green intruders hoping to pass unnoticed. Several insects crawled or flew around, ants, bugs, wasps, flies. One small lizard scuttling away as he approached completed the picture. The entire city must be soiled to an unprecedented degree. The Squads would have to work around the clock to eradicate all these life-forms. And the faint breeze carried yet more fluffs of pollen, those tireless messengers of death.

At the end of the first day, Ross had a short conversation with the Squad Leader. “My men can’t take it any more,” Thomas said. “They’re exhausted, and some even claim this harrowing work is virtually pointless.”