I could not bear to see myself pitied at last by those mysterious, invisible beings, angels or demons—which are the same—that I believed inhabited Mechanopolis. But all of a sudden a terrible idea struck me: What if those machines had souls, mechanical souls, and it were the machines themselves that felt sorry for me? This idea made me tremble. I thought myself before the race that must dominate a dehumanized Earth.
I left like a madman and threw myself before the first electric streetcar that passed. When I awoke from the blow, I was once more in the oasis from which 1 had started out. I began walking. I arrived at the tent of some Bedouins, and on meeting one of them. I embraced him crying. How well we understood each other even without understanding each other! He and his companions gave me food, we celebrated together, and at night I went out with them and, lying on the ground, looking up at the starry sky, united we prayed. There was not one machine anywhere around us.
And since then I have conceived a veritable hatred toward what we call progress, and even toward culture, and I am looking for a corner where I shall find a peer, a man like myself, who cries and laughs as I cry and laugh, and where there is not a single machine and the days flow with the sweet, crystalline tameness of a stream lost in a forest primeval.
(1913)
BIG DAVE’S IN LOVE
T. D. Edge
T. D. Edge won a Cadbury’s fiction competition at age 10 "but only did it for the chocolate". He is also the youngest-ever England Subbuteo Champion. The story here also won a competition, which is how it found its way into the pages of Arc, a short-lived experiment in science fiction by the makers of New Scientist magazine. Edge has published several books for young people, while working as a government fire-safety researcher, street performer, school caretaker, and props maker for the Welsh National Opera.
I skip down the street like I got sherbet up me backside. I sweep me arms wide and sing to the pigeons and the cats and the bespectacled mice what study form under the bookie’s shop floor.
"What’s up, Jack?" says one of the cats.
I should hold back the news, at least until I make it to the public bar of The Airpod and Nanomule. Then again, everyone in Gaffville deserves to hear the glad tidings.
"Big Dave’s in love!" I shout, so loud I even gain the attention of the rebellious rooks on the multicoloured cogni-nylon thatched roofs. Other less cynical birds whoop and coo and shake their feathers in sheer joy. And I do a leap to click my boot heels together because this is what we’ve all needed to save us, ain’t it the truth.
Gaffville’s pavements change colour from doomy brown to cheerful gold as I pass, sensing my mood of altruistic delight. In the transpods, high above the rooftops, formerly morose citizens wave splendidly down at Jack who is no doubt grinning like a dog with jam-covered balls.
For I am Big Dave’s batman, and if I’m hopping down the street wearing a grin as wide as the boss’s waistline, then perhaps they won’t be doomed to melt away, into the general bio-electro-mechanical sludge that washes across all but a few patches of life on this poor, tired planet of ours.
Because everyone knows, of course, that unless the big man finds a new reason to live, it will be only our dwindling love for him what keeps us shielded from the gunk.
With the news not having reached the bar yet, all is still gloomyful in The Mule, and I decide to play it normal to start.
"All right?" I say, shoulders drooped and feet a drag. Around a dozen blokes are sagging on their stools at the retro-1940s bar, all brass pumps and scepticallooking landlord.
A few grunt by way of greeting; I slump against the counter and say, "The usual Ted, and make sure it’s warm."
I observe the etiquette, which is to let out a big sigh, followed by, "Bit nippy for the time of year, ain’t it?" The others observe the return etiquette, which is to nod sagely and take another sip of their briny brews.
But I can’t contain myself no longer. I gulp half my recycled pint in one slurp, bang down the glass and shout, "The drinks are on me, everybody!"
I pull out a wad of Bank of Dave notes, currency only in Gaffville, and tell Ted to stick it behind the bar.
"Must be a week’s wages here, Jack," he says, eyes smiling for once.
Now I’ve got their attention, I take a deep breath and yell, "Big Dave’s in love!"
There is a silence, which I hope is profound but is quickly broken by a chorus of "Nah!"s and sad shakings of heads.
Arthur says, "Come on, Jack, you shouldn’t kid around like that. Who’s he supposed to be in love with, anyway? Aside from us toys, what don’t count."
"Would I put my wad behind the bar if I was joking?" I say.
Their faces remain blank for a few moments, and I don’t blame them. For many years we’ve lived on nothing but hope, and even that had just about popped out like the last bubbles on a pint, right about the same time Dave stopped visiting his town.
Ted, who is wiser than his crusty manner suggests, reaches across the counter to squeeze my shoulder. "Are you serious, Jack?"
I nod. "It happened but an hour ago. At last, a message turned up on Dave’s comms chair. A woman called from the Pennines, or at least her maid did. She’d picked up a signal I sent through the sludge two whole years ago. She sent us back a full virtual, Dave saw it and let’s just say his eyes went sparklers and his jaw line appeared for the first time since he discovered vodka mallows."
They swap anxious looks, and I know what they are thinking. "Relax," I say. "I sent a shopped virtual back; one of Dave before he was Big."
Bill frowns knowingly. "How do you know her maid didn’t do the same thing?"
"It don’t really matter, do it?" I say "Once she gets here and actually sees another soulled in the authenticated flesh, I reckon she’ll behold nothing but beauty, even if in fact they’re both somewhat physically lapsed."
And at that, finally, their true, long-suppressed selves start to reappear, like buttercups poking through a cow pat. Shoulders straighten, legs stand firmer; drinks is ordered; Tony goes to the joanna and taps out a jiggy tune. Even Ted smiles like it ain’t on account of gas for once, and soon the old place is humming.
We does the old arm-in-arm and swing around steps our pre-sludge versions performed when Dave’s own forebears was still hopeful that everything would be fine despite all the mounting electrical manure.
Then the women hear the news and arrive with musical instruments and pies galore. Because of the serious duty in being Dave’s batman, I ain’t able to benefit from the ongoing support of a fine female, but that don’t stop me flirting and shiny-eying with the younger ones what are still unaccounted for.
The retro-wooden floor squeaks and heaves under the dancing Cockney plates; recycled beer follows reconstituted soy steak and soy kidney down our suddenly slick gullets; and even a mouse or two arrives through the crack for the craic.
Yep, all is reeling in Gaffville, no mistake. It’s only much later that night, as my head hits the pillow in my room at Dave’s house on the hill, that I remember I still have the not inconsiderable task of fully selling him on the joy too. Because, while his faithful batman has decided the boss is in love, he has to admit that Dave himself might not be quite so certain yet.
I should probably say that bigness where Dave is concerned refers to the potential of his blessed soul as much as to his extra fleshy inches. That and the overwhelming personness that radiates from his organic wholeness. It’s just that it’s been hard to see it after all his years of vodka mallows and general arseing about.