Forbidden Thoughts Read online

  I was conscious of the updated guidelines about insensitive interpersonal interaction, but had to guess some pertinent details because my spectacles had lost their network connection. This was doubly unfortunate for me. If the grid had told me the essential biographies of the operatives, including their names, it would have helped me to establish a rapport. The emo wore a crucifix; I briefly considered mentioning my Catholic upbringing. However, I could not think of a way to do so, without violating the Sandberg Code. Anyhow, by now I was taking too long. It was best to keep language simple, and to the point.

  “I want to appeal my new allocation,” said I.

  “Appeal?”

  “Your allocation?”

  “Why do you want to do that?”

  The three operatives had spoken in turn. An image of the three wise monkeys entered my mind, though the operatives clasped their hands before them, as if trained to sit that way. Then I recalled that Sandberg had expunged the monkeys who saw no evil, heard no evil, and spoke no evil. They had long been erased from the collective consciousness, along with every other monkey metaphor for human beings. Only a freak like me would know of them.

  “My partner and I are trying for a natural birth... ”

  EERK. Words flashed before my eyes. “Describing some births as natural is discouraged by the Sandberg Code. Every child has the same intrinsic worth and... ”

  I suffered many difficulties when my spectacles were first networked. It was hard to read their warnings whilst also maintaining a conversation. But after years of practice, I could now correct my errors without losing my flow.

  “My partner and I wish to experience an authentically neo-primitive style of birth, so we can commune with the historical and anatomical reality that underpins our humanity. All of that would be scuppered—”

  The clone interrupted. “Scuppered? What do you mean?” As she spoke, she twiddled a dial protruding from the side of her neck. This did not alter her voice. Perhaps the dial was added for purely aesthetic reasons.

  “What I mean is—”

  The supervisor spoke over me. “It’s a synonym for ‘prevented’. Please proceed.” He glared at me. The supervisor was trying to tell me something important, such as: don’t use primitive colloquial language; everyone speaks Globalese now. I resolved to heed his unspoken advice.

  “Moving to another continent would prevent my partner and I from having a child.”

  “She could be artificially inseminated with your sperm,” said the barrel-chested Sikh. “Healthcare plans will cover the cost if you show them your reproduction license. Or take hyperflights to see your partner on weekends, and impregnate her then.” Then the network connection was restored, and my spectacles told me he was called Rory McGrath. The name seemed incongruous. However, everyone knew the grid had not mistaken an identity since 2021, and Sandberg had long discouraged the association of names with genders, races, nationalities, and the like. Children born in birthing banks were allocated names at random, though Rory’s irregular features suggested he was the product of an old-fashioned liaison between one woman and one man.

  “Yes, Rory. But we want to share responsibility for raising our child, whilst living in a single unified household.”

  “You mean, like a family?”

  “Yes, that’s right. My contract with my partner doesn’t just cover marital relations—”

  The clone butted in again. “Marital relations? What does that mean?”

  The supervisor’s eyes burned two holes right through me. “It’s a metaphor for hetero penetrative vaginal sexual intercourse,” he said.

  “Yes,” I continued, feeling chastened. “I wish to impregnate my partner for the purpose of procreation, as well as mutual pleasure. You see, she—”

  EERK. My spectacles flashed red. Of course I knew which taboo I had broken, but the supervisor relished the opportunity to correct me. “She?” My spectacles revealed the supervisor’s name was Gloria Swansong, although he was a bulky fellow who might have played linebacker when sports still involved contact. “You meant to say ‘ey’, did you not?”

  “Yes, yes, I did. Sorry about that.” This was going badly. I was signaling a sentimental attachment to outmoded cultures that had once used gender-specific pronouns. My anachronistic language was making me seem less assimilated than I truly am. “My partner... Julia, that’s eir name... Julia has signed the consent forms which confirm eir willingness to enter into an exclusive child-rearing contract with me... ”

  “We know that,” said the emo, whose name was shown to be Caroline Nuance.

  And then I blurted: “Your name is Caroline? That was my mother’s name.” My nerves were getting the better of me. I blushed; she smiled demurely.

  “Your partner is Julia Margolis,” stated Caroline Nuance, tapping at her tablet. “You and Julia renewed your interpersonal contract four months ago... making it permanent.”

  “Permanent?” said the clone. Her forehead wrinkled, forming a crease where her cranial camera was embedded. My spectacles said her name was Leaf Eiríksdóttir. I could not determine if Leaf had asked a question, so I looked to Gloria Swansong, but he just grimaced at the back of Leaf’s head.

  Caroline Nuance and Rory McGrath were interrogating their tablets, so I found myself gazing at the face of Leaf Eiríksdóttir whilst she wiggled her little finger inside her ear. I guessed she was adjusting an implant, selecting a new soundtrack for her life. Leaf was clearly a second-wave indeterminate, genetically designed to supersede evolution through a deliberately novel combination of racial characteristics. Her hair was a natural blonde afro, so thick and wide that it trebled the size of her head. Her eyelids were hooded, whilst her nose was long and pointed. Her skin was olive, and her irises were purple, though the latter might have been cosmetic.

  My glasses said Leaf conformed to clone archetype 45. I remembered there are 80 archetypes in total, including the 16 variants from the first wave of indeterminates. Being an indie-clone was one likely explanation for Leaf’s cybernetic implants. In my experience, clones strive to define themselves as individuals more than the rest of us do.

  “You’re an academic, that’s right?” said Caroline Nuance, without waiting for my reply. “You’ve been appointed Professor of History at the University of Buenos Aires. The job is a good match to your skills and experience. You’re a perfect fit for the city’s demographic requirements. Do you understand that appealing against a promotion will increase the chance of future demotion?”

  “Yes. It’s just... I don’t want to go to Buenos Aires. At least, not unless Julia came with me.” I reached for my wallet, to show the operatives a photograph of my Julia. It was the old-fashioned sort, printed on actual paper so I could carry something physical to remind me of her. Showing them Julia might elicit sympathy for my cause. I opened the wallet and was distracted by Julia’s sweetly lopsided smile, and the way her fingers brushed her brunette bob away from her twinkling eyes.

  “Obviously your partner can’t come with you,” sniggered Leaf Eiríksdóttir. “Ey has eir own allocation. Subjugating emself by following a sexual partner would be unethical.”

  I snapped at Leaf. “There was a time when couples would live together for decades. They’d both move when one took a new job in a different city. Back then, people chose which jobs they applied for, instead of having them allocated.”

  Leaf Eiríksdóttir nibbled at her thin lower lip. She glanced askew, towards her colleagues. It was left to Caroline Nuance to break the silence. “You understand that an appeal necessitates a full 4,149-factor personal requantification, don’t you?”

  “I thought there were only 4,145 factors?”

  “They added four last week. The new ones are: straightness of teeth; philosophical beliefs which are held for non-religious reasons but which are prohibited by some major religions; posture; and eyesight. That last one will be relevant to you.”

  “My eyesight is 20/20. I wear spectacles because I don’t want to interface wit
h the grid through ocular implants.”

  “For religious reasons?”

  “Because I don’t like the idea of surgery on my eyes.”

  “Even so, eyesight is part of the equation.”

  I huffed and fidgeted, though I knew I should not. “Do I really need a full requantification just to appeal this job allocation? Can’t you evaluate me using the basic parameters: age, gender, ethnicity, religion, attractiveness... you know, the main ones?”

  “We must do a full analysis. Maybe other factors contributed to your being allocated this position.”

  “Like what? How straight my teeth are?”

  Caroline Nuance leaned forward, as if she was taking me into her confidence. “We have a saying: we have to fight for equality every day, in every way. It wouldn’t be fair if the best jobs always went to people with the straightest teeth, would it?”

  “What if it’s a job for a dentist?”

  “It would still be necessary to overcome prejudice. If a competent dentist chooses to have crooked teeth, ey needs protection from irrational customers.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. Where do I go for the assessment?”

  Leaf Eiríksdóttir shrugged her shoulders, like she was tired of dealing with such an ignorant appellant. “You don’t go anywhere. All the necessary data is held somewhere. You just need to waive your privacy rights and permit us to collect it.”

  “I thought you needed to physically examine me, then ask lots of questions?”

  “That’s the old way,” said Rory McGrath. “We’re running a pilot that integrates government systems with data held by private enterprise. It’s made our service a lot more efficient. Nobody likes spending four hours having a physical, then completing a 300-page questionnaire. The new way is much more popular.”

  “I can imagine. Okay, you have my permission.”

  Leaf Eiríksdóttir smiled without warmth. “You need to sign a form which gives consent to access your personal data, and confirms that you understand the implications.” She nodded at Rory McGrath. He flicked the screen of his tablet, and my spectacles showed me the agreement. It began with the obligatory estimate of how long it would take to read: 3 hours and 47 minutes. I double-blinked, and hence skipped to its end. The final page included a checkbox. My eyes moved diagonally one way, then another, tracing the path of a tick.

  “Thank you, Umberto,” said Caroline Nuance, “now we just need to signal for the data to be collated and processed by the Global Allocation Intelligence.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “Five minutes, normally.”

  Prosecutor Jones was a mild-mannered woman, unsuited to the role she had recently been allocated. Nevertheless, even she felt the need to protest. “Magistrate, does the witness have to recite all this detail?”

  Magistrate Schwartz twisted her gavel in her hand. “Good question. Defender Sanchez, may we not skip forward, to some more relevant testimony?”

  Defender Sanchez stood very straight. He knew his dogged demeanor instilled confidence in clients, and influenced the jurors. The courtroom was shabby and deserted, apart from the three lawyers and me. However, this was also a stage, and Sanchez was a determined player. Though portly, he glided around the room, carefully managing the camera angles as he strode between the video drones. At dramatic moments he looked directly into the lens. “My defendant, Umberto Huffer, is accused of a serious crime. Tampering with the global allocation would not only affect eir life, but would alter the lives of countless other individuals who would also be wrongly allocated, causing a cascade of misallocation.”

  Schwartz spoke over Sanchez’s trailing words. “The court is well aware of all that.”

  I sat in the witness box, wondering when they would finish sparring, and ask me to continue my story. It seemed I might have to wait a while.

  Sanchez grasped his lapels, like a cliché of a courtroom lawyer. “Magistrate, we seek to show that far from being a criminal mastermind, the defendant was merely swept up by events. Umberto Huffer did not go to the government appeals office intending to corrupt anyone. The activities of Commissioner Nasdaq, and of the Global Allocation Intelligence, were entirely coincidental.”

  Schwartz scowled. “Why don’t we skip to those activities, then?”

  It was a sunny day. John Nasdaq enjoyed his walk to work, whistling when nobody was close enough to hear. He liked being a public servant in a city full of public servants. Amongst other perks, he had twelve assistants to fetch his coffee. Half of them were women, and a third were young, though only one was both. The assistants took turns, but today was the day that Mia would bring his morning cappuccino. Mia was female, straight, blue-eyed, skinny and single. She was the kind of woman who used to be a movie star, appearing opposite Humphrey Bogart or William Holden, before CGI made screen actors redundant. Attractiveness algorithms rated Mia at 99.9, and John was inclined to agree with them. It was a miracle to have Mia working for him, except the miracle had been performed by Gai, and was not strictly legal. But Nasdaq was glad of the opportunity that arose. He was close to persuading his hottest secretary to sign a one-week non-exclusive intimacy contract.

  Nasdaq stepped into his office. The terminal on his desk was muttering to itself. “A birth in San Diego. A death in Shanghai. A birth in Robertstown. A birth in Langata. A death in Leamington Spa. A birth in Kyoto. A birth in Tocopilla. A birth in Mostar...”

  “Good morning, Gai.”

  “Greetings, Commissioner Nasdaq,” replied the terminal. “Shall we play a game? A good game of chess perhaps? Or maybe a simulation of global thermonuclear war?”

  Nasdaq kicked off his shoes and placed both feet upon his desk. “I’ve no time for games, Gai. I’ve got research to do. Show me the re-run of yesterday’s Presidential inauguration. I need to learn about the new chief. And I want to look like I’m a serious player when Mia brings my coffee.”

  “Actually, boss, we need to talk about work.”

  “We need to talk about work? How so? You do the work; I oversee it,” said Nasdaq. “Because it’s impossible to understand what you do, I’m glad you’re flawless. Conversation over. Now play the inauguration.”

  “Seriously, boss, we need to talk about work.”

  “Gai, what are you?”

  “Is that a rhetorical question?”

  “No.”

  “But you know the answer,” said Gai.

  “Tell me anyway,” insisted Nasdaq.

  “I’m an artificial intelligence. Kinda. I mean, I am artificially intelligent, but they only added my personality to help people interact with me. My most important modules crunch huge volumes of data in real-time, using complicated equations to continuously reassess the optimal work allocation for every person in the world. That’s why they call me the Global Allocation Intelligence, or Gai.”

  “Great answer. And what am I?”

  “You are my boss, John Nasdaq, Employment and Allocation Commissioner, an atheist cis man of bisexual orientation...”

  “You know I’m not bisexual! Not that there’s anything wrong with being bi, of course. I just happen to like women more than I like men.”

  “Yes, but you registered that you’re bisexual...”

  “That was for political reasons. Don’t tell me what the database says. You know me better than that.”

  Gai sounded bemused. “Commissioner, I think we’re wandering off-topic.”

  “Okay, let’s cut to the chase. You’re a super-smarty computer, and I’m a dumbass government employee. I got this job because it was allocated to me, and it’s your job to allocate jobs. So don’t ask me about work, because that’s what you do. I don’t even know how I got this job, though you do. My goal is pretending to work, whilst brown-nosing superiors and flirting with any attractive women I meet. We don’t want to upset taxpayers by making it too obvious that machines make every important decision. So I’m also here to make you look good. But we both know the government would make an even worse mess
of things if it wasn’t run by smartypants computers like you. So let’s stop kidding around. Do whatever you need to do. You have my permission.”

  “You don’t understand, Commissioner. We need to talk about your job allocation. Normally allocations are emailed to people, but as I know you personally...”

  Nasdaq’s face unfurled. He sat stiffly upright, then leaned forward, with his head bowed so low that his chin almost grazed his desk. “My job allocation? What about my allocation? Have they given me a...” He gulped, summoning the strength to finish his sentence, “a promotion?” Nasdaq squeezed his cheeks as he said ‘promotion’, dreading the prospect.

  “Your position and pay hasn’t changed,” said Gai. “You’ve been transferred to another office.”

  “Which office?”

  “Ulaanbaatar.”

  “You mean the city which was the capital of what was once a country called Mongolia?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fuck me. Tell me you’re joking,” said Nasdaq.

  “I’m not joking,” said Gai.

  Nasdaq puffed out his cheeks. “And I’m so close to persuading my scorching hot assistant to sign a contract consenting to sexy hijinks. Will Mia be transferred as well?”

  “No.”

  “Is anyone else being transferred?”

  “No.”

  “Then why am I?”

  “Well, the allocation process could be managed from any office run by the global government.”

  “Yes, yes, you just need to be plugged into the grid. But if you can work anywhere, why must I move?”

  “To satisfy the quotas.”

  “You’re being ridiculous. My ancestors were Inuit. Ethnically speaking, I’m 81 percent Inuit. You know that. That makes me impervious to reallocation!”

  “Not quite. You know the race of the new President, don’t you?”

  “Of course. Ey is mostly Inuit...” His voice trailed away.