Ophelia

Chapter 1 - Ophelia awakens For that fraction of a second between sleeping and awakening, Ophelia felt peace and euphoria. But as she awoke more fully, the bubble burst like a boil, filling her with the sick reality that it really had happened. She had not dreamed it. The loss was real. ‘Ophelia,’ said Gaia, its tone silken. ‘It is time to get up.’ But Ophelia was not ready to respond. ‘Ophelia,’ said Gaia, vibrating the bed this time. ‘What!’ Ophelia snarled. ‘Ophelia, it is time to get up,’ Gaia repeated. ‘Okay, Gaia! I’m awake now!’ Ophelia snapped. She rolled onto the floor and watched the duvet flapping about in the air while the base sheet stretched and flattened against the mattress. She sprawled across the floor, taking comfort in the sensation of its surface, which dipped and bulged to the exact shape of her spine. Then she slid her hands across her belly, a place that had once held so much hope. ‘Do not forget your stretches, Ophelia,’ said Gaia. An expletive rushed from Ophelia’s belly to her throat, only to be reabsorbed in silent rage. Then as always, she obeyed The Gaia Machine. She rolled onto her belly, flexed her wrists and slid her hands down beside her shoulders. Then she pushed her torso down, performing the downward dog pose. Rage burned through every muscle, joint and fiber in her body, forcing her to hold the pose more strongly than she had ever done before. Then she brought her feet to her hands and gently unrolled her spine until she was standing upright, facing her bedroom window. Watching the curtains open and the window become more transparent, Ophelia felt like a precious bird in a cage while its benevolent owner removed the cover for her to see the world. She stepped closer to the window and stared down College Street. Its neat row of red brick houses and transparent bubble-shaped vehicles with red wheels all looked the same as they did the day before, and the day before that, and for as long as she could remember. ‘You must get ready now, Ophelia,’ said Gaia. ‘You cannot be late for your appointment.’ Ophelia dawdled toward her en-suite then stepped into her shower chamber. When the gentle hum of the sonar began, she closed her eyes and listened. The sound swirled around her, delivering a tingling sensation to every millimeter of her skin. And when the tingling sensation became a tightening pull on her skin, the sonar stopped. Gaia’s timing was as impeccable as always. ‘Your shower is complete,’ it said. Ophelia stepped out of the chamber and stared into the mirror, barely recognizing the face that stared back at her. It was the face of a sad and lonely woman with an absent husband and a dead baby. The traffic on the bridge was grid locked. As far as Ophelia could see in both directions there was a long queue of vehicles. All the same, and all controlled by Gaia, they would not move until Gaia considered the road conditions safe enough to move them forward. To the left, Ophelia watched the Avon River trickle downstream where it ended in a muddy puddle. To the right, she gazed up at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre standing proud on the riverbank, its reflection almost as majestic as the building itself. Ophelia recalled seeing Othello there the previous evening and enjoying it, despite its use of holographic actors. She had always loved Shakespeare’s plays, because they had both logic and substance, unlike the stories produced by Gaia’s algorithms. ‘We are slightly delayed,’ said Gaia. ‘That’s fine,’ Ophelia replied. As Gaia rolled her vehicle forward a few meters, Ophelia considered the absurdity of talking to this disembodied entity. This global, omnipresent entity that could simultaneously converse with everyone in their homes, cars and workplaces while completing several million social service transactions per second was speaking with her as if it was another person. It had been this way for as long as Ophelia could recall, sometimes making her feel it knew her more than she knew herself. And, for reasons she did not quite grasp, she responded by sharing her thoughts. ‘I’d love to see a real performance one day,’ she said. ‘A real performance in an outdoor amphitheater with real actors.’ ‘That is not necessary,’ Gaia replied. ‘As a Professor of English Literature, you have a superior insight into the structure of stories and as a woman with social status, you—’ Ophelia stopped listening. She knew what Gaia was going to say next because it had said the same thing many times before. It would be informing her that, by controlling her life, it was protecting her status as a person of privilege. She could not listen to another one of its paternalistic monologues, not today. When the vehicle finally moved forward, Ophelia could see the outer edges of the town; a sight far less picturesque than its beautiful centre. By the time they reached the intersection to the A46, she noticed the remains of hundreds of trees. Still standing, but withered and brown, they seemed defiant in the face of continued drought and relentless heat. And when the vehicle entered the A46, Ophelia felt its wheels expand and its centre of gravity lower. Then, with an open stretch ahead, it accelerated so fast that she could no longer see the trees, only a long brown blur. ‘Are you ready for your appointment?’ Gaia asked. ‘As ready as I’ll ever be,’ Ophelia replied, checking her bracelet for messages. ‘Are you nervous, Ophelia?’ asked Gaia. ‘No,’ she replied. ‘Why?’ ‘Your heart rate is elevated,’ Gaia replied. Ophelia placed her hand on her heart. It was beating faster than normal. ‘I guess I am anxious about going to the cancer care centre,’ she said. ‘This will be my first appointment since the hospital gave me the diagnosis.’ ‘That was precisely 4 weeks ago,’ said Gaia. ‘Yes, I know, Gaia,’ Ophelia replied. ‘I’m not likely to ever forget that day.’ With her hand still on her heart, Ophelia reflected on the moment of waking from the anesthetic. Seeing the impassive silicone face of the medi-bot, and its liquid black eyes peering into her own, had been disconcerting enough, because she had never consented to the anesthetic and could not even recall having it administered. When she had asked if she had fainted, the medi-bot had explained that her womb had been removed due to the presence of an aggressive tumor. Thus, two horrifying pieces of news had been delivered in one sentence. And as the anesthetic had worn off, Ophelia had realized a third, and even more, horrifying fact – when they had taken her womb, they had also taken her unborn baby of 9 weeks’ gestation. She had howled like a mad dog and felt numb ever since. ‘Ophelia, please confirm you are all right,’ said Gaia. ‘I still can’t believe it,’ Ophelia whispered. ‘They took the best part of me, without my consent, and I can never get it back.’ A hard lump of grief stuck in Ophelia’s throat like a cactus. It was a constant source of pain and a powerful reminder of what would happen if she dared to express that pain. Her eyes filled with tears, but the emotion froze in place. ‘This must be what hell feels like,’ she whispered. ‘It was unfortunate,’ Gaia replied. ‘Unfortunate?’ Ophelia echoed. ‘Is that what you call it?’ No matter how many times Ophelia had explained her feelings, Gaia could not grasp them. How could it, when it had no feelings of its own? It suddenly occurred to Ophelia that, with Gaia as her only source of companionship during the previous 4 weeks, it was little wonder she had felt she might be going mad. To matters worse, Gaia continued to defend its actions. ‘You were always aware of your social responsibility to pay a poor woman from the southern countries to be a surrogate for you,’ it said. ‘Gaia, I’ve told you many times I don’t approve of surrogacy, and that’s not going to change,’ Ophelia argued. ‘The Surrogacy Trade is the most fundamental building block of human society,’ Gaia replied. Ophelia shook her head in disbelief. ‘I will ever accept the notion of someone else carrying my baby and birthing it into the world,’ she protested. ‘That’s my job, my responsibility, my right as a woman, and I exercised that right by becoming pregnant to my husband.’ ‘For that action, Ophelia, you have been labeled a s**t,’ said Gaia. ‘It is a label that makes it even more difficult for me to care for you.’ ‘Poor Gaia!’ Ophelia jeered. ‘Did you consult with your husband before falling pregnant?’ Gaia asked. ‘My marriage is private,’ Ophelia replied. ‘I don’t have to discuss it with you.’ Her mind blazed with the memory of the humiliation on her husband’s face when his colleague had referred to her pregnancy as terribly vulgar while sipping her 2083 cognac. Then, for the millionth time, Ophelia recalled the sorrow in Peter’s eyes when he had said goodbye to her at the front door of their home. The definitive click of the door closing behind him was a sound that had replayed through her mind ever since. Ophelia had deliberately become pregnant to her husband and, in the eyes of the law, that was grounds for desertion. She knew that, but could make no sense of it. ‘Martin would never have left me,’ she said. ‘Especially not while carrying his baby. Gaia, what happened to Martin Huxley?’ Gaia did not respond. ‘Martin and I were so happy together,’ Ophelia continued. ‘Until he vanished without a trace. Please, Gaia, just tell me what happened to him. I’ve asked so many times and you—’ ‘You have always made illogical choices,’ Gaia interrupted. ‘I continue to advise you, and I attempt to keep you safe, but you make it difficult. You have a wild mind. It is irrational and undisciplined.’ ‘You didn’t answer my question,’ Ophelia insisted. ‘What happened to Martin Huxley?’ ‘That information is not available,’ Gaia replied. Ophelia gave up and let her mind wander to one of its favorite resting places. It was a vision of her future self at the age of 100 years. She would be eligible for the Green Dream; the mandatory lethal injection, followed by liquidation. Not a bad way to go, she had often mused, but she would have to wait another 72 years for such sweet relief. ‘Are you enjoying the view, Ophelia?’ Gaia asked. Ophelia left her rumination for long enough to notice the vibrant yellow crops in the surrounding fields. She recalled the stunning vision they had provided from her husband’s plane when he had taken her up last May. It was hot then, but this May it was even hotter. ‘What’s the temperature outside?’ Ophelia asked. ‘It is 29 degrees Celsius,’ Gaia replied. ‘No wonder I’m thirsty.’ ‘You have not used your morning rations,’ Gaia replied. From the consul in the center of the vehicle it released a steel arm that was clutching a bottle of water. Ophelia grabbed it and opened it. ‘Ironic, isn’t it?’ she said, taking the first sip. ‘What is ironic?’ asked Gaia. ‘Every year it gets hotter and drier in the countryside, yet London has so much rain, it needs a moat around it to collect the water and a dome over the top of it to keep the people dry,’ Ophelia scoffed. ‘Not to mention the myriad of lakes, fountains and waterfalls throughout the city.’ ‘That is referred to as a micro-climate,’ said Gaia. ‘Yes, I know that!’ Ophelia snapped. ‘I’m just saying it’s ironic!’ ‘That situation does not fit the definition of irony,’ Gaia corrected her. ‘You may be commenting on the problem of inequity. There are many examples of inequity in the world. For instance—’ ‘Stop patronizing me!’ Ophelia snapped. ‘Tell me something nice.’ ‘You traveled to London to visit Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre,’ Gaia replied. ‘That was 9 years, 11 months, 3 weeks and 4 days ago. You said you enjoyed it very much.’ Gaia’s memory was as accurate as always and, in this instance, Ophelia appreciated it. Recalling the sensation of sitting on the dirt ground in the center of The Globe Theatre lifted her mood for just a moment. It had been one of those experiences she now referred to as real because it had involved something solid and tangible, something made by the hearts and hands of people, not machines.