When the aliens came, they brought with them their obsession for lines. Whatever dark intelligence had drawn them to this place, it lay within a matrix of interlaced markings.
They built walls, and dug trenches. They laid rows of stones. They painted boundaries and borders, margins and perimeters. Buildings they numbered and art they divided into categories, subcategories, flavours and shapes. Only then did they begin wrangling over whether a book would go on this or that side of the line, this painting could go into one room or the other.
The aliens asked that when we made bread, and politics, and art, that we did so with their classifications in mind so that they may fit their place more snugly. Rules in one precinct were to be clear and distinct from rules in another. If objects were to travel across zones they were to do so as hostile entities, disruptive and unwelcome. Even when they were necessary. Even when they were loved.
Some on Earth found their rule cruel and restrictive. Many found relief in these clear demarcations. They helped us understand where we should be, what we should be doing. With every inch of space marked on The Grid we were finally released from our uncertainties. Those who had been terrified by the free form world that had existed before, found security in this new age.
Each of us was given a pair of plastic dog tags. Whenever we felt lost we could refer to them and they would tell us in delicate neon lettering where home was. We knew where we stood and where we should be standing. If asked who we were we had a list of nouns and adjectives ready to hand. And if someone did not believe us we could wave our tags at them and gloat – certified by a higher authority.
Frank Pilchard sat in his chair staring out of the window. The day was hot. The trees shifted uneasily as sparrows darted in and out, twittering machines full of angst and rage. With a slow and deliberate movement he cut a hunk of pie with his fork and raised it to his mouth. It smelt too lemon-sweet. Too light. Too nothing.
He placed it in his mouth and winced, barely having to chew as the meringue melted on his tongue. Then he took another chunk on his fork. The sparrows hurled themselves back and forth across the garden, perching for a second on the fence, the sign, the bird table, before leaping back into the air full of commotion. Frank frowned and wondered what this feeling was. He glanced at his tags. They call this feeling grief, apparently. A second mouthful of pie and Frank swallowed, repressing the nausea, glad it had a name.
A little girl named Chloe loved to skip rope. Before breakfast, as she watched TV, after school. Her mother would often think she was talking to Chloe, as she chopped vegetables on the counter, only to turn and realise. Poof. Gone. She was outside counting out jumps, trying new moves, dancing over the ever-tapping rope.
Most of all Chloe loved to skip with her eyes closed. It helped her lose herself within the rhythm. As she beat out time with her feet, and her wrists and the wind around her face she sank ever deeper into its embrace. Sometimes she could not decide whether she was spinning the rope or the rope was turning her.
Those who loved to sit in boxes began drawing up new rules. They then policed these boundaries ruthlessly. More than the aliens ever had, much to their extraterrestrial delight.
Neat rows of music, foods, experiences were assessed, re-assessed, placed in their efficient ranks. Lovers found themselves filling in forms. They described their categories, markers and algebra. And they found these lanes took them to companionship, to a feeling of knowing who they were, defined by who they surrounded themselves by. They squeezed themselves down pipes which took them to something that felt like joy. And the more pipe-like their shape, the faster they could reach their destination. In fact, having a destination at all was a joy.
People began to find it hard to remember a world before certainty. When they chafed at their restraints they would look jealously at other places on The Grid and wish themselves over there. Oh, to be in that box not this. Oh, to be bound by string rather than handcuffs.
The clarity of the parts we played gave us a sureness of step. Learning our moves and playing our roles, we could be confident that we were real. We only wavered when we allowed ourselves to wonder, to wonder, to wonder – had we chosen the right genre of person to be? Was this our real self?
These doubters were classified, tagged, and approved – as you might expect. They were Worriers, who could not work out if they’d picked the right lane. Shows were made about the uncertain, for the uncertain, which at least gave them some kind of definition to cling to. Waverers, whose tentative demeanour marked them clearly. And so they were placed on The Grid.
Some said out loud that these lanes were not enough. That there was no correct path laid out for them. These boxes did not fit. They scraped the shoulders. Squeezed the tummy. The underwear was too saggy in the front, too tight at the back. They pointed to the injustice where some boxes had cardboard sides and a damp patch in the middle.
This was a good chance for some to point and laugh. They giggled at those who were the wrong shape. Those who didn’t fit their off-the-peg clothes were mocked. Those who could not navigate the shallows of the pool they themselves had chosen were despised.
But the aliens were not minded this way. They wanted us to be happy. They wanted us to love these territories as much as they did. They encouraged the doubters to create new kinds of categories. Ones that suited them better.
One of our masters would come and sit with them. Taking tea. With great kindness they would ask – “what category would like to see? What would fit you best and we shall make it.” They reassured, “We’ll encourage others to join you there so you’ll never feel alone. Your doubts will be validated. You will be valid. Secure. A perfect fit in a perfect place.”
And this was usually enough. Certainly the effort was appreciated.
The strain of being alone was too hard. To cut against everyone just too soul destroying. The chance to step into the stream and swim with other fishes too tempting. You could relax into a you-shaped hole like a you-shaped peg and that was that. One more box to choose from. One more line criss- crossing the map of our lives.
It came to pass that the aliens had a change in government.
New rules were sent from their home world, safely tucked into a New Rule Box, carried by a star ship especially built for such a task. The New Rule Reader unlocked the New Rule Box and took out the New Rule Scroll – unfurling it for all to see.
Every human on the planet was to be marked with a red dot or a blue. Half of every continent, half of every nation, half of every category, half of every inclination, half of every disinclination were to be coded red. The other half blue.
“What does this mean?” we asked. The aliens kind of shook their heads and said, “don’t worry about it. It’s meaningless.”
Immediately, some started saying they were more like scarlet and azure spots. So the aliens created a new tag and those one side of this line were just as vehement as those on the other, or they kept it to themselves. Pick your category and be loyal. Let the codification come to life through you. Each man, woman and child a puppet, dancing their allotted tunes.
“Hey, fellow red dotter!” some might say. “Oh, so you’re a blue dot too.” Might also be said, elsewhere.
Soon people would say “have you noticed how polite red dotters are?” and “why are blue dots more likely to commit burglaries?”
Red dotters started getting promoted more often than their azure counterparts. When the police arrested a blue dot they nodded to themselves and thought, “yep.”
Scarlets started going to the same gigs as each other. Azures dressed to impress. Red style.
One man said, “I thought I hated folk music, but then these blue dots came along and I learned what hate was.”
One woman said, “I’m sorry but those reds are just better than us blues. You can’t fight the facts. I’m just more comfortable around them.”
Chloe asked her mother “Why can’t you fight facts?” but she got no answer because the questions of children were filed in the category of “children’s questions” and were of no significance at all. Thank goodness.
The aliens then had another change in government.
New rules were sent from their home world safely tucked into a New Rule Box, carried by a star ship especially built for such a task. The New Rule Reader unlocked the New Rule Box and took out the New Rule Scroll – unfurling it for all to see.
“Forget the dot thing. It was a mistake.”
The aliens then went and erased all the dots with their dot erasers. This made some people angry, some were relieved, some drew dots on themselves, some burned down police stations. New categories were drawn up. Tags were issued based on how you felt about being de-dotted.
Those who’d drawn dots on themselves were marked down as dot volunteers. This was clearly written on their tags, making the self-drawn dot superfluous, but it was too late now.
People would say. “Well, they took our dots away, but have you noticed our prisons are still stuffed with ex-blues. Our boardrooms full of ex-reds. There must have been something in it. Why do they pretend that we aren’t different?”
People would say. “I hated being a red. I had loads of blue friends.” Very few blues admitted the same. They didn’t think serving coffee to a red had made them friends.
Four years passed and no one noticed that the aliens had not drawn a single line in all that time. They hadn’t built a single wall or dug a single hole. They just watched. And smiled. And felt joy at The Grid which danced and sang and played and recited verses with the voices of the people. The tides came in, the tides went out.
Frank Pilchard, remember him, lay in a field. It was a warm summer’s day in the future. A bee traversed the sky and the air was thick with pollen. He smiled, welcoming that bee like an unfamiliar friend. He let the warm rays sink into his flesh. For an hour he lay there, allowing the horrors of the week to drain from him. They cooked off his skin and drifted into air as vapour.
For a while he tried to remember the songs of his youth. The hymns they sang in school. The rhymes they chanted in the playground. It seemed to him the past had gone, was unreliable, sizzled off by the scorching summer. Only the future was certain – but where did that leave the present? He glanced at his dog tags, but they were blank.
Chloe stopped skipping and climbed a fence. There was no sign on the fence – why would there be? Everyone knows fences are not for climbing.
Then she jumped across a ditch. There was no sign up to say no jumping. Why would there be a ditch if people were meant to go from one side to the other? That would not make sense.
She tightrope walked along a line of garden walls, skipping rope bundled in one hand, casting spells with the other.
Chloe, without really thinking about it, crept into the compound of the aliens. Who was to stop her? That was the slot for the aliens, she had her own. She stole into their craft – all made of reflections, and insignias and dreams. No one had thought to forbid it because no one had thought to think it. It would be like banning juggling with water or eating only toothpaste.
She ran her hands along the smooth ceramic surfaces. So fine and brittle. She traced fingers over the delightfully curvaceous writing on every surface. She tried to discern their meanings with the touch of her skin. Thrilling to their inhuman gradients.
For minutes she wandered the deserted craft wondering where the aliens were. If this was their home why weren’t they living in it? She found a console with a bright green button and pressed it as hard as she could. The screen flickered into life. A robot voice purred in her ear, “You have initiated stage four.” And then, as an afterthought, “Congratulations.”
Chloe waited patiently but nothing happened. For ages. And more ages. Possibly quarter of an hour, which was far too long for Chloe who had begun to skip again. Ching, ching, ching, went her feet on the ceramic floors. As she skipped from one room to the next she searched for a souvenir but there was nothing to take. No objects, no devices, no trinkets or baubles that she could produce at birthday parties to proclaim her heresies. So she walked out of the ship.
She left the alien compound. Danced along the walls. Jumped back over the ditch. Climbed back over the fence and went and sat on the grass next to a sign that said “Thank you for keeping off the grass”. It was all she could think of to do.
At least that way she could show that words would never be as real as actions, or vice versa.
When the aliens realised that stage four had been initiated they were embarrassed. This was far too early and required an immediate reclassification of Earth as a planet that had initiated stage four far too early.
They ummed and aahed amongst themselves for a while but realised soon enough that they had to come clean. It was the only ethical course of action.
They put a slot in the schedules. Announcement garments, Announcement glasses and Announcement shoes were prepared. Lost in the ritual they quite forgot that they had to actually had an announcement to make. They preened themselves and placed a jaunty Announcement Hat upon the Announcer’s head. Then the Large Announcement Light blinked on.
The Announcer smiled. She adjusted her hat. She smiled again and then pointed at her glasses, thinking them rather neat. Humanity had no real idea what this all meant but they’d grown used to the aliens’ ways. They were, after all, not from here and so very different from us.
Frank Pilchard watched the TV but with the sound off and subtitles on so, if he wanted to, he could let his mind drift. Allowing the grass to grow in his mind he dreamed of a bee that one day would traverse the sky in a dainty pattern. He was contemplating the desires of this future bee when words flashed along the bottom of the screen.
“Hello humanity. We regret to inform you that half of you will die.” Frank blinked. It continued, “Rather soon.”
The Announcer did a kind of head nod thing and then smiled again, apologetically.
“In thirty days, half of you will die. But we aren’t really sure which half.”
Frank clenched his teeth. “Those damned red dotters.”
In the other room Chloe knew something was wrong because she only got toast for her tea. That never happened, which both concerned her and left her thrilled. Something new was going on. It can’t have been great because her Mum was lying on the floor and crying which was a cheek because when Chloe did that Mum always told her off.
Chloe stood looking at her Mum for a while and then asked, “Can I have afters?” There was no reply. Chloe narrowed her eyes and rephrased her question. “Do you mind if I have afters?” No reply again. Dad was no obstacle either, he just sat there dreaming and rubbing at his dot. She clapped her hands with glee and rushed to the fridge where the lemon meringue pie was waiting for her.
Digging a spoon out of the drawer and balancing the whole pie in the other hand she paused again to look at her mother. “She probably wants some space,” Chloe Pilchard told herself and went outside to eat pie on the grass, next to that sign, skipping rope tucked into her skirt.