The Destructives Read Free

advances developed by the emergences. The cloud of objects around the sun – their university – was just one of their achievements that far exceeded humanity’s capability. The robot took pains to flatter the students: the design of the University of the Sun was a human idea; the emergences had discovered it in the archives of human knowledge. They merely applied that knowledge. The same was true of the sailships used to explore the solar system or the assemblers that made the university: simple human ideas that humanity had failed to implement. This failure, explained the robot, was due to the organisation of human society. “You’re distracted,” said Dr Easy. “You’re so focused on distraction that, as a species, you will never exceed what you are, right now.” The robot gestured at the students assembled in the lecture theatre. “You are it , for humanity. You’re as far as your species goes. Whereas my people are going much further. But don’t worry: we will send you a postcard.”
    A downbeat note to end on, thought Theodore, and he rebuked the robot on their walk back to his office.
    Dr Easy replied, “I gave them permission to focus on their own enjoyment and not torment themselves with ambitions they cannot realise. It’s what they really wanted to hear.”
    “You intervened,” said Theodore. “You closed off possibilities for their future.”
    “I offered them an excuse,” the robot brushed moon dust from its suede chassis. “Some of them will take it. The best will not accept it.”
    At his office, he asked Dr Easy to leave him so that he could work in peace. Sitting down to his screen, he found himself distracted by this question of intervention. The robot had intervened in Theodore’s life at a couple of junctures, most crucially in helping him walk away from weirdcore when his use of the drug put him in danger of doing something even worse than the self-inflicted scars on his cheeks. He ran his fingers around the rough spiral channels of the scars; they made him appear older than he was, an effect he exaggerated with Pre-Seizure gentleman’s tailoring: herringbone tweed jacket, twentieth century Liberty print ties, Jermyn Street brogues, fitted shirts. His grandmother’s wealth had always clothed him, though his students were unaware of the provenance of his tailoring, so the gesture was lost on them. But not on the rest of the faculty, who recognised London money and London manners in the fit of his cuffs. Academe was not the natural habitat of the snappy dresser. His scars made such ostentation permissible. Ragamuffin scars. Street scars. Spirals gouged into his cheeks while under the influence. The students knew what the scars signified, and the impudent ones, fresh off the shuttle, would ask him all about it. What was weirdcore like, sir? I heard that when you’re on weirdcore, you feel at one with the universe. Is that right, sir? I saw a loop of weirdcorers sticking pins in each other without making a sound. Did you stick pins in people? Would you do it again? Do you have any weirdcore on you?
    He let them get it out of their system. Accepted the ridicule that was his due. You have to take licks for your stupidities. It is the only way to grow up.
    How did you come off the drugs, sir?
    I was lucky, he would tell them. I come from privilege. Money. I had a personal doctor to help me through withdrawal. He did not speak of what happened when he hit rock bottom, an incident so damning, he admitted it to no-one. Could barely even admit it to himself.
    There had been a dealer called Beth Green – that was her nom de narcotique, because she worked out of Bethnal Green. On that particular night, Grandma Alex had frozen his funds, so he felt sorry for himself. Boo-hoo. Motherless at the age of two, and functionally fatherless. Yes, he grew up in a distinguished and owned house but he was still capable of self-pity even if such maudlin sorrow disgusted him. A billion dead yet he had the