+++

Noble’s original plan was to stay in London for one week, but four days in she found Housman’s info shop near King’s Cross and altered the plan, renting a room in Surrey Quays and spending each successive day travelling through the city to get to the zines with new or renovated ideas in them.

To cover expenses, she flew to Bedfordshire, targeted one of the medium-sized estates, broke in when the family was out and stole some silver-looking junk to sell to a local shifter she’d met in Bermondsey.

It wasn’t in line with her philosophy, and she didn’t try to distort facts to force it that way, that’s what the others did, she wouldn’t go down that route and, besides, she didn’t feel that bad about it. The family was rich off the back of the working class [and possibly the petit-b] and could easily compensate themselves by pissing about on the stock market for a few hours.

It was a victimless crime, as Hoxha used to say.

So, the rent was paid and no questions were asked, except by her flatmates, who wanted to know why her skin was ash grey and what exactly it was she did every day.

‘I teach Chinese,’ Noble lied, hiding her mouth behind a coffee cup.

‘Mandarin or…’

‘Cantonese.’

‘Isn’t that a dialect?’

‘Some people say so.’

‘And you can find students for that here? I mean, enough to survive?’

‘Sure.’

‘From where? Who are they?’

‘I have to go now.’ Noble put down the cup, picked up her rucksack and dipped her head at the Italian woman. ‘See you tonight. Maybe.’

‘You’re going to teach now?’

‘No.’

‘Day off?’

‘Yes.’

‘It seems like you’re going somewhere mysterious.’

‘No mystery. I’m going to Housman’s.’

‘Who?’

‘It’s an info shop.’

‘A what?’

‘I’ll see you later.’

Noble sucked up the dregs of her cup then went outside, saying hi to the Iranian guy coming out of the adjoining house.

‘Beautiful day,’ he said, pointing up at the blanket greyness that was British sky.

Noble smiled.

‘You don’t need a jacket?’

‘I don’t feel the cold. Or the heat.’

‘Lucky bastard.’

The Iranian guy got in his car, breathed into his hands and drove off. Noble walked to the station, but stopped as she got to the ticket gate. The train was small and uncomfortable – too many packed too tight – and would get her to Housman’s way before it opened. Better just to walk.

Or use the rocket boots?

Noble vetoed, remembering Ruth’s words, and walked across the car park towards Bermondsey. If she walked at normal human speed it’d take about two hours. Not too bad. Housman’s would be opening just as she arrived.

+++

Two and half hours later, Noble stood in the Socialism corner of Housman’s and shook her head.

The zine in her hand was a reproduction of Bakunin extracts, mostly from What Is Authority, which was nice, but not very modern. And it was anarchism, not socialism. Similar roots, split drama at the 1^st International, Malatesta, Durruti, Goldman etc. Road to nowhere? She wasn’t sure. Or she’d forgotten. Too long without research, head stuck in LA sand. Socialism too. Where was that now? What was it before? Even in her central cortex, the concept had become muddied, distorted by the recent attacks. Socialism. Social-ism. Dial M, worker ownership, you are shaped by your environment, not genetics, but half the poor are idiots who don’t know what’s good for them, they always vote right, except when they vote left, when they join unions, but some of those are thugs, rigid and misogynist and suddenly petrified of any cultural change, but then some are okay, they see through the trap, past the superstructure, which is still important cos it’s the crayon of the world, but the canvas is the base, materialism is the base, and socialism will lead inexorably to communism, communism with a G, reps instead of delegates, token phone line to the soviets who were already absorbed into the party anyway, fash versus reluctant fash, there’s no real difference, power seeks occupiers, always, maybe some difference, degrees of control and intent yet still fash, and the left is never unified cos it’s the only side with ideas and ideas lead to arguments and small businesses always suffer even though they don’t, and the left has no concept of personal responsibility even though it does, do they not want Kissinger and criminal tycoons in prison, course they do, and it’s private property they hate not handbags and Scarface hoodies, the land taken by THEM from US, that must be taken back, re-distributed, re-purposed, but what purpose? What is it that we’re supposed to focus on now? What is the core of the left? Where are the new ideas?

Noble put down the Bakunin zine and picked up another one.

The Turkish Revolution 1908 // Alexander Mostovoi.

Noble stifled a laugh, remembering the Nazi subway cave, then started reading:

‘These poets, artists, military cadets, even the nationalists to some extent, were influenced by French positivists and philosophers who dealt in new ideas and concepts distinct from the old Ottoman cultural system. Though, as Pasha stressed, to mimic the Western European countries was not enough, they had to go beyond them, into new ideas and new solutions to specific Turkish problems while, at the same time, maintaining the existence of the Ottoman Empire they loved dearly.’

Yeah, thought Noble, letting the zine hang down from her hand, new ideas, where did they go?

She thought of Ruth and her swarm of altruistic bees. Then the Nazi bot in the suit, the Philosophy Student, Detroit. These are our values, that guy’s a shithead, get him. Was that what they were now?

‘Of all the info shops in all the world…’

Noble gripped the zine tight and spun round, activating her gun arm. ‘How?’

‘I work here,’ replied the Cuban Scientist, acting out an improv prayer gesture.

‘In this shop?’

‘Si.’

‘Since?’

‘January.’

‘I’ve been coming here for over a month and I haven’t seen you until now.’

‘Holiday.’

‘For over a month?’

‘Or bad timing.’ She smiled. ‘I see you’re looking at Bakunin.’

‘Sorry?’

The Scientist pointed at the zine in Noble’s hand, causing the robot to nod, slightly embarrassed that she hadn’t understood such a basic implication.

‘Was looking.’

‘One of the great ideologues. Criticised imperialism before it became trendy. Criticised the Marxist transitionary state too, its main flaw: non-working class people leading Govt apparatus on behalf of workers they mostly patronised, eulogised, didn’t know much about. Even Lenin…factory tutorials in 1905, then the party happened, tutorials stopped, morphed into speeches. Bakunin predicted that. Bit of a temper on him though. Deported from France for slapping Belinsky outside a patisserie. Got Marx in a headlock a year after the 1^st International, demanded three separate recounts. Wrote Statism and Anarchy on the back of a wank tissue. Or the front, I can’t remember. Said states were inherently bad, elites were inevitable in any guise, therefore better to have no state at all. Bit of a fantasist I guess, maybe utopian, but…technically never wrong. Just never tested. Like, how do you have a country of millions without state apparatus? Don’t think he ever answered that. Just promoted some kind of horizontal collective-scape with mutual respect and rudimentary trade structures. Maybe a skeleton state, at a stretch, but no vanguard. Ha, Bakunin the big, chunky prophet.’

The Scientist took a break and flicked through some of the zine, smiling at some of the pics, squinting at others.

 ‘Si, he did okay, produced a few journals, gave some solid workhouse speeches. Politically astute. Didn’t patronise the working class quite as much as Marx did. Or the Bolsheviks. Don’t know how he avoided that but he did, somehow. Got nothing for it though. Shame. Could’ve been a better Lenin than Lenin, if he’d had any desire to be a Lenin. Or had some flexibility on the state issue. Too in love with his own utopia. And he died too early anyway. Died fat.’ The Scientist paused and stared at Noble’s chest. ‘What do you make of him?’

‘I don’t know. I haven’t read his books.’

‘Not even this one?’

‘I just picked it up.’

‘Come, I’ll show you some. It might take a few weeks to get through them all, but pretty soon you’ll know the same things I do.’

‘Okay.’

The Scientist led Noble down some stairs and into a basement full of hundreds, or maybe even thousands, of books and zines. She piled several onto Noble’s arms and patted the top when she was done, saying, ‘it’s not the sum total, but it’s a start.’

‘Bakunin wrote all of them?’

‘No. Two, three of them. The rest are commentary or extrapolation.’

‘Oh.’

‘Don’t be bleak, Nobes, commentary is way better. As good as he was, Bakunin died a hundred odd years ago. So many gaps.’

‘Gaps?’

‘Of knowledge.’

‘You mean the internet?’

A bell rang upstairs and the Scientist said, ‘customer, gotta go.’

‘Should I stay here?’

‘Si, read the books. I’ll come back down at closing time then we can go back to my place. Have a bite to eat, some wine maybe. Catch up on things.’

Noble watched the Cuban disappear back to ground level then sat down on the floor in the corner of the basement and started to read.

Bakunin//Statism and Anarchy was first up, and it wasn’t a bad read, but it was dense and lacking in real-life analogues.

Noble lasted seven minutes before giving up and switching back to the Turkish history zine she’d sneaked down in one of her hidden compartments.

If the Scientist found out

or got angry

she’d just say, sorry, I’ll get to Bakunin later.

Besides, if she learned something interesting from the Turkish book then she could share it with the Scientist, and then they’d both progress.

+++

At one in the morning, after two bottles of wine, Noble took out the Turkish zine that she’d borrowed from Housman’s and started to tell the Scientist about the Young Turks Revolution, and how, effectively, it didn’t seem that different from any other sick empire revolution.

‘What do you mean?’

‘It starts with a coalition of groups with varying beliefs, liberal, left-wing, even some on the right, and they work together reluctantly, assume power, then the scarier group usurps the other ones and starts a dictatorship.’

‘Ha, all in one paragraph.’

‘Yet each character in the tale wholly believes what they’re fighting for, that it’s the only possible way.’

‘More wine?’

‘Even the liberals, or the left, they’re not always on the side I expected them to be on.’

‘I’ll take that as a yes.’ The Scientist poured more wine. ‘All the way to the top.’

‘I thought they didn’t kill the Armenians, but it turned out, some of them did. Before the genocide happened, they massacred some. I don’t even understand why they did it.’

‘It’s getting late, Nobes…’

‘Don’t you find it interesting?’

‘Turkish history?’

‘Si.’

‘No more than any other.’

‘Have you read about it before?’

‘Sure.’

‘So you know about all this?’

‘Of course.’

A question popped into Noble’s circuits, followed by an axiom: ‘clever people don’t like to be embarrassed.’ She closed her mouth and looked at the wine bottle.

‘Would you like the couch or the bed?’ asked the Scientist.

‘Which bed?’

‘There’s only one.’

‘Yours?’

‘Si.’

‘I thought I saw another bedroom, at the far end of the corridor.’

‘Empty.’

+++

The Scientist led the way to the bed and, after three minutes of awkward talking, into the sex. She kissed Noble on her thighs and her metal dick, before pulling the robot up, licking her on the neck then pushing her down between her legs.

Despite thoughts of Turkish history swirling around her head like a drunken Jeff Fahey on the corner of Wilshire, she performed as the Scientist required, knowing when to adjust speed and strength, when to take control [never] and when to nibble lightly behind her ear.

After it was done, the Scientist rolled over and said, ‘that was nice, I missed it. Next time I’ll do you too.’

‘I can’t orgasm.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘It’s true, I get a slightly pleasant sensation for half a second then nothing.’ Noble paused, looking down at her own stomach. ‘Could your robots do it?’

‘Orgasm? I don’t know. I think so.’

‘You designed them, you don’t know?’

The Scientist stared at the wall for a long time then finally answered. ‘Si, they could. I’m sure of it.’

‘That’s very considerate of you.’

‘It’s important. A robot without the desire for sex would be no different from a walking computer.’

Noble nodded and handed the Scientist a tissue. She wiped herself, scrunched up the tissue and handed it back.

‘Noble…’

‘Yes.’

‘Shall we talk more about Bakunin?’

‘Sure. If you like.’