BETON

Chapter 9. The “Pride” Protocol

§ 9.1. The Best Glue for Society

Morning at the Department of Meanings began with a “white code.” It meant that all current assignments were cancelled and the lifts were locked against entry until further notice. A heavy smell of ozone hung in the air—the climate-control system was working at its limit, burning away the slightest traces of human anxiety.

Mark stood at the panoramic window with his hands clasped behind his back. Against the morning city, his silhouette looked as though it had been cut from black cardboard.

“A ‘social commission’ has come down from the very Top, Anton,” he said without turning. “It is called the ‘Pride Protocol.’ The problem is that our population has begun to feel... disgust. Returnees from the Contact Zones cause citizens ‘aesthetic frustration.’ Do you understand? They spoil the picture of stability.”

Anton sat down at the table, feeling how yesterday’s double dose of “balance” had turned his brain into a perfectly clean mirror.

“They are maimed, Mark. A maimed person is visual noise. A reminder that concrete can crumble.”

“Exactly!” Mark spun round sharply. “That is why our task is to turn them from ‘victims’ into ‘objects of worship.’ But in such a way that nobody wants to come too close. Holiness at a distance. Remote adoration.”

Variants of slogans already sketched by the department’s neural networks flared across the central holographic table. Anton leafed through them, and a forgotten feeling stirred inside him—something between nausea and hysterical laughter.

“Your wound is a medal that can never be removed.”

“The absence of a limb is the presence of spirit.”

“He gave up part of himself so that you could remain whole.”

“Too grandiose,” Mark cut in. “People sense the trick. We need something more... practical. Here, look at the proposal from Sector B.”

An image appeared on the screen: a man wearing innovative prostheses made of matte black polymer. He stood against a sunset, with a slogan beside him:

“THE MECHANICS OF VALOUR: NEW STEEL IN OLD BLOOD.”

“They want to sell them as cyborgs?” Anton raised an eyebrow.

“As evolution!” Mark said, suddenly animated. “We will say that metal is more reliable than bone.”

Anton remembered figures from reports he had glimpsed: most of these “enhanced people” had signed up for the Contact Zones simply because their credit rating had fallen through the floor.

“Mark,” he began carefully, “everyone knows they went there for the payments. We even have statistics: eighty-nine per cent of their motivation was money. How are we supposed to attach ‘holiness’ to that?”

Mark looked at him as though he were a child.

“Anton, do not confuse fact with meaning. The fact is money. The meaning is sacrifice. We simply reverse the polarity. He did not ‘sell his leg for a million’; he ‘invested his flesh in the stability of your tomorrow.’ And do not worry about perception. Your wife’s agency has already launched the ‘Quiet Acceptance’ scripts in every household. Lika confirmed this morning that resistance levels in your sector are minimal. We are working as a pair.”

Anton froze. So Lika had known. While she stroked his head the night before, she had already been stitching into his subconscious the readiness to accept this absurdity.

A brainstorming session began in the department. Employees who looked like white ghosts in their starched shirts shouted out ideas, competing in the degree of cynicism they called “professional detachment.”

“I propose the visual series ‘Angels Without Wings’!” Maya from visualisation called out. “Give them golden crutches on the posters. Make them shine. The crutch as sceptre!”

“Stupid,” someone countered. “A crutch is an inconvenience. We should promote the idea that they do not need legs at all. ‘The Hero Rises Above Gravity.’”

Anton watched this parade of absurdity. He understood that beneath the “steel” and “gold” were people who had seen and done things incompatible with this glossy office.

“We need to change the angle of vision,” he said at last. “Make an ordinary person feel guilty for being whole.”

Mark went still. A fanatical spark flared in his eyes.

“Guilt... Brilliant, Anton! Guilt is the best glue for society. ‘Your wholeness was paid for with his pain.’ Write that down!”