Semmant by Vadim Babenko

carefully, like the dearest of riches. It all went to Semmant – sorted and collated, broken into groups by month and year. They were not just numbers; a simple digit doesn’t have the power to convey enough depth. Who better than me to know their limited essence – albeit their calibrated, immaculate precision? But precision was not enough; depth was required in all dimensions; moods, flavors, and colors were needed. I knew well: the main thing was at the core – and I didn’t hold back as I sifted through layer upon layer. Day after day, all I did was tirelessly rework details. I built bridges and established connections, adding, writing, matching the one to the other – so the robot could dig as deeply as possible, would experience everything seriously, without losing one iota.
    Red, hot blood pulsed in the data he was assimilating. There diamonds sparkled, gold metal shone; dollars, francs, and yen shuffled. Convulsive currency charts linked up with diagrams of wheat prices; government bonds joined rice and soy, nickel and silver, platinum and crude oil. A background was needed for the points and lines, and I did not spare the paints. Multicolored specks of droughts and hurricanes, epidemics and local wars, shaded the angular strokes, which resembled the cardiogram of a paranoiac. The aged voices of ministers, influential and hopelessly deceitful, broke through the chaos of other sounds for a brief moment. They were replaced by panic sirens, the desperate wail of smoke detectors, the shouts of the unfortunate in crumpled trains, shattered cars, buildings leveled to the ground by a powerful explosive charge. But soon all was muffled by the din of innumerable stock exchanges – trading in everything and derivatives of everything, derivatives of derivatives, and so on, infinitely. Behind their price quotes stood a dense wall of legions, armies, and cohorts. Everywhere could be seen: the mad eyes of brokers; the predatory glances of bankers; the faces of presidents and directors – doglike and piggish; their assistants and secretaries – dolled up, false; and more – long secretary legs, their short skirts, lusty hips… The prospects expanded into the distance, and it was joyless there, in the distance. Drear and ennui ruled there, unification carried to absurdity. Offices, conveyers, petty little people. Row upon row of identical cubicles. Millions, millions of figures – with no faces at all. With no distinguishing marks, no voice, and no gender.
    I saw them all without embellishment, and he, Semmant, saw them just the same. The picture might not be pretty, but no one promised it would be pleasing to the eye. This was also not promised us, at the School – neither to me, nor Anthony, nor dozens of others. Nor Dee Wilhelmbaum, who had thrown himself from a bridge when no one came to listen to his music. Nor little Sonya, who fled from her “cubicle” to the dream world, whence there is no return – though her cubicle wasn’t really cramped: it took up an entire building. Nor me, though I was doing fine. I beg your pardon, that’s not a good example. And we are not talking about me anyway.
    Thomas the ski instructor had lucked out more than everyone. It’s funny he used to be a financier. But not all find easy roads. Semmant, for example, was not made for them; I just wanted to shorten his path to knowledge, to understanding unadorned truth. Facts were provided to him in all forms, in all their varied ugliness. I was guiding my robot through the big picture, through the whole framework from top to bottom – and, at a close look, this framework was most bizarre, suspiciously pyramidal, but turned upside down. Of course, there were naked statistics in abundance as well, which also concealed much. Cost of living, credit volumes, rates of inflation – and debts, debts! Debt instruments deserved special consideration; there were so many of them for every taste. They were distributed by governments and banks,