The Ark was a colossus, far bigger than anything Markriss had ever seen, man or Ra-made. The closest thing his mind could think of that might compare was the concrete car parks of Regent’s Town—even then, that wasn’t nearly accurate. The Ark was a mountain range of grey stone built in the centre of inhospitable terrain. It was as if a never-ending concrete glacier had fallen from the sky. The sides, though difficult to see, were largely unmarked apart from varied antennae and satellite dishes. The train tracks, a closed zipper on dark material, led right up to the seamless walls. Straining his neck, Markriss saw just how far the building stretched upwards. Concrete dominated his vision as though the sky had set solid grey.
They began their approach. Markriss and his travelling companion watched in awe as huge steel gates opened, tearing cracks in formerly seamless skin, exposing metal framework, gigantic hydraulics and hordes of jump-suited workers, staring with quiet intent. The Gateway seemed to go on for miles above their heads, yet there were still miles more of flat, unmarked surface beyond, everything growing ever larger. Steam rose. The carriage grew dark as it crept beneath the shadow of the Ark. Their guard switched on lights from some master control, and they stuttered fitfully into life. Markriss and Junior looked at each other from opposite sides of the carriage for the last time, apprehension quieting joy. It was real. They were here.
The train came to an unsure halt. More steam billowed, low and lazy mist. Sounds echoed and bounced from walls, assaulting their ears with an aural sensation that would become normal within months. A jump-suited individual opened the train door and introduced himself, though Markriss didn’t catch his name. He was too busy feeding curiosity to notice Junior being told to stay aboard, too busy to say goodbye and wish him well, or notice the gift from his mother, The Book of the Ark, forgotten on the seat behind him. Later, far too late, he would remember, and the shame would last him years. It prised his mouth shut, made escaping words stutter, gave his dreams the flavour of liquescent nightmares. At the time, Markriss scanned everything with a voyeur’s greed. He was guided into an area the size of three aircraft hangers, looking over his shoulder to see the huge gates closing, the pale sun caught almost dead centre, a flap of wings from some unrecognisable bird flying to an unknown destination. Nothing of Western Central, Marvey, or anywhere else lay in sight beyond the gates. Only the Blin, that lifeless barrier between two worlds.
While his attention was diverted, more men in jump-suits separated his former carriage from the train. It stood isolated, sideways on, one row of windows facing him. Moving back to gain perspective, he saw that it had been manoeuvred into some kind of vehicular lift. As he watched, machinery clunked into life, hoisting the carriage high, destined for L2. He caught a glimpse of Junior’s bloodless face and shocked bright eyes at the train window before the young man saw him, ducking away. The gates shut with a noise like the largest prison doors known to man. Fear struck Markriss. He came to a true understanding of finality.
‘Markriss . . . Markriss . . .’ First Jump-suit was back, grey hair flopping over eyes, pulling at his elbow with gentle assistance, smiling at his wonder. ‘Welcome to the Gateway. Please have your ID ready for inspection. If you’d like to walk this way . . .’
After, there was nothing but compliance.
5
The third time it happened was the last.
17 October 2020
6
The alarm gave Markriss a jolt he blamed on his body clock at first, until he recognised the beeping. He disengaged the covering, hit stop, knocking the lightweight melatonin bottle over in the same movement, yawning as he wiped his eyes, and stepped from the sleeper before he had time to think. The tiled floor against his feet accelerated his waking state. He made for the bathroom without slippers, relishing cold. Markriss passed the living-room window, fully aware of turning his head, unable to look. Feeling only partial shame.
He ignored the manual switch that controlled his ceiling Lites, normally set to his favoured cloud-and-blue-sky simulation, entered the bathroom and turned the dial on his power shower, anticipating nothing until he walked into the cubicle with a sigh, cold water touching his skin. Soon he stood beneath a fierce cascade that slowed to a feeble trickle after exactly eight minutes. He got out and, on a whim, shaved his chin bare. He found a large towel and dried himself, wrapping it around his waist while he moved towards the kitchen.
His cereal bowl was full when he wandered into the living room. The room was consumed by dark, although empty enough to cross without banging a limb against any furniture. A sofa, an easy chair, a small coffee table. A VS and music centre embedded in a far wall. The allocation was featureless apart from those few items. There was next to no sign that anyone lived there at all.
He crossed the expansive living-room floor, hearing dogs bark on the streets below. Rustles and the clatter of materials nosed or tugged. Scavenging, no doubt. Further away, the high-pitched sound of an alarm echoed, faint as the drip of a tap, equally relentless. He listened, hoping the sounds would cease. When they did not, he shook his head. Markriss approached the window, pushing a button. Nothing. Cursing, he pulled at the curtains until they came apart in angry jerks, revealing more tiles, a ledge. Of course, the mainline power was cut. He’d forgotten for a moment. No neural connection or peripherals, back-up generators only powering housing essentials, connection considered a luxury in his zone. He leant forwards, raising himself to take a first look outside.
The riot had only lasted a night, but the damage was extensive. Block after block of mayhem lay beneath him. His apartment allocation was on the fifteenth floor, giving an unobstructed view of the surrounding area. His adopted town was demon ugly. Smoke rose from numerous places. Cars and trucks were flipped upside down like bugs left to die. Shop windows were smashed while in others, fitful lights were flashing strobes beneath passing clouds of smoke. He tried to convince himself they gave the town a magical glow. It looked more like the end of the world.
There had been a football game, the winning supporters deciding to have an impromptu party on Prospect Road. First the people gathered, dancing to music, women hitching skirts to thighs and bending low, scuffing behinds on pavements. Men yelled and drank more beer, more tequila, throwing empty bottles and cans against walls, grabbing the partners they desired, moving with them. Someone climbed a road sign, shaking it hard enough to bend. The crowd pummelled the sign into pieces before throwing them at the nearest grocery store window. When glass broke, people surged inside, eager to steal. Others fought.
Markriss and Chileshe Lusu had watched the rioters burn and loot, trying to reassure each other they wouldn’t be killed. Although Prospect Towers gave relative comfort, it also made them an easy target for the less fortunate. There had been riots where people in the Towers had been murdered in order to appease jealous anger. Tied up, burnt, beaten, throats cut. Since those days extra measures were taken and residential security was tightened to an almost frustrating degree, yet Markriss never quite fooled himself into feeling safe.
They had frozen by his window, watching the crowd spread through shadowed streets, joining friends and family from nearby blocks. It seemed as though every back alley and main road was filled with people, screams, the sound of everything breaking at once. In the confines of their level, noises echoed and bounced to find them. Soon they hugged in fear, Chileshe shivering beneath him like an injured bird. She was an earnest young woman, Lotse by descent, a photographer for Ark Light, though she refused to record what they saw. They ate, drank and talked until half-past three, when the riots moved from their block. Chileshe left for her own allocation. He remained at the window for another half hour before retiring to bed.
Markriss ate his cereal, watching dogs lope through spilled rubbish and broken glass like conquerors, before returning his bowl to the kitchen, getting dressed for work. He left the allocation, locked the door and made for the lift; pressed the call button, which stuck, ejecting itself five seconds later. The corridor,
smooth and lifeless, a series of identical cloned doors spread into near distance. He raised his chin to the blank square above the lift doors, fingers working by his sides, unable to help stealing a look at Chileshe’s locked door, wondering if she was awake, whether she’d even slept. The steel doors remained shut, firm and serious as pursed lips. He remembered—the power—and sighed, expelling pent-up tension. He tried the stairs instead.
The rioters had smashed the lobby windows, which had been specially designed so a metal shutter fell when that happened. A miniature lake of congealed blood lay just by the main entrance doors, reflecting a shallow glimmer of light, almost beautiful. Someone had apparently got caught beneath the security precaution and been killed, or at least maimed. Markriss expected Pious, their friendly security guard, to be there poised and watchful, his usual state, only the grey plastic reception desk stood empty. Stilling apprehension, he walked past the booth and into artificial Day-Lite. Quick pain as his eyes adjusted.
It was useless waiting for the 8.30 Light Railway. There had been no Corps presence during the riot, the crowd allowed to run themselves ragged as long as they kept their violence within the Poor Quarter. That meant there was a barricade. He pulled his ID from his wallet, kept it hidden in his palm, deciding to walk. The power would surely be on in the next town.
He followed glistening tram tracks eastwards, stepping between thin metal and the intermittent yellow stripes marking the centre of the road, attempting to mix a calm manner with a high state of alert. The deserted high street lay before him, the road beneath his feet speckled grey like rare eggshell; the blocks uniform grids of retail space made up of mini-marts, tic stores, charity shops, home-style restaurants, bakeries, clothing stores, street-food shacks and discount perfumeries, each a broken, looted skeleton. The sight was frightening enough to make him wish he’d brought a kitchen knife or some other weapon, though he’d be equally scared to use either. He ignored the dogs padding towards him at first, then away when he shouted. He turned a blind eye to the vagrants and winos scrabbling in overturned bins with the animals. He pretended not to read spray-painted graffiti on metal shutters, Outsider slogans ranging from the comical (‘We’ve Been E-Lulled’) to the commonplace (‘Inner City Is a Lie—Let Us Go!’). Markriss kept his head straight, his functioning, observational brain buried in proverbial earth; it would be of no use. Although the power was off, and the sky simulation with it, Day-Lites grew strong enough for him to see the destruction in more detail. It sickened him to notice prone bodies every now and then. He squinted into bright lights a mile above, moving faster, fearful of his own streets.
There was Mr and Mrs Lapido’s grocery store, a trail of crushed fruits and spilled vegetables halfway across the grey road. A discount off-licence raided beyond belief, fluorescent sign still blinking, awarding split-second flashes of empty shelves and broken glass and strewn liquid. Further on, a digital VS lay with an iron bar driven through the screen. As Markriss passed the electrical store it had been looted from, he saw sparking loose cables and smelt the sting of ozone. He took careful note of the red fluorescent sign above the high street temple, one of the only buildings untouched. Fresh flowers were laid on the pavement outside its scorched wooden doors.
These were places he had known and owners he’d grown to recognise as members of his community. He’d seen other riots, living as close to the Poor Quarter as he did, though none had changed his landscape to such a terrifying degree.
He stopped. A far-away sound, the angry roar of bees. He tried guessing the origin, as that would reveal how far he had to walk until he reached the barricade. He craned his neck in the direction of the sound. Five blocks or so north, perhaps. Markriss pushed his hands in his pockets and continued to walk.
Electric scooters were the only sanctioned form of personal L1 transportation. Other than those, the Authority allowed public trams and taxis. Bikes could be hired from terminals found all over the city that also kept them charged, known to locals as ‘scooter stands’. Ark residents rich enough could afford a bike of their own, or if they were lucky, the company they worked for provided one. Markriss had once counted himself among that number until the bike was stolen. His employer’s insurance replaced that scooter, yet it too was stolen, and the bike after that. He turned the next scooter down, resigning himself to catching the morning tram.
Higher levels were rumoured to have access to double-decker trams, high-speed bikes, electric cars. Markriss never participated in upper-level conversations, often forcing the idea from his mind. What was the point? He’d never know.
The ten-minute walk led into Willington, located on the far edge of Prospect. He knew he was reaching the boundaries of last night’s disorder when he saw Corps soldiers lined behind barricades with rifles, attack dogs and assault vehicles. They twitched as he came closer, ashamed at failing to keep their composure iron-rigid. Guilt flecked every eye. Markriss made for one standing by a lone computer terminal that looked highly out of place in the middle of a usually busy street. He handed over his ID, laying his palm against the touch-screen, mute as the soldier swiped, checking the seven-digit code and his details. A brutal nod. The group of lower-ranked men pushed the barricade open and Markriss stepped into Willington.
There wasn’t much difference between the towns, save the fact there were fewer allocation blocks and less devastation on this side of the barricade. The miniature mall before him stood untouched, early shoppers attempting to go about daily business and ignore the soldiers. Kids pointed in glee before they were herded away by parents. Shop workers slowed and sometimes stopped near enough to get a view, far enough from any potential action. The LRS stop was alive with gossip, everyone talking about how scared they’d been, the animal behaviour they witnessed, what the news anchorman said about Prospect. It was difficult not to be ashamed. Markriss didn’t say anything, because he already knew it was useless. The Y arrived, four black and yellow carriages, a lumbering queen bee devoid of wings, metallic wheels whining against tracks. He stepped on, palming his ID over the reader at the ticket barrier’s miniature sliding doors, easing past fellow commuters as the doors fell back, taking the first empty seat he found.
Warmth, sleep-tinged chatter. Rows of black-padded double benches forced those not reading slides to stare in the direction of the entrance. Some wore medis—meditation visors—eyes made blind by plastic strips that wrapped around each temple, blue light above each ear growing brighter, fading. Medis were in effect portable pods, all the rage since E-Lul launched them the previous year. Above his head, a stunning brunette silently implored commuters to use Yukon deodorant for everyday freshness, ignored by most of the swaying people. Markriss stared out of the window, tugged by insistent fatigue. His eyes closed. The tram jerked around a corner, woke him. Before long the rocking became rhythmic, lulling him into sleep.
He dreamt himself in a doctor’s consulting room, sitting up on a pod completely naked. He was alone. A name-plate on the small imitation-wood desk said ‘R. A. Amunda’, the name meaning nothing to him. A drip in his arm trailed upwards, connecting with a bottle that contained a purple fluid. Silver wire pierced the skin on his chest, protruding outwards by an inch. Markriss felt horror the first time he saw it, although he was vaguely aware of dreaming the past. It hadn’t hurt back then. He relaxed. Each beat of his heart was matched by a computerised beep, and there was no indication of machinery until he heard a hiss, a slight sigh.
The large panel in front of him slid open to reveal some kind of robot. Small and rectangular, it was attached to the wall by a metal track. As the track extended and the robot drew nearer he saw syringes filled with more unrecognisable liquid, coming closer, ever closer. The computerised beeps grew rapid. He tried to get away from the pod and realised metal clamps held his hands and feet. He struggled, fought, screamed. The syringes came closer, touching the skin of his arm, a puncturing pin entering a balloon . . .
‘You all right? Mate? Mate, you all right?’
; He opened his eyes. The man seated next to him was poking his arm with a pen. He blinked. Everybody was looking. He saw their thoughts as clearly as the memory of last night’s fighting. Trouble. They smelt Outer City all over him. He nodded at his seating companion, moving slightly towards the aisle.
‘Yeah, thanks, just drifted off. Are we at thirteen twenty-two?’
‘Two stops.’
The man watched Markriss, curious. He ignored him, turning his attention out of the window. In time other passengers did the same.
After years of struggling with insomnia as a child, sleep, something he’d grown to relish during his time inside the Ark, had once again become an apprehensive part of his daily existence. Every night he lay in bed waiting to be greeted with vivid accounts of his life before Inner City. Sometimes he dreamt—as he had just moments ago—of events that had already happened. Willow reaching for him, Nesta’s giggles or Raymeda’s expression of pain beneath the shadow of her placard.
On other nights he felt a strange tug, like the drop of his tower-block lift, a slow descent. He remembered the feeling. Those were moments he feared most, phantom voices in his ears, a suspension of dream and reality. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move and smelt dangerous miasma. When he struggled awake it was difficult to erase thoughts that these occurrences had happened before, as a child.
He reached his destination, a monolithic, flat glass building situated opposite the LRS stop. He stood on the pavement as the tram lurched unsteadily onwards, as if unsure of its way. It was the same each day. He doubted whether it would change.
Soon after his arrival in the Ark seven years before, Markriss had started what the officials termed his ‘granted vocation’. Proficiency in English had got him through school, college and university with grades high enough for the Excellence Award panellists. Careful grooming by lecturers in his final year had given Markriss the jump over his fellow students.
A River Called Time Page 8
