He wanted to write. It was all he’d ever wanted, although he hadn’t known it until he grew older. Ancient history, contemporary, neither mattered to him. Seeing, thinking, writing. That was everything.
Thoughts of being a journalist were exciting until he spent his first day in the Ark Light offices. There, he’d been told his job was not to discover and report news, as he’d wished, but to transcribe pre-written information into an ‘exciting and believable format’, as his editor, Willis Bracken, put it. Bracken had expressed no qualms when he saw Markriss’s disbelief. None of the other writers seemed to mind. Most had well-paying jobs, better than they’d ever get outside. A small price to pay for relative luxury.
Seven years ago, when he’d started, there were few riots, so it became easy to embellish stories about the outside world’s pollution levels, crime and poverty. Most were syndicated to Outer City newspapers and Markriss saw just how much of what he’d grown up reading was fabricated. Against better judgement, aided by the threat of breaching his contract, he began to do the same. Ark Light and its digital VS siblings Ark 1 through to 8, were the window on a world beyond Inner City walls, a view painstakingly drawn by thousands of people who had no more idea of what was going on than anyone else. When the first Prospect riot took place during his second year inside, he watched his colleagues paint horror so biased he almost turned and left immediately. Though there had been no deaths, Ark Light said there were three. No soldiers were hurt, and yet the paper said one had been beaten almost to death. Markriss figuratively threw up his hands. What choice did he have: return to Regent’s Town? And so he too wrote many a lie, none as large as the latter, all equally untrue.
The Ark Light building had no markings or proclamation. A pole jutting out at ground level waved a red flag bearing the numbers 1322 in yellow. The windows there and on the upper floors were darkened by tinted glass. Markriss lifted his head upwards. Way beyond the roof, blue-sky Lite simulation halted further curiosity and a view of the metal ceiling beyond. After a quick look from left to right for oncoming trams, he crossed the dappled road and walked through the entrance.
He passed swiftly through armed security guards in the lobby, who paid his ID twice the usual attention, and moved into the lift, asking for the seventh floor. When it settled and the doors opened, he almost wanted to turn around and go right back, get the LRS home, stay there until . . . He didn’t know what. He was only sure he couldn’t take seven and a half hours in the building. That was a slow, meaningless death.
He found his feet taking his body through the maze of partitioned 8 x 10 cubicles, towards his own computer and desk, his makeshift office. His mouth saying hello, his head nodding with feigned enthusiasm, avoiding gossip and whispers of how the riots happened in his zone, how brave he was to come in. Head straight, he made for his cubicle praying nobody would stop him to ask his opinion, nobody would force him to lie. Opinions were worthless, nowhere more so than inside this very building, where their point of view was a distant whim controlled by higher bodies. He stepped across the office floor with the speed of a sleepwalker. Reached his workspace and fell into his chair, slumping onto the desk. Muscles sagged until he heard her. He was bolt upright, alert and listening.
There. A vision of their office, angel of the seventh floor. Keshni Roberts moved across the office aisles with a fluid, confident stride of understated beauty and natural poise. Since the day she walked through those doors, a month ago, he’d been in awe. After seeing the indifferent way she dealt with the handsome young men of that building, she’d achieved iconic status. They’d become distant friends of mere hellos and nods; much as he admired her, Markriss was perfectly aware he’d never express how he felt. She was too good for him. It would never happen. All that left him with, all he had to replace that space she might have occupied in his life, was the vision of her in reality and his dreams.
She was taller than him, by only an inch. Her body was lithe and athletic. Not that she was shapeless; some days she wore minis and figure-hugging tops. Her features were elegant and lovely, her skin dotted with constellation freckles, eyes green with hazel flecks. A former North Marvey resident, Keshni didn’t talk to most people and seemed concerned with nothing other than the job. She avoided men, and only spoke to Markriss when no one was around, all conversation kept safely within the realms of work. Even so, talking with Keshni every day became his only working grace.
She passed his cluttered desk, looking down with that interesting smile.
‘Morning.’
‘Hey, Keshni.’
‘Catch you at break?’
‘Sure . . .’
He peered around his cubicle, watching her glide away leaving only the memory of her low, rasping voice. He frowned.
‘Looks good, don’t she?’
Somayina Ukwu, the skinny Igbo Arts Editor with a head that seemed too large for his pencil-like neck, had risen from his cubicle much like Markriss. His eyes were bright and brown, glistening with good health. His office space was neat and almost empty apart from his computer, phone, a desk-mounted Lite-box, some photos and box files. He watched Keshni go for her own squared office space with a look of fiendish joy.
‘How come she only says mornin to you?’
Markriss shrugged. ‘Dunno. I’m not sure why she does anything.’
Somayina hardly listened. ‘Yeah, well, one day I’m gonna be with her, believe me . . .’
His tongue flicked over his lips, hands rubbing in appreciation. Every man in the office said as much, while Markriss kept his desires very much to himself.
‘You don’t think so? Watch, my friend . . .’
‘When I see it, I’ll think so.’
He smiled at the loud burst of laughter exploding from behind thin walls, and turned to perform the task he’d been avoiding—reaching around his Lite-box, switching on his E-Lul and looking at his in-tray, sat beneath the photo of his mother and brother. He turned his eyes from them. Too much, especially today. When he saw his assigned story, he was unable to control himself and groaned aloud, collapsing on the keyboard. Sympathising with Markriss, it beeped outrage.
‘Got the riot? Wondered which lucky sod would be lumbered with that,’ he heard from behind the wall, recognising Somayina’s pleasure.
He was right, although reporting was something Markriss might have relished, had ‘reporting’ been even close to what Bracken had in mind. He settled in his seat, finding the optimum position, sighing as he worked hard to keep his body upright and thoughts positive. ‘How to make this good,’ he muttered, not caring whether he was heard. ‘How to make it flow.’ He scanned the brief once for overall intent, and then read it again more carefully, letting his fingers rest lightly on the keys. As he began to type he breathed in through his nose and out through the mouth, allowing his mind to drift and thoughts of Keshni Roberts to become the focus for his easily distracted mind.
7
He finished by lunch, deciding to go for a celebratory smoke before he hit the canteen. At Markriss’s regular spot, a roof garden on the fifth floor, Somayina chatted with two techs from the design department while Keshni smoked by herself alongside an expanse of imitation potted plants. Chileshe wasn’t there. Markriss was disappointed. His Prospect Tower neighbour usually puffed in a corner, amusing fellow workers with raucous jokes by that time of the day. He kept searching the roof, attempting to hide his displeasure. She’d more than likely stayed off work as he’d suspected.
The view took in a criss-cross of busy blocks and roads progressing in large squares. Nothing but tall buildings of glass and steel, takeaways and sandwich shops, suited men and women. If they closed their eyes it was easy to imagine they lived in the real, outer world—there were e-engines, strident voices of manual labourers, even manic screams of school-kids carrying on still air. Eyes open, the simulated sky wasn’t ideal, though still better than nothing and certainly healthier than the outside haze. On the roof itself, fake plants in giant terracotta pots gave
the space the feel of a tropical greenhouse. There were benches and even a table with an umbrella attached, which became the butt of many jokes, seeing as it never rained.
Markriss joined the men and gave the beautiful journalist some space, especially in front of the guys. She was looking over the busy streets, expressionless. He didn’t join the conversation, which seemed to have been going for some time, instead sitting on the edge of a wall a few metres away. It didn’t take long for Somayina to notice.
‘Mars, you all right? You look well tired.’
He offered a weak smile. ‘Not much chance for sleep last night, but yeah, I’m fine. Got about two hours before I had to get up.’
‘That ain’t right,’ Somayina insisted, warming up. ‘A man’s supposed to get a good eight hours. If they don’t sort them riots, you’ll never get peace, know what I’m sayin?’
‘Looks like it sorted itself from what I saw. The Corps got it sealed off and everything.’
Somayina’s face tightened, ready to argue. Markriss swore, lips tense and hardly moving—he’d risked being baited into another lengthy debate. Something inside him groaned. This could go on far longer than his hour lunchbreak.
‘Yeah, but I watched the news, and this guy reckons there’s gonna be more trouble tonight—’
Everyone looked at Somayina. From the other side of the roof even Keshni watched, a rare, full smile in place. Somayina opened his mouth in query before he caught himself, beginning to laugh.
‘Damn! Got so used to it I fooled myself!’
They laughed. Markriss tried joining in, mirth lodged inside his chest, a bad cold. One clause in their contract was an NDA. If the contract was breached, their privileges were taken away and they were sent to live on the ground with the manual workers, most of whom became rioters after enduring such poor living conditions. Employment was difficult, near enough impossible to find: in the Ark, it was one man, one job. Welfare didn’t exist. Unemployment was a stone’s throw from the vagrants Markriss had witnessed that very morning. Still, Somayina and the men he didn’t know laughed as though there was really humour in their predicament.
‘Well, it doesn’t matter,’ he said through a cloud of smoke and heaving after-chuckles. ‘I’m having trouble sleeping even when there aren’t riots. I don’t get it. I’ve never had insomnia, now I spend hours tossing and turning . . . I’ve tried melatonin, lavender, sleeping pills, everything . . .’
It was ridiculous to lie, Markriss knew, still he saw no reason to admit how long he’d been suffering, or that he refused to access pod simulations. They might easily think him mad. It happened, a modern, enlarged version of cabin fever brought on by vitamin D deficiency and light deprivation, mostly affecting the poor, who were unable to afford Lite-boxes or home simulators. The condition, circadian dysrhythmia, was tentatively nicknamed Interior Trauma Syndrome by open-minded doctors, ITS by everyone else.
‘Sure you aren’t just stressed?’ Abi, an Omani design tech eyed him. ‘Maybe you need a break.’
‘Reckon he should grab himself a copy of that poverty tome, The Book of the Ark, right? Have you seen that crap? If that don’t send a man to sleep, nothing will . . .’
They roared laughter along with Somayina, who seemed to think his dire humour a great deal funnier than the others. Markriss shrugged the attempt off, unsmiling, pretending he hadn’t spoken.
‘Well, I don’t feel too stressed . . .’
Unspoken fear of ITS drove them to silence, murmuring defeat as Markriss pocketed his vape. A whiff of familiar scent. His head lifted. Keshni stood just beyond their unconscious circle. Crinkles of laughter traced her lips, and her blank-eyed stare was detached. They narrowed as if she was looking at a distant point far beyond the roof, perhaps far into the future. Her proximity clearly made the men uncomfortable, though she seemed not to notice, or even mind; either way, she ignored them as usual. They watched, mouths half open, vapes poised by drying lips.
‘Hi.’
‘Hey. How . . . how are you doing?’ Markriss found himself stammering.
‘Fine, thank you, just fine. I hope you don’t mind, but I was listening.’
‘No, not at all, we don’t mind, do we?’
Neither Somayina nor any of the techs bothered with an answer, which was fortunate as Keshni refused them any attention.
‘If you don’t mind me saying, it sounds like you have problems with your sleeper.’ Her voice caused his shoulders to fall, the muscles in his neck and back to unwind. ‘It can be the cause of insomnia, so I’ve heard. You should try adjusting your settings, loading new programs. That’s if you haven’t.’
She smiled. He almost wished time would stop so he could analyse every movement of her facial muscles, the curve of her eyelashes, every dark freckle marking a trail his fingertips ached to trace.
‘Nah—no,’ forcing the correct word from his mouth. ‘No, I haven’t. I wouldn’t really know where to start. I’m not that much of a handyman you kno—’ Halting, mid-word. ‘Do you know where I could find out how to do that?’
She shrugged, a tiny movement.
‘I could show you. If you don’t mind. I’m pretty good with tech, I could come and have a look.’
He couldn’t hide his amazement, spluttering useless words. ‘Uh . . . sure . . . When?’
‘After work sometime,’ she said, in a manner indicating they’d enjoyed numerous conversations at a similar friendship level millions of times before. ‘We could go for a drink or something to eat?’
‘Fine . . .’
That one word bore the weight of all his unsure emotion, even as his brain forbade him from saying any more, ruining the moment.
‘It’s a date!’
He looked up, shocked to see Keshni fighting a blush. Gaining courage, looking him in the eye, her smile coy, contained.
‘Not a “date” date, but . . . you know what I mean, right?’
‘I know what you mean.’
Her nerves gave him strength. Before he could capitalise, she nodded once his way, once more at Somayina and the design techs, turning her body towards the door.
‘See you . . .’
‘Yeah . . . uh . . . bye . . .’
She was gone a scant moment before the men jumped and slapped palms, jostling Markriss for a reaction. Though they screamed about luck and prana energy, how casual and aloof she was, what had happened was far too strange to thank the ancestors. Still, try as he might, even as he shrugged off Somayina’s praise, Markriss found good feeling impossible to deny.
After the break, his working day normalised. He made a vain attempt at stifling hurt when Keshni ignored him, striding through office aisles with her head high, silencing Somayina’s renewed banter with a disdainful sigh. He kept his eyes on the screen, his mind on assignments, wishing he could blinker his nose and ears in the same fashion. It was no use. While writing on mundane subjects like the marriage of an upper-level stockbroker to a wealthy heiress of the same standing, he thought of her. When he finished the report, moving on to the opening of a new library on his level, he wondered if she liked books. Coupled with Keshni’s office jaunts, by the end of his working day Markriss was a jangle of nerve-endings and confused messages. There were more assignments, though with his pleasure in an empty office dulled, he saw no point staying late watching Keshni clock up overtime. No. He would go home instead and muse over what the hell happened on the roof.
Somayina’s cubicle was neat and tidy, not a trace of the puppet-headed young man to be found. He closed his document window, and noticed he’d received a v-mail. Markriss checked the sender. ‘From: keshni. [email protected], 12/10/20, 18:10.’ He moved his mouse until the little brown hand caressed ‘Play’. He double-clicked, sat back.
Keshni appeared on his monitor in front of her own desk, looking into the web-cam. ‘Hi, Markriss,’ a low whisper, shifting in her seat. ‘I suppose you’re wondering why I’m mailing like this instead of coming over. I just wanted you to know that I’m reall
y looking forward to hanging out, getting to know you—as a friend of course. In case you’ve not noticed, I haven’t many friends in this place. See you . . .’
She leant forwards, clicking the button ending the recording, turning the screen black. He remained in his seat, reliving the sight of her for at least thirty seconds, telling himself it meant nothing, that her words belied her actions; hoping opposite. He replayed the v-mail four times, with a broad grin he was unable to suppress. Against better judgement he looked over the partition towards her cubicle on the far side of the office. He just made out her bobbing curly head, the sound of fingers striking computer keys. Even in the throes of work she gave off an air of beauty. He sat down, selected email, typed ‘I’d like that very much’, clicked ‘send’, then grabbed his jacket and walked through the office doors as he heard her computer chime.
All the way down the corridor to the lifts, Markriss wondered if she’d leave and come looking for him. He vacated the building, still half-expectant. Faced with bright lights, he cursed his naivety, telling himself to get a grip even as he spotted the Y-tram. A burst of sprint and he caught up, heaved himself aboard.
The barricade was disappointing to see on Prospect Road, upheld by Corps soldiers still checking IDs. A small group stood in line on the Willington side, waiting to be checked in. Worse than the barricade were larger groups opposite the blockade, queuing further along, waiting to exit. Most were families, young children clinging to parents’ legs, staring at soldiers through dull eyes. The children were not dirty, nor did they wear ragged clothes, and yet Markriss found himself riveted. A Corp yards from where he stood argued with a hysterical man demanding to be told when he could cross. His ID was correct, he shouted, he was a law-abiding citizen. This was against human rights. The soldier pushed the man back, raising his rifle butt, while the man’s son, no older than six, watched in silence. The man grabbed his boy, fading into the crowd where he became another jostling head, a flash of ill-fitting clothes.
A River Called Time Page 9
