by Terry Tyler
Colt takes the paper from me. "Cornwall to Northumberland―you'd need a vehicle, at least a week's leave, and a pass to go outside the perimeter."
I laugh. "Right. I'll go tomorrow, then."
"Does Nash know about your family?"
"Yeah. He's not interested."
"What? How can he not be?"
I shrug. "You know Nash."
"I do." He stares at the paper. "Come on, tell me how you found out about them. Was it Ginevra?"
I say nothing.
"It was, wasn't it?"
I take a deep breath; I'm such a crap liar. Or am I just telling myself that because I want to confide in him? "This absolutely cannot get out."
"Don't worry, I know that." He pauses. "Rae―if you find a way of getting out to look for them, do you want me to come with you?"
I smile, a shade nervously. "Are you joking?"
"Not at all. I'd love to come and meet them, too." He stands closer, and I feel more aware than I should of his semi-nakedness, which smells of sweat, but not unpleasantly. "Look, I don't give a monkey's about whoever grew me in her womb before handing me over to NPU, no doubt for a tidy sum. But you do care, and rightly so; you had parents who wanted you. Who chose to have you, and brought you up for the first two years of your life. We're friends, aren't we?"
"Course we are."
"Okay, so I get how important this is to you. I'd like to give you a bit of moral support, especially as Nash is falling short. Will you let me?"
Chapter 7
Link
It's a few days until I summon up the courage to tell Ginevra about Colt's search, and she is, as I expected, not happy. "Aside from anything else, you don't look for wastelanders on Locate―you look for them in the wasteland."
"Yes, but I can't do that, can I? I had to do something, and Colt understands; he's actually a safer person to tell than Nash because he knows how careful we have to be."
I've called in to see her at the end of the day, ostensibly to discuss whether my demerit might be rescinded (likelihood: zilch), and I've followed her into the kitchen, as before.
"Okay." She stares at me. "But if I'm going to help you take this any further, I have to be sure you're not going to start telling all your friends about it."
"Of course I won't. No one else but Colt." Then I realise what she just said. "Help me take it further?"
"Your father would want me to. There are ways." She drums her fingers on the worktop. "Tell me about Colt."
"I've known him since I was thirteen. He's―well, he's laid back, not interested in gossip. And he's switched on. He just did what I asked, without asking questions."
Not entirely true, but never mind.
The kettle boils, and she pours the water into another cup of tea that I don't want. "I'm sorry he couldn't locate them. That must be hard for you."
"I don't think I really expected him to be able to. But―well, people can't just get lost, can they? They must have done something, somewhere, to leave a record of themselves."
Ginevra leans against the door and dips her tea bag in and out of the water in her cup. "Not necessarily. In the wasteland there's no ID scanning or DNA database. You don't get your irises tracked the minute you walk through a door. They're the forgotten people; few know or care if they live or die." She lowers her voice. "Look, the wasteland has a central records system. It's in a settlement in a village called Fennington St Mary, in what used to be Cambridgeshire, and keeps a track of who lives where, but it's not a hundred per cent reliable―wastelanders tend to move around a fair bit."
I breathe in sharply. "A central records system? Cambridgeshire―that's not far from here, is it?"
"No. About eighty miles."
She's got this seriously weird look on her face.
Something clicks into place in my head.
She knows about the records system in the wasteland.
How?
"Ginevra."
"Mm-mm?"
"How-how do you know about the records system?"
She's not looking at me. "I used to live in that area and it was being set up before I left. By and for the people who were never going to succumb to living in one of these places."
"But you've been here for years. That was then, not now."
"Mm-mm."
"So it might not exist any more."
"It does."
"How do you know?"
She picks up my mug and hands it to me. "We've been in here long enough. Be outside the main door at ten past five―we'll walk to the ziprail together."
She opens the door and we move back into her office.
Ginevra acts surprised to bump into me, though I don't see that this is necessary, because there are stacks of people milling through the doors of the Wellness Centre at this time of day.
We walk, slowly, towards the ziprail, and she says, "Don't look up at the streetlights.
As soon as she says that, I long to look upwards.
"You can't tell anyone what I'm about to tell you. Do you understand that?"
"Of course―"
"Not even Colt."
"I promise."
For a moment she doesn't speak, but I know better than to push.
Her heels go click-click as we walk along; her perfume wafts past my nostrils.
"I have contacts," she says, eventually.
"Contacts?"
"Yes. With some who aren't a hundred per cent with the programme."
Shit. "Are you talking about the underground?" I'm whispering. "It's real, then?"
She glances at me. "Act naturally and stop looking surprised. It's called Link. Its main purpose is to help anyone who wants to reunite with friends and families outside the megacities and Hope Villages, or who simply want to live outside the system of total surveillance and being reported by people who are supposed to be your friends, every time you make a slightly off-colour joke."
"And Link―they could help me?"
"Possibly, yes."
"But how do I get out? And it must cost―I don't have much money, and even if I had any spare, it'll be noticed if I suddenly transfer funds to some random person―"
She shakes her head. "Link does what it does because we believe the new UK order to be a desecration of human rights; every person successfully removed from a megacity or a Hope Village, every family reunited, is a win." She stops. "Point to that bar over the road. Go on. Point to it now, and suggest we go for a drink."
I'm happy to say that I perform this piece of acting like a pro.
Once we're sitting down with a vodka cardamom apiece, Ginevra says she uses this bar for meetings such as these because its particular acoustics mean that conversation is hard to pick up on.
What I can't get my head around, most of all, is Ginevra, who looks like Mrs Conformist, with her immaculate make-up and neat ash-blonde bob, her stylish suits and expensive scarves. One would be forgiven for supposing that she's never had a rebellious thought in her life. Which is, of course, the perfect cover.
I ask, "Do you think we're listened to everywhere? Even at home?"
"No. The facility is there, but all it does is pick up on keywords and phrases. If you're not up to anything suspect, you can go years without being actively listened to at all." She smiles. "Don't worry, there aren't snoops sitting behind screens listening to what you and Nash talk about in the bedroom."
I feel myself blush, because these days the answer is 'nothing'. Usually we get into bed and watch stuff, or sit there with our coms, light years away from each other as far as communication is concerned. The only rule I've made is no holochatting in the bedroom.
I change the subject. "Okay, so tell me. If they're so bothered by the wastelanders that we can't even see them, let alone associate with them, why are they allowed to exist?"
"You're not the first person to ask that." She smiles. "Every ruling class, throughout history, has limited the freedom of the common man to stop him gaining power and support, and thus rising up in
revolution. Whether or not they grumble about this, the vast majority of human beings are law-abiding citizens who live according to the rules laid down in their community, be it a jungle village or a UK megacity. But nonconformists and outlaws will always form a small part of every society. However, Freya Wilson and her mob don't want the UK to be seen as a police state, so they leave them be. And they do serve a couple of specific purposes, one of which is only a theory, but that's nothing I'm going to get into right now."
I grin. "Ooh, tell me―what are they?"
"I said I wasn't going to get into it. Don't push, please."
"Sorry." I'm sure you will agree that there are few things more frustrating than someone saying they know something, but refusing to tell you. "And my dad―do you think he would have been a wastelander if he hadn't had children?"
"I'm sure he would." She stares into the distance, just for a moment, then blinks, as if she's trying to cancel out the pictures in her head. "Right, to business. I can help you get out, and put you in contact with people who may be able to find Martine and your brother and sister."
My heart flutters with excitement. "Will it be dangerous?"
"Yes. But―and it's rather an enormous but―I assume you're going to want to come back to your life here, afterwards. That's the hard part; not the getting out so much as the coming back. I haven't been involved in anything like this for a couple of years because my mother is ninety-five, and I want to make sure I'm here for her, not sitting in a prison cell; I'd more or less retired, really. But I can point you in the right direction." She leans forward. "This is what you want, isn't it? To meet them, and then come back to resume your life here?"
That completely floors me. "Yes―I suppose so―I haven't thought past finding them―"
"You're not having fantasies about joining them in the wasteland?"
"No―no, not really―"
"Don't forget, they will be total strangers to you, and you might not even like them."
I haven't considered that. "I just want to find them. And they must wonder what happened to me, mustn't they?"
"Of course."
Her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes, though, and for the first time I see it from the point of view of Mum, Lilyn and John. They have each other; they might not think much at all about Baby Rae, who they left behind, twenty-two years ago.
Ginevra tells me to go to a bar just outside Tech Village, called Nerve. It's the sort of place I'd never go near normally, a hang-out for trendies and influencers who get all the new tech before it’s available to the public, and have the latest cosmetic procedures while the rest of us are still looking at pictures and saying, 'You mean when I'm in a club my skin will actually shine luminous purple?' I'll stick out like a wastelander at a Nutricorp shareholders meeting.
I have to speak to Darcie, who works behind the bar. She is of African descent and has turquoise dreads; I can't miss her, apparently. I must tell her that Ginevra sent me, and that I need to speak to Milo.
"I'd book you a cab on my account, but Security might have its eyes on Nerve; I'm a bit out of touch. Go on, go now. Walk to the connect, don't pick up a seg; best you stay as untrackable as possible."
How I would love a cab, but they're way beyond the budget of D-grade workers like me. I sling down my vodka cardamom, squeeze Ginevra's hand, and set off for the ziprail to Tech Village.
Chapter 8
Contact
Darcie looks down her nose at me even as I ask for my drink. Perhaps lime and fennel vodka stopped trending yesterday, or something.
Because it's early evening the place is filled with after-work drinkers. Tech geeks cluster in tight little groups, overshadowed by the coolios who work in branding and content creation. I'm dressed in a bell-sleeved, purple crop top and high-waisted matching palazzos, in über-comfortable vylex; feels like being naked, just like the ads say, and the purple looks great with my hint-of-indigo hair. I'm also wearing my four-inch-high black platform wedge ankle boots, so I'm holding my own, or would be in my end of town. Here, I merge into the walls. This is good.
My com winces as the glamorous creature with the turquoise dreads scans it for my drink; you need a swanky Tech Village job to afford the prices in here. Now or never, then.
"Are you Darcie?"
She stops for a minute, but doesn't look at me. "Why?"
"Ginevra sent me."
"Yeah?" She moves nearer and inclines her head towards me, her eyes directed at the bar as she wipes up an imaginary spillage.
"She said I should ask for Milo. So he can help me find contacts outside. I'm trying to find some people. My family―"
She carries on wiping. "I don't want your fucking life story. Which sector do you live in?"
"Nineteen."
"Wait here."
She disappears behind the bar. I sit and sip my vodka, trying to look like I belong in Tech Village. People walk past, now and again casting an odd glance in my direction then looking away without interest. Works for me. A few stop at the bar to be served by the other bartender, who keeps looking back at the open door through which Darcie left. He's tall and skinny, dressed in a silver bodysuit; his bald head is pink. He's definitely a guy, facially, but when he stands back from the bar I see that there is no bulge where his dick should be.
"Daaar-cie! Where the fuck are you? I'm swamped in here!" Darcie reappears and carries on serving, but she doesn't look at me again and I sense I would be wise not to attract her attention.
Five minutes later she has still not spoken to me, and I'm starting to wonder if I imagined our conversation. A young guy next to me tries to chat me up; he's blitzed out of his head. I know the signs. We used to take it when we were working for our finals. Keeps you up all night, makes you think, talk, collate information, everything at high speed. He's grinding his teeth and chewing the inside of his face off, too, like I remember Lori doing. She used to take it to stay thin, and suffered horrendously from withdrawal when she started work, and was, thus, implanted with her NuSens chip. You can get away with the odd blitzkrieg a few times a year, but that's all.
I'm not listening to this guy's patter, because I'm sick with fear. If I'm being watched, does it look weird that I'm in Nerve? Somewhere I never usually go?
Was it thoughts like these that sent my dad crazy?
Or was he really being watched? Was he not paranoid, but aware?
I'm going to assume the latter, just to be safe―I give my new friend a bright smile, respond to his bizarre conversation, sling my arm around his shoulder and take a quick snap of the two of us. See; a drink with a mate. Just for the hell of it, I give him a kiss on the cheek, and snap that, too. Another illicit romantic hook-up, okay?
My extortionately expensive drink is finished. I am just wondering whether to attract Darcie's attention to buy another one that I don't want and can't afford (especially since that four point demerit), when I feel a hand on my arm, behind me.
"Ginevra sent you."
I turn around to see a nondescript guy with light brown hair and a beard, dressed in a style even less Nerve-appropriate than mine.
"Milo." After Darcie's retort, I'm keeping to short answers.
He nods.
I wave my blitzed friend goodbye, and follow Milo to a table tucked away in a booth, taking my empty glass with me; he's holding a bottle of wheat beer.
We sit and he doesn't speak, so I explain, as briefly as possible, the purpose of my visit.
"How is up to you." He passes me a small envelope. "That's your contact. Don't open it till you're out of here."
"But I don't know how I'm going to get there―Ginevra said you might have some ideas―you see, I've got to be able to get back, too."
He makes a 'pfft' sound, and sits back. "Jesus, she doesn't want much, does she?"
He shuts his eyes for a moment. Finally, he draws in his breath, and speaks. "You'll have to get creative―you need to find a reason to go out there, accompanied by a guide, after which I'd say a fake abduc
tion's your best bet."
"What?"
"It's been done before; it can work." Milo shrugs, it's no big deal. "You return a week later, or whatever, a bit roughed up. They'll drop you off near Gate 27, and you make out they were trying to get you to work on the inside for them, and get them info on Hope deliveries, locations of weed farms, shit like that."
I sit back. "Jesus."
"If you're not up to it, say now."
I swallow, hard. "No, no. It's okay. Go on."
"Okay. The guy whose details I've given you―he's the most active in this area these days. Ginevra will know of him; that is his current number." He stands up. "Don't come here again. You stand out like a sore thumb."
I give a nervous laugh. "I didn't think I was that un-hip."
"It's not that. It's the furtive look on your face." And he stands up and disappears into the crowd; a moment later there is no sign of him.
I should have asked him for tips on how to stay invisible.
Once I'm out of the noisy, dark and oppressive atmosphere of the bar I unfold the paper to see the details of my contact. There is a picture, which helps; it's a man, square-jawed and hard-looking. Fair hair, tied back in a ponytail. Unsmiling, steely blue eyes. His name is Xav. A name, a face and a number. That's all I have. I hope it's enough.
Ginevra tells me to visit Samantha again, the following Saturday; she can bump into me there, and we can travel back together.
I ask, "Is all this cloak and dagger stuff really necessary?"
"While you're being monitored, yes. Because no one ever knows to what extent they're being watched, and we can't keep going into the kitchen for cups of tea that take ten minutes to make."
"But it's only Tuesday. I can't wait till then to talk to you about this. I'll go nuts."
"Not everything can happen exactly when you want it to. Learn that, and learn it fast."
I am suitably mortified, and vow to get a serious grip until Saturday.
