by Jem Tugwell
Ava beat him to it and slid him a smile. ‘Too slow, Boss,’ she said, her fingers dangling the virtual message in front of her. Clive could see the icon of the message rocking on the display wall. Ava opened her fingers and the message disappeared from the wall. Clive knew that she had dropped it onto her empty work queue on her HUD.
‘Share–’ He broke off as he was interrupted by a small figure, his Buddy, running across the bottom of his HUD and rolling out another warning banner.
‘Oh, fuck off, Buddy.’ He waved an angry hand, as if he was swatting at a fly settling on his food. His Buddy looked sad.
‘Boss? You OK?’
‘Fine.’
‘If you’re sure,’ she said with a shrug and threw her HUD display at the wall. It redrew to show an ‘Incident’ message from Uniform. It described the beating of a man by four others. She picked up the whole Incident and dropped it into the Monitor window of her HUD, selected the time of the assault and pressed ‘Search’. A small animated representation of Ava, her Buddy, ran across the bottom of Ava’s HUD trailing out a banner that said ‘Searching’. After a couple of seconds, her Buddy packed the banner away, threw the search results onto Ava’s HUD screen and scampered off.
The results opened with a map of Old Racecourse Road in Epsom. The racecourse was long gone – too dangerous for horses to race, and the tax on risk-taking was way too expensive for the jockeys to afford. The area was all housing now, and a dot representing the assaulted man appeared on a path in front of a block of flats. Four other dots crowded the man – one right next to him, the other three in a rough semi-circle. Ava dragged the dots representing the four men back into the Incident, which loaded with all their details and IDs. Ava marked them all for arrest. The three bystanders were equally guilty for failing to prevent a crime as the attacker was for the punches.
Ava pressed ‘Send’, and their work queue was empty again.
***
Clive gave up on his high-powered inertia of waiting for something to do, and rather than complete another aimless lap of the office, he sauntered along the empty corridor to the office’s snack area. The vending machine stretched across one wall and connected with Clive’s iMe as he got close to it.
‘How can I serve you, Clive?’ it said in a happy, but stilted synthesised human voice.
Clive scanned the rows of food and drinks, trying to decide what would satisfy his craving.
‘Your iMe reports: you are inside all of your Freedom Unit allowances. You may choose anything,’ the machine encouraged him.
The Model Citizen, as defined by the government, set the optimal levels for calorie, sleep, risk, fat, and the other categories that everyone was measured against and had to live up to. It was for your own good.
Freedom Units gave the pretence of choice where you could ‘spend’ your allowance of excess: chocolate, fruit or chips, the choice was yours. The quantity wasn’t.
Your consumption was taxed and enforced through iMe. When you checked your status, there was meant to be a solid, conformant green column showing in every category. You were allowed a small amber tip on some columns where you were outside the Model, but still inside your Freedom Units allowance.
Clive’s eyes settled on a small bar of real chocolate, and lingered. His mouth started to water. He tore his eyes away from the chocolate, it would blow his calorie allowance for the next few days.
The machine had a new Choco-Lite bar. The gold wrapper shimmered behind the display glass. It promised all the flavour at a fraction of the calories. Should he give it a try?
‘Choco-Lite,’ Clive said.
‘Certainly, Clive.’ The machine whirred and a gold wrapper appeared in the dispensing slot.
Clive took it with a dubious look. Could it really be as good as the adverts? As good as the real thing?
He tore the top of the wrapper away and bit into the chocolate. Instead of the crisp hard ecstasy of real chocolate, the bar crumbled like sawdust swept off the floor. Whatever the brown flavouring was, it wasn’t chocolate.
Clive spat and scraped at his tongue.
‘Give me some water. Quick.’
Chapter 3
In the damp morning air at the top of the cliff, Jay could hear the drone somewhere ahead of him. Maybe this time it would actually arrive and make the delivery. He waited as the noise got louder and then he saw the drone peek nervously over the fence.
The drone swooped low, skimming the grass and accelerated to a pile of stones. Jay saw his delivery drop, then the drone rose, gaining height. Surely a deliberate act of suicide.
Jay watched as red tracers flashed across the sky from the Border Security drone that lived in the darkness of the small wood. The tracers thumped into the delivery drone with small flashes, followed by the rumble of an explosion. Then silence. It was like a very brief and disappointing Firework’s Night display.
He scurried towards the stones with Kevin barking and bounding behind him. The dog was a fawn pedigree Great Dane and his mix of genetics had produced a one-year-old puppy who was already massive. Each of Kevin’s huge strides covered a couple of metres, and his over-sized paws thudding on the coast path warned Jay that he was still growing.
Kevin flashed past Jay and beat him to the box the drone had dropped. Kevin pushed the box with his eager nose as he sniffed at it, pulling in the scent. Jay reached the dog and nudged his shoulder to move him. Kevin didn’t budge, so Jay pushed harder and the dog reluctantly yielded half a yard, his nose still busy.
Jay shot nervous glances all around him, then grabbed the box. He reminded himself that he had a valid reason to be here if the police questioned him. For the last ten months he had walked Kevin here in the early morning. Jay’s signal would prove it. ‘Of course I was there,’ he would say, ‘I always go there’ – just a normal day, like any other. He hoped it was enough.
‘Come on, Kevin,’ Jay called as he turned from the stones. He puffed his chest out to convince himself that he couldn’t feel the fear worming through his guts.
Jay was a talker, not a doer. His stories began ‘I’m going to…’ and his wife would sigh, ‘Of course you will.’
But he didn’t.
He talked – of change, of inequality, of unfairness, of a new ideal. He met with like-minded idealists and talked of action, safe in snug, private rooms. Safe with other talkers. They all agreed that the time for change was now. It always was. Every time they met.
He thought that all his talk was well away from anyone who would actually expect him to do something, but that changed a year ago.
He still had no idea who had listened to him talking and then slipped the note into his pocket – his call to arms he had never expected or wanted: ‘Live up to your words. The cause needs you.’
Now his life was run by secret notes and furtive drop points in deserted parks, like he was in an old Cold War spy story, but with iMe monitoring every message and your location, what choice was there but to go backwards in time?
Kevin must have sensed Jay’s anxiety and shoved his head under Jay’s spare hand.
Jay fondled Kevin’s head and ears, and allowed the velvety touch to soothe him.
He had done the pickup – told himself he was a helping hand in the great change. An activist.
Clasping the box tighter to his chest, he headed for his car.
He hoped they wouldn’t need him again.
Chapter 4
Clive had suffered another restless night, and now the sun streamed through the loose weave of the bedroom curtains’ fabric and lit the room with a spring morning’s hope of new beginnings. He groaned, turned his back on the window and pulled the duvet over his head. Trying to resettle, Clive willed himself back to sleep, but the pressure in his bladder became more insistent.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ he shouted, throwing off the duvet and rushed for the toilet for the fourth time that night. Stumbling through the discarded clothes of the previous few days like a kid kicking autumn leaves, he made it to t
he toilet in time, savouring the bliss of the release of pressure.
He could feel the effect of the broken sleep in his gritty eyes. His body seemed too heavy for him to hold up. He glanced in the bedroom mirror and quickly looked away. All those creases and lines on his face seemed to have got much worse overnight. He looked grey and exhausted. He felt drained.
‘You’re not meant to wake up knackered,’ he muttered, and headed back towards the bed, but his Buddy skipped along the bottom of Clive’s HUD trailing a banner: ‘Good morning, Clive. Time for your voluntary exercise session.’
Clive hesitated, longing for bed. He wanted to ignore the exercise and get more sleep.
His Buddy packed away his banner and rolled out another: ‘Exercise is an essential part of a healthy lifestyle.’
Clive gave up, turned and headed to the lounge and its treadmill. Despite his exercise being ‘voluntary’, Buddy would keep reminding Clive, again and again. And again. His Buddy had infinite patience and so many inane banners. Less effort to exercise than fight a battle I’m bound to lose, Clive thought.
He trudged over to the pile of clean exercise clothes sitting on the clothes processor. A year ago, he would have pulled on dirty, smelly kit, but he had tried to up his game since he started dating Sophia. He threw on some shorts, trainers and edged into his Spirit of the Honey Badger T-shirt, careful not to pull any of the holes bigger.
The treadmill started moving and his clothes released a mild lavender smell. He flicked through the video streams on his HUD. He swiped past a couple of ancient comedies, past Miles Raven standing in front of yet another demonstration and calling, again, for the country to embrace eco-socialism. Clive clicked past more comedies and settled on the news.
An earnest-looking woman, dressed all in green, was talking.
‘The Model Citizen is clear; we are meant to live green in every category… we cannot allow our children to consume excessively and be tainted with amber.’
The image widened to show the woman and a slick, but greying presenter. He put on a frown and raised his eyebrows, ‘OK. Thank you, Reverend,’ he said.
The director zoomed in on the presenter, who shook his head as he said, ‘We’d love to hear what you think of the growing popularity of the Church of the New Modelists. Please get in touch in the usual way.’ He paused and his face changed as he switched on his sincere, concerned look. ‘The month-long environmental catastrophe demonstrations continued today, with the police complaining that the protests were taking all available Uniform officers from other duties…’
The treadmill sped up and Clive had to stop watching to avoid falling over. His Buddy jogged along the bottom of the HUD, and unrolled banner after banner: ‘Go, Clive.’ ‘Aim for a personal best.’ ‘Super Clive!’ ‘Awesome, dude!’
Clive trudged through the sweaty and exhausting session, encouraged all the time by his Buddy’s grating superlatives and colourful banners. As the treadmill stopped, his legs seemed to have turned to jelly and he had to grasp the handle to hold himself up.
Buddy trotted across the screen of his HUD, the latest banner was one he couldn’t ignore. ‘Your hospital appointment is confirmed for 10am tomorrow.’
His Buddy crossed his arms in a protective, concerned gesture and then gave a hopeful thumbs up.
Chapter 5
Serge liked to work in this room. The high ceilings and large windows gave it a bright, airy feel with plenty of natural light.
He loved to stare at the River Seine as it curved through Rouen. Especially at night as the city’s lights reflected and danced on the water. He tapped away at his computer and finished his tweet.
‘To all you Reece Witherspoon fans, just finished watching “Overnight Delivery”.’
He allowed himself a smile, relaxed a little and pressed the ‘Send’ button.
Getting the box into the UK successfully had taken months, much frustration and failure. Now they could move on.
He could feel the tightness and rattle in his lungs, but he didn’t reach for his asthma inhaler, instead he picked up another cigarette. It was his choice and besides, he liked smoking too much. He took a long pull, savouring the sensation, then the inevitable cough covered the noise of the mouse click that opened a new window.
He didn’t really understand augmented reality gamers, but that hadn’t stopped him building his online profile and credibility with them. Slowly at first, he’d organised simple games, but always with a dangerous edge. He discarded the weak and unfit. They were useless to him. He encouraged the athletes, and the more adventurous. He followed the brave and the reckless. The games got harder, more dangerous, and demanded more physical sacrifice to succeed. He dared the gamers to be more extreme and rewarded them well. Now, he had his favourites. The ones who would accept this call for the supreme test of their strength and nerve. He had done it all remotely, using others. Now finally he would meet them.
He pasted the pre-prepared message into the window, pressed ‘Send’, stood and went to the kitchen.
His computer screen still showed the message.
The AR game you have waited for is here.
‘Forbidden Island’
The select few will get the call.
This ultimate game requires a supreme sacrifice.
Chapter 6
Lilou ran straight at the three-metre-high wall and jumped. She used her momentum and four short strides to scrabble up half of the wall’s height, then stretched out her right hand. She grabbed the top of the wall, hung for a fraction of a second and effortlessly pulled herself up with one hand. She didn’t care about the lashing Parisian rain that had everyone else heading towards the office block huddling under umbrellas. She vaulted up onto a handrail and jumped across to the other side, landing with perfect balance on the balls of her feet. She hopped down, strolled into reception and towards the lift.
Other workers crowded around her in the lift, shaking coats and complaining about the rain. Lilou smiled as she replayed the moves of her parkour commute. She gave her hair a flick, sending droplets flying. She ignored the complaints and tuts.
The lift doors closed, and the smell of her damp clothes filled her nostrils. She was desperate to see if there was news, but her phone was buried at the bottom of her small rucksack.
She wanted to be part of it.
She craved the impossibility of it.
***
Lilou’s skin tingled from the shock of the heat of the shower after the cold rain, and from the after-glow that pushing her body gave her. Now, sitting at her desk, she devoured her work, feeding on how her whole body felt alive. The other lawyers seemed to take an age to get up to speed in the morning.
Lilou started ahead of them, and they never caught up with her – just like in her Olympic triathlon. But tapping keys and pushing paper was an empty victory, she ached with her need to replace the purity and intensity of Olympic competition.
She allowed herself a quick break, reliving the surging buzz of achievement from standing on the top step and kissing the gold medal. She lifted her phone from the desk and checked her messages.
Nothing.
She wasn’t top of the gamers’ chart because she had too many work commitments to compete in them all, but she thought she was the best. Surely, she would be selected. If not automatically, then at least on the short-list.
She shut her phone and refocused, channelling the buzz into her work until lunchtime.
Still no message.
Not that she was worried. Yet.
Lunchtime passed with Lilou at her desk, eating carefully selected proteins and vitamins, and reading about new technologies aimed at improving personal fitness and performance. They promised that she could be better than human. She could upgrade herself.
She allowed herself to dream of a modular body.
Still no message.
Lilou switched back into work mode and immersed herself. Somehow, when she took a second to look up, the day was almost done. The light had
faded, and the office was almost empty.
She decided to call it a day and headed for the changing room. Her Lycra running suit was still a bit soggy from the morning, but she pulled it on, having to wriggle a little more than usual to overcome how the dampness made the fabric grabby.
She opened her rucksack to put her day clothes in and picked up her phone. One last check before leaving.
It was there.
She jumped onto the bench, launched herself at the lockers and took two strides along them, finishing with a backflip onto the floor. She was chosen. She was one of The Ten.
The thought of it made every jump longer and every turn higher on the way home. Every landing was perfect.
She would play in the Forbidden Island.
She would win.
Chapter 7
DC Zoe Jordan banged through the front door and pushed it shut with her foot. ‘You home, Mum?’ she asked.
‘I’m in the lounge with Clive,’ Sophia called in reply.
Zoe let out a small groan and kicked her shoes off. It had been another crazily busy day at Cyber, and all she wanted was to collapse and chill for what was left of the evening. She didn’t want to have to be polite and talk. She didn’t want company.
She hesitated at the bottom of the stairs. It helped her transition out of work mode to get out of her suit and into home clothes. To change into her favourite baggy top and jogging bottoms, and lie on the sofa and relax, but she wasn’t comfortable, even a year after Clive had rescued her from that cage, with letting him see her like that. Zoe didn’t want him thinking that she wasn’t coping with her new job. Sure, he’d supported her transfer, but she knew that he wanted her back and always laid a guilt trip on her.
She shuffled towards the lounge, dragging it out, savouring the alone-time. A snail would have overtaken her.
‘Hi, Boss,’ she said at the doorway.
Clive stood, crossed to her and hugged her. ‘How’s work?’
‘You look tired, darling,’ Sophia said.
