by Jem Tugwell
‘Busy – like always.’ Zoe dropped into her usual chair.
‘You can always come back to PCU,’ Clive said. He shrugged, like he was trying to soften the words and make it sound less desperate.
Zoe rolled her eyes. ‘I can’t. I’m joining a joint Terrorism-Cyber special unit.’
‘Congrats.’
She knew Clive meant it, but could see in his eyes that he was contrasting her success with his stagnation.
‘Still easy going at PCU. Plenty of downtime,’ Clive said, trying to recover and sound positive. He failed.
‘How’s Ava doing?’ Zoe asked.
‘She’s really starting to come out of herself.’
***
It was nearly ten, and Zoe couldn’t take it any longer. Something was going on. Her mum and Clive used to sit and chat with a gentle contentment, but recently it was more stilted, and tonight there was a definite edge. The gaps were longer, and the suppressed fizz of an unresolved argument hung in the air.
‘OK, what’s going on?’ she said.
‘Well…’ Sophia started, but a fierce glance from Clive stopped her.
‘Nothing,’ Clive said.
‘Doesn’t look like nothing. What are you fighting about?’
Clive repeated his ‘nothing’ and glared at Sophia.
Sophia crossed her arms. ‘Clive’s not well, and he doesn’t want to deal with it.’
‘It’s nothing,’ Clive said.
‘It’s not nothing,’ Sophia protested.
‘I said I don’t want to talk about it,’ Clive shouted.
‘You need to believe in something other than yourself.’ Sophia glared at Clive, but he was studying the floor. ‘The Church of the New Modelists has helped me, you should–’
‘Don’t start with that again. I’m fine.’
The room dropped into silence. Sophia and Clive both sat with arms crossed and no eye contact.
Zoe looked at them and shook her head. She slipped out of the room, not wanting to be caught in the frosty lounge or cajoled into acting as their mediator. She was shattered and needed some rest. The threat level in the Cyber department never seemed to drop below ‘Imminent’, and the pressure wave of probing attacks seemed to grow and grow. They came from everywhere: Russia, China, Pan-Europe, the US. From governments, companies and hackers living with their parents. They all had different ultimate goals, but the same mission – hack iMe. With everything online and interconnected, if you got past iMe’s defences, you could hack a whole country.
You could hack every single person.
Chapter 8
Serge ducked his head as another blast of wind buffeted him. He was halfway across the Pont Boieldieu, holding on tight to his coat. No point having an umbrella today. Not when the wind and rain hit him almost horizontally. He could feel the cold wetness soaking into his trousers. Pushing forward, he aimed for the shelter of the buildings on the other side of the bridge, pleased that his preparations for the next stage of the game were nearly complete. A couple of jobs remained, but most importantly, he had his ten.
The warmth of his apartment hit him after the stinging rain, and he pulled off his coat and left it on its hook by the door to drip. Serge dipped into the coat’s pocket for his cigarettes but even in his coat, the box had taken on water.
He headed for his desk and his spare cigarettes. Halfway across the room, he paused and dropped the damp cigarette box onto a chair. He hopped and pulled at his wet trousers, struggling to get them off his shins before putting them over the back of a chair and pushing it next to the radiator. His soaking socks joined the trousers, and he left them to steam quietly.
Finally at his desk, Serge lit a dry cigarette and switched his computer on.
One by one, he crafted a separate email to each of The Ten, before attaching a document containing their different joining instructions for the selection process. The Ten would know where to go and when to be there, but not the identity of the other nine. Not yet anyway.
As he took a long pull on a second cigarette, he chuckled to himself. He must look like a pathetic old man, sitting in his underpants, leaving damp footprints on the wooden floor, but he was about to unleash the game.
He scanned the list of the challenges he planned for The Ten. Not very subtle, but then neither was Serge. He was sure they would be quick and effective. Feeding off the competitive nature of The Ten.
His only doubt was the final step. Despite their past performances and all the assurances they had given him, did they really have what it took? Would they live up to their bold words?
The test would find out for sure.
The last job was the status report he sent to the man he called Jack Jackson. Obviously, not his real name, but a carefully chosen pseudonym. His nom de guerre. Jack was the real architect of the game. The one with the vision. The man with the belief and the cause.
Serge typed out the tweet.
‘Hi to all you film fans, horrible day outside so I’m going to settle down and watch “10 Items or Less”. Should be exciting.’
Chapter 9
Femi had slept fitfully on the flight from Durban to Paris, having to squeeze and contort his legs into the tiny gap to the seat in front. Now on the train from Paris, he couldn’t face more sitting down. The other passengers stared and shrugged at him, looking confused as to why he walked and stretched instead of sitting and watching the countryside roll by.
Finally, the train bumped to a halt in Gare de Rouen. Femi jumped off and bounded along the platform, free of the constraining train. As he strode out on Rue Jeanne d’Arc, he felt pleased to be outside and moving. Some early spring sunshine tried to warm him, but it was only yesterday he’d been at least 10 degrees warmer, running on a Durban beach with his Dinah, his wife, then enjoying a braai with his parents. He smiled at the memory.
Despite longing to be home, he had to be here. Not because he was top of the AR gaming championship table. Not because his selection would be assumed by the community. No, he did this for his family. He earnt much more doing AR games than was possible with a real job. His success so far had pulled first himself and Dinah, and then his parents out of the townships. His sister and brother were still there with their families. He helped them when he could, but winning now would mean he could buy them a new future as well.
Femi checked his watch, he had time in hand, so he lingered in the greenery of Square Verdrel, looking up through the trees at the sky and watching the ducks contented paddling on the still pond. Then he turned and glimpsed the spire of the cathedral between the rooftops of the nearby buildings. Time to go.
When he reached Place de la Cathédrale, he stared at the facade of Rouen’s Notre-Dame Cathédrale, marvelling at the Gothic excess and intricacy of all of the carvings and figures in the stone, the slight yellowing of the Butter Tower. Only the Church had enough money for such a symbol of power and wealth.
Walking towards the right-hand arch of the cathedral, he stepped through the doorway and left the sunshine of the square behind. The small entrance area was empty of tourists and Femi pulled the inner door open. He frowned at the second door that stood immediately in front of him. It would have almost touched the first door when they were both closed. Holding the first door open with his foot, he pushed the second open and was greeted by the cool and distinctive smell of a church. Musty air that didn’t circulate enough, mixed with burning candles and stone.
Inside, the cathedral was massive, with huge, high ceilings, every pillar and surface intricately carved. The scale and detailing spoke of the enormous effort needed to build such a structure, before cranes and power tools. It would have been a lifetime’s work for so many.
Femi headed down the walkway, admiring the skill needed, but thinking about the contrast between the wealth of the Catholic Church and those who carved the stones.
He walked to the end of the cathedral and followed the walkway as it curved behind the main altar. He passed a small set of tables, covered in b
ooks for sale, guarded by a nun in a pinkish habit who was looking at a mobile phone. He hadn’t expected a nun to have a phone.
The complaints of a tourist’s bored child echoed in the air, followed by a swift ‘Sssh!’ from a woman.
Femi continued and found the meeting point – the small Chapelle du Saint Sacrement. It was Stop Eight on the cathedral’s tourist trail. The tiny chapelle within the cathedral had two rows of pews and a large stone altar. He tiptoed past the rows of flickering candles and sat. The chapelle’s pews were empty. No one there to greet him.
After a few minutes, Femi started fidgeting. There was no mistaking the chapelle, so he must be in the right place, but where was the person to take him to the game?
Then an old man paused at the entrance. Femi caught the smell of cigarettes oozing from the man. He didn’t look important enough. He didn’t have the presence suitable for the Forbidden Island. He looked like a thug who preyed on the tourists.
‘Please,’ the man said, one hand waving towards the exit of the cathedral.
Femi paused; this man couldn’t be the beginning of the most prestigious AR game ever. He looked around, searching for someone more impressive.
The man looked annoyed, a flash of anger lighting up his eyes. ‘You’re Olufemi and you’re here for the Forbidden Island.’ He looked directly at Femi. ‘I won’t ask again,’ he said, repeating his wave towards the exit. ‘Do you want to fail your family before you have started?’
The taunt was enough to unstick Femi’s feet and he followed the man to the exit of the cathedral, across the square and into Rue du Change. A couple of cars were parked on one side of the road, behind them rested an old white van.
The man must have been waiting a while, or smoked a lot, thought Femi, looking at the pile of cigarette ends under the driver’s window.
The man opened the back door of the van and waited.
Femi hesitated again. He had expected more respect. More comfort.
‘OK,’ the man said with a shrug, starting to close the door again, but Femi grabbed the door and hopped in the back.
The door slammed shut, leaving Femi in darkness other than the faint smudge of light from around the edges of the doors and the rotating ventilator on the roof.
Femi sat on the floor of the van, his back to the wall, and bounced and rolled with every movement. The aeroplane had been much more comfortable.
His doubts rolled with him.
Chapter 10
Sully sat in the tiny room with two doors, tapping his hand with frustration at being made to wait so long. His gold ring made a tinny note on the plastic arm of the chair with each angry tap.
Sully glanced behind him again. The purpose of the two doors had been made very clear. The open door behind him invited him to walk back out and to quit.
The closed one in front of him was the entrance to the game.
The game was too big. He couldn’t walk away.
Sully stood and reached towards the door in front of him. It was still shut, but he tried the handle again. As before, it was locked. No way to progress in the game except by waiting.
He paced around to burn some of his outrage and irritation. I shouldn’t be made to wait, he thought. Not one of the best AR gamers.
Sully sat again, crossed his legs, and looked at his new white trainers. He muttered more annoyance, licked his finger and wiped a small scuff mark from the side of his left shoe.
His ring started to batter the chair’s arm again, its pace increasing with each passing minute.
***
Sully straightened in his chair when he finally heard activity on the other side of the door, and jumped up as the handle started to move. He pushed through the door before it had finished opening and stepped into a large room. The floor was swept concrete, but showed multiple dusty footprints. Sully looked at the metal walls and up at the high metal roof, recognising it as a large farmyard barn. Then he heard footsteps to either side of him.
He glanced around and behind. The door he had pushed open was part of a long wall that stretched the full width of the building. Nine additional doors punctuated the wall, each held open by what looked like a farmworker. Nine other people stepped through the doors and into the room. This must be The Ten, he thought.
His competition.
But he was the one. The winner.
The others repeated the same visual tour of the space that Sully had done. Their body language changing, becoming more upright, more assertive as they concluded that the people were the other players. The people they would have to beat.
Each of The Ten had taken three paces into the room and stopped at the yellow painted line on the floor. They formed a line, unsure of what to do next. The ten farmworkers stood with bovine stillness.
One door stood closed in the wall opposite them. Sully stared at it, waiting for whatever dramatic entrance the organiser had planned.
Nothing happened.
The Ten all looked at the door, all making the same assumption, then turned and stared at a scraping noise from the side of the building. A pedestrian door, cut into the metal side wall slid open and a man stepped in and crossed to the centre of the room, looking at them.
Sully’s irritation flared again. It was the scruffy smoker who had driven the van. Even now he had a cigarette in his left hand, the smoke twirling lazily up his yellow fingers. He can’t be in charge.
‘I want to talk to the organiser,’ Sully said.
‘Yeah, this is bogus,’ someone else said.
The smoker ignored the protests. ‘I am Serge,’ he said. He gave a shrug as if he didn’t care what they thought. ‘If you were expecting some big Disney production then you’re in the wrong place.’ His eyes swept The Ten. ‘Feel free to quit anytime.’
The room dropped into silence; they had all reacted to the threat in the tone of Serge’s voice.
‘OK then. You’ve all played my other games. You’ve done well,’ Serge said. ‘You’ve been specially chosen. You’re the best AR gamers,’ Serge said.
Sully nodded. Of course he was.
‘But those games were nothing.’ Serge spread his arms wide. ‘This is Forbidden Island.’
The Ten smiled at the name and the promise of the place.
‘This is the ultimate game, for the ultimate prize,’ Serge continued. ‘Much preparation has taken place, much money spent, and many people have put themselves at risk. We do not do this lightly. We need to be sure that this is the greatest game of all time. We need to be sure that you’ll give everything to the game.’
‘Yes,’ Sully shouted, ‘bring it on.’
Serge shook his head. ‘Words are easy. We need you to prove your commitment.’ He paused. ‘And only four can play.’
The others shouted complaints and questions, but Sully smiled. No problem, he thought. Ten or four, he would beat them all anyway.
Serge ignored the protests and waited until the room fell silent again. He let it drag on, then glanced up at the pattering on the roof. The noise got louder as the rain fell harder.
‘There will be three tests to find our players. They will turn ten into four. They will find the righteous. The rest will go home and reflect on their lack of commitment. Their unworthiness.’ Serge took a long drag on his cigarette. ‘You will have no help, no devices, no money. Nothing but you.’
I play by my own rules, Sully thought and puffed his chest out.
‘The first test will prove that you have the desire and skills to get around with no help,’ Serge said, raising a finger. ‘The second will show that you can evade capture.’ Now Serge had two fingers raised and a third joined it. ‘The final test will prove how serious you are. It will strip away all the pretence and bravado. It will expose the real you.’
‘Bring it,’ Sully said. The others joined him, each demanding the start of the game. Each sure of themselves.
‘More words, more boasts,’ Serge said, shrugging his indifference. ‘We will see who lives up to them. Leave anyth
ing you have in your room. The van leaves in five minutes. Wear something warm.’
Chapter 11
Clive had woken up tired and irritable again, and his mood wasn’t helped by the insistence of his bladder. His mouth was so dry that his tongue seemed glued stuck. The human body has a design fault, he thought. He needed a drink and his body clearly had enough liquid in it, yet here he was heading to the toilet to get rid of it. Why couldn’t his urine be recycled and then he wouldn’t need to piss or drink. Obviously not external recycling. He cringed at the thought of the people who drank their own urine. That can’t be a good idea. Years ago, he would have complained that bad beer tasted like piss, but he was pleased that the comparison wasn’t based on actual experience.
Clive’s Buddy rolled out a banner with the reminder of the hospital appointment, then another banner. ‘Your car is booked for 9:30am.’
Maybe I don’t need to go, he thought. He pinched his fingers on a menu item on his HUD, then clicked and swiped until he got to his health summary page.
‘Crap, not again,’ he said.
***
In the car, sitting with his usual rear-facing view, Clive scrolled through the medical articles on the screen. As the car approached Windsor, he turned slightly and took in the Long Walk. He loved the tree-lined pathway stretching down to the castle in the distance.
Today’s blue sky contrasted with the feelings of dread he was fighting. The articles he was reading added to his fears. The car completed the journey five minutes before his appointment time, and Clive got out.
The King Edward VII hospital’s cream facade, royal crest and statue made it seem like a country club, but as Clive stepped into the reception, that hospital smell of disinfectant and old cabbage hit him.
The hospital’s automated registration system recognised Clive’s iMe signal, and his Buddy rolled out a banner detailing the consultant’s name, room number and re-confirmation of his appointment time.
The waiting area had an aura of calm, with only a couple of people in it. As Clive sat, it struck him how different it was now. Eleven years ago, before iMe, he would have brought a book, and expected a long, long vigil in a crowded and unpleasant waiting room. Even worse at an A&E department. The minimum four hour wait meant that you could get through a lot of chapters. Now iMe did the triage automatically, and sent people to the pharmacy drop-in, GP or hospital. Everything diagnosed early and booked in advance.
