NO SIGNAL

by Jem Tugwell

  The clerk took Femi through the rest of the booking process and passed him a key. ‘You’ll need to use the key when you’re in the car here. The iTourist will take over when you have it.’ She smiled. ‘Have a good trip.’

  Femi hesitated. He’d never used a car that drove itself, but he picked up the instruction booklet and headed in the direction the clerk had pointed.

  When he was ten metres from a car, it sensed the signal from the key and flashed its lights. He walked over to it and the door opened. Femi dropped his bag on one set of seats and climbed in. Habit had him looking for the steering wheel and controls, but there weren’t any.

  His mouth felt dry.

  ‘Ya,’ Femi said, flicking to the instructions on defining a destination. ‘Car… Destination.’

  ‘Howzit, Femi,’ the car replied. ‘Where do you want to go, Bru?’

  Femi smiled at the greeting, a little bit of home here in a windy car park in Dublin. He wasn’t sure if the car had recognised his South African accent or had used his nationality from the rental booking details, but it was a nice touch.

  Femi gave the address of the hotel Serge had arranged and the car confirmed it. ‘Do you want me to check you into the hotel?’ the car said.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Please put on your seat belt. Movement is not possible until you do.’

  Femi did as he was told, and the car closed its door and started moving. He clutched the seat belt with one hand and the side of the chair with the other. He held on tight. I prefer to drive myself, he thought.

  He gripped even tighter as the car approached a busy T-junction with cars crossing in both directions ahead of him. He realised that he was holding his breath, but didn’t breathe out until the car stopped safely. He released his grip a little as the car waited, sensed a gap and pulled into the traffic.

  ‘Freaky,’ Femi muttered.

  ‘Command not recognised. Please repeat,’ the car said.

  ***

  Femi relaxed in the car now he had been in it a while, and the traffic thinned as it travelled north out of Dublin. He lost the feeling that the car was going to crash into everything that moved. It helped that the car drove on the same side of the road as at home, unlike Serge’s driving in France. It helped even more that it went so slowly.

  After about three hours, the car slotted itself into the left lane. It seemed to be following the ‘N2 – Derry. Non-local or UK traffic’ signs towards the border near Aughnacloy.

  ‘Border delay – estimated twenty minutes,’ the car said as it crawled to a halt behind another car. The cars in the local-traffic lane sped past him, free of such worries.

  The car inched forward periodically and counted down the delay. At the border, the car stopped and said, ‘Please leave the car for Border Security.’

  Femi did as he was told, but before he had a chance to get his bag, the car closed its door and drove away.

  ‘Hey,’ shouted Femi at the diminishing back of the car.

  ‘Don’t worry, sir,’ a mellow voice called to him. ‘It’s going to the bag check area. It will meet you on the other side.’

  Femi turned to face the voice. A tall woman with a large UK Border Control badge above her left breast waved him forward. ‘This way.’

  Femi followed the guard into a small arrivals hall, with desks arranged along both sides. It could have been the Avis rental area other than all the warning signs and the soldiers.

  Although he didn’t know it, Femi completed all the same steps as Lilou and Tatsuko when they entered the UK.

  ‘All done,’ the UK Border guard said after Femi ticked his acceptance in the last checkbox on the tablet. The guard waved Femi forward and towards the doors at the rear of the hall.

  The doors slid open as Femi approached them and his car seemed to have a second sense as it was already moving and nearly at the kerb. He arrived at exactly the same moment the car stopped and the door popped open.

  Femi was relieved to see his bag was still in the car, even if it was on a different seat now. He settled back into the car and it headed off. It seemed to be going quite a bit slower than on the Irish side of the border. ‘Journey time to Derry 87 minutes,’ the car said.

  Femi wasn’t in any position to argue and he spent the next part of the journey pulling and tugging at his newly installed iTourist bracelet. It didn’t move.

  ***

  While Femi was crossing into Northern Ireland, Sully was pressing the Taxi button on his iTourist.

  He’d been told that Glasgow was usually cold and wet, but the sun warmed his back as he waited.

  ‘Taxi arrival time, 30 seconds,’ the display on the iTourist showed and counted down.

  As the display clicked to zero, a car stopped in front of Sully and opened its door. He climbed in and followed the instructions for setting the destination.

  He was curious about what the car’s instructions described as ‘Status display’, so he said, ‘Status display… on.’

  The screen in the middle of the car turned on, showing a map, estimated distance and journey time.

  Sully pouted at the screen when he saw the words ‘Tariff: Tourist’ in the top left corner and the fact that the car had already taken £20 despite still being in sight of his departure point.

  Chapter 25

  Clive and Harry the Hoover were finishing clearing up from Clive’s birthday meal last night when the doorbell chimed.

  He wasn’t expecting anyone, and when he checked the apartment’s display wall, Clive saw the last person he wanted to talk to.

  ‘Special Investigator Winter, Freedom Unit Enforcement, Ministry of Well-being and Health’, showed on the display. Reluctantly, Clive clicked the door release.

  Winter burst into the room. He was about forty and his hair was shaved into short stubble. Clive was sure it was part of a plan to look more intimidating. Winter’s eyes glared a cold menace and his suit bulged with muscle.

  ‘I didn’t get a birthday party invitation,’ Winter said.

  ‘Wonder why,’ Clive said.

  ‘Don’t be like that. Now you’re mine again, I wanted to pop in and remind you how much a Health Reorientation Camp would transform your outlook on life, Inspector.’

  Winter prodded at Clive’s waist. Despite Clive clenching every muscle he had, Winter’s finger made inroads into Clive’s soft flesh.

  ‘Oh yes, Inspector. You’ve magically put on weight. You need some nice long route marches to burn that off.’ Winter smiled like a shark before continuing. ‘And if you don’t, then there’s the aversion therapy to help recalibrate your mind.’

  Winter was full of smug arrogance. He loved his job.

  He moved over to the fridge and peered in. ‘Shame you can’t eat that.’

  ‘It was only restocked yesterday for my new diet,’ Clive complained.

  Winter shook his head and said, ‘Maybe, but I talked to your doctor. She was too lenient given your history. I persuaded her to change it.’

  Clive said nothing and Winter seemed disappointed that he didn’t get a reaction.

  ‘I’m watching you, Inspector,’ Winter said. As he turned to leave, Harry bumped into his foot. Winter lashed out a kick that sent Harry flying into the wall.

  ***

  Clive turned his back on the door and approached his fridge. Not a casual, easy saunter, more like a man edging down a dark alley towards three loitering men.

  ‘Hello, Clive. The restock will take place in five minutes,’ the fridge cooed.

  Clive wasn’t friends with his fridge, but in an attempt to change his life, he was trying for a less antagonistic relationship with it. He had changed the fridge’s voice from the Dr Who Dalek to what the instruction manual labelled ‘Female voice six’. The voice was meant to be soothing and positive. It was the best of a bad lot.

  The fridge did her best, but Clive had spent the years since iMe introduction fighting and trying to buck the system every time it constrained him. It was his body after all. I
f he wanted to eat too many chips and chocolate, and drink too much caffeine, then that was his choice.

  And what was too much anyway? He should decide and not a group of doctors and lawyers studying statistics and research papers.

  He looked at the fridge, the glass door and rows of compartmentalised food containers. All his favourites, even sausages.

  All the things that Winter had made Dr Dilani Adhya’s new food prescription deny him.

  The doorbell rang again, and this time Clive could see two food technicians at his door. Not the ones from yesterday, maybe a different shift.

  ‘I’ll let them in,’ the fridge said.

  Clive heard the door click unlocked, then footsteps and the rumble of trolley wheels on the hard floor. One of the wheels must have been damaged as there was a juddering wobble sound every fourth footstep.

  The technicians came into the room. They gave Clive a curt nod and smiled when the fridge said, ‘Leyla, Anil, how're things?’

  ‘Like your new voice,’ Leyla said. ‘Better than that robot thing from before.’

  ‘Dalek,’ Clive said.

  ‘What’s that?’ Anil said.

  ‘The voice – it was a Dalek. From Dr Who.’

  Anil rolled his eyes and glanced at Leyla. Both arched their eyebrows and turned their backs on Clive.

  Anil unclipped two bollards from the side of one trolley. He put them down about three metres from the fridge. From the top of the first bollard, he grabbed one end of a long handle and drew out a wide green and yellow tape with the words ‘Food Tech – Do not cross’. He slipped the end of the tape onto a special clip on the side of the fridge. Leyla was repeating this on the other side of the fridge with a second bollard. Finally, Anil pulled one tape from the first bollard and stretched it and clipped it onto the second.

  Leyla, Anil, the fridge and the two trolleys were on the inside of the taped-off area.

  Clive was definitely on the outside.

  Pretentious gits, he thought, snarling at the similarity of the ‘Food Tech – do not cross’ tape with the ‘Police – do not cross’ tape he had used.

  He glared at them as they both touched the fridge door and the whole front hinged open.

  ‘Now your diet excludes a lot of the stuff in here, we can’t allow all this good food to go off. You’ll get a bank transaction for any difference in value,’ Anil said as he removed Clive’s favourite sausages from the fridge and packed them in the trolley. A faint condensation cloud seeped over the edge of the refrigerated drawer the sausages had gone into.

  Clive watched in despair as all the last remaining food he wanted to eat was removed and replaced with even more healthy rabbit and bird food.

  He agreed with avoiding food wastage, but he still felt an irrational pang of personal loss.

  Leyla and Anil shut the fridge, packed away the tape and the bollards, and left.

  ‘That’s better. How about a nice mixed salad for dinner, Clive?’ the fridge cooed.

  That did it. Clive was sure he could hear a mocking tone in the fridge’s voice. He stormed over, touched the status display and scrolled to the voice selection menu.

  He knew he had to eat better for his health, but this felt like he was caving in. He felt complicit. He felt a fraud.

  Dr Adhya’s prescription gave him no choice on food, but the fridge’s voice was a tiny thing in his life that he could control.

  Clive selected ‘Restore last used voice’ on the fridge and pressed ‘OK’.

  ‘How about a mixed nice salad for dinner, Clive?’ the fridge said in a Dalek voice, once more sounding like ‘the emotionless master race bent on domination, utterly without pity, compassion or remorse’. At least in a Dalek voice, the mixed salad sounded like a threat.

  ‘Do I have a choice?’ Clive said.

  ‘No other options are available under the prescription.’

  ‘So give it to me,’ he said, smiling despite the anger in his tone.

  Clive heard the usual motors whirring and the compartments opening. The serving drawer at the front of the fridge slid open holding a container with the carefully weighed ingredients of his meal; lettuce, carrot, tomato, cucumber and a lot of other green rabbit food that a nutritionist’s algorithm had decided must be good for him. No dressings.

  Clive picked up the container and pushed his hand in to stir the ingredients around. He tipped the contents of the container onto a plate and returned the container to the fridge.

  At least the meal took no effort, he thought.

  As Clive crunched the first piece of lettuce, he heard the fridge cleaning the container and stowing it. The food provided more noise than flavour, he decided, as he bit into a raw carrot.

  Still chewing, Clive clicked on a message banner that his Buddy rolled out and he unfurled the message text:

  From: Dr Dilani Adhya

  Subject: Tomorrow night

  ‘Clive, just a reminder that the new member’s meeting is tomorrow night at the Windsor Church of the New Modelists. Don’t worry, you don’t have to be a member, all are welcome. It’s a chance for people to share their stories and see how the Church can help you break free of the negative. Free from the battle against the Model. I really think it will help you in your ongoing health issues. Staying in-Model is a fulfilling lifestyle and we are a supportive community. Please come and give it a chance. Dilani.’

  Clive stared at the message, his thoughts accompanied by the crunch of what he thought was raw radish. Maybe it was worth a go. What would it cost him? Sophia would be going so he could go with her and try to patch things up. It might even help him.

  His eyes touched the bottom of the screen. It looked like there was more to the message. Scrolling down, he read:

  ‘P.S. Sorry the new prescription is so tight, but Special Investigator Winter from Freedom Unit Enforcement was really insistent that I made your menu stricter than I originally intended.’

  Chapter 26

  Serge felt happy to be back in his own apartment after the selection process. The air was better for his chest. He took a deep breath, but it started him coughing again.

  His active part was done for the moment. The Four were travelling and he allowed himself a cigarette watching the Seine slide by.

  He was interrupted by his phone vibrating softly on the desk. He picked it up and looked at the screen. A message from Sully on a one-use phone. No text. Instead it showed a long hexadecimal number – his iTourist serial number from his immigration paperwork. He was the last to arrive.

  Serge balanced his cigarette on the ashtray and shook his computer’s mouse to wake it up. The fan started and the computer beeped a couple of times before the screen flashed up a password prompt.

  He pushed his face closer to the computer’s camera, the facial recognition software did its thing and logged him in. Even with six days of beard growth, the software recognised his face. Impressive.

  Serge brought up a window and clicked through multiple connections, trapdoors and throwaway accounts. It would look like his computer was in Chile when he opened the iMe window.

  He logged into his account. He was ‘Chile Gaming Services, Inc.’ as far as iMe knew while the Forbidden Island was running. Typing in Sully’s iTourist ID with one hand, he took a drag from the cigarette, head cocked slightly to one side. He was distracted by the piece of paper under the ashtray. ‘Merde.’

  With all the excitement of the game, he had forgotten to take his prescription to the pharmacy and collect his new inhaler. He was sure there was an old one in the bathroom. It could wait.

  He focused again on the screen and pressed ‘Submit’, knowing that the account had been funded sufficiently to pay for the location search. The money came from an untraceable Cayman Island account. He would look like any number of overseas employers running a check on their UK based staff.

  Seconds later, the computer screen redrew with a map of the UK. It showed four signal dots: Sully in a taxi near Glasgow, Femi driving into Derry, Lilou
near Birmingham and Tatsuko in the south of England.

  Happy to see all his players in motion, Serge minimised his iMe window and tapped on the keyboard to send his latest tweet to Jack.

  ‘Hi to all you film fans, I’m watching “The Departed” and enjoying every minute.’

  ***

  As the fifth cigarette stub joined its siblings in the ashtray, Serge finished his work. He was whipping up a storm on the gaming communities. Each message he sent was forwarded on again and again. The first game ever on the Forbidden Island was what the whole community had been waiting for. The huge vacuum of game supply was now fed by this one game. It sent the community’s fervour spiralling.

  Serge logged into the local bank account for Chile Gaming Services. The numbers at the bottom of the screen ticked up and up as each gamer paid their fee to gain access to the news and status updates from the game. It was already well past five million Pan-European dollars.

  He would let it get to eight million before he locked the rest out. Denial of access would drive desire, and when he opened the subscriptions again for each of the ‘limited time’ offers, the cost for entry would double.

  And then there was the gambling revenue. The game would be a very profitable venture. Serge would have to give the lion’s share to Jack of course as it was his plan, but Serge’s cut would still be substantial.

  Serge knew that Jack would be desperate for news of The Four, but wouldn’t be able to risk running a search inside the Forbidden Island. He couldn’t move without them knowing. He couldn’t search without leaving a trail that would lead straight back to him.

  It had been more than a year since they had started on the plan. Serge shook his head. He wouldn’t have had the patience. But he wasn’t Jack. He didn’t have the vision.

  Serge’s plan would have been direct and blunt. No hiding behind a game. Simply send The Four to the end points, but Jack had explained his bigger vision at their last meeting.