by Jem Tugwell
The Ultra waited for the room to settle, and silence to return before starting to pace slowly around the table, facing each section of the room in turn.
‘We are under attack again from the unbelievers,’ she said. ‘The lazy and the risk-takers. They call us heretics. They call our Model Citizen a false prophet.’
‘No,’ the congregation hissed.
‘What have the Christian, Muslim and other religions ever given their followers? Look back at history and try and count the number who have died in the name of their faith.’
‘Shame,’ the congregation hissed. ‘Tragedy.’
‘They seek to deny us the utopia of freedom. The freedom not to worry. The freedom not to battle conflicting health and lifestyle choices.’
‘Praise the Model,’ the congregation chanted.
‘The unbelievers breed and breed and endanger our planet with their gluttonous hoards.’
‘One child per union,’ the congregation implored.
Clive zoned out the Ultra and watched the rapt faces of the congregation. They were more devout than any church service he had seen. Despite sitting next to Sophia, he felt more distant from her than ever.
The Ultra’s sermon went on for a long time before she paused and then said, ‘Let us hear from those who had fallen, and now follow the light.’
Clive felt a sudden rush of panic. Surely they wouldn’t want him to speak? He relaxed when he saw a group of No-Tucks – people who were much fatter before iMe managed away their weight, but couldn’t afford the cosmetic surgery to remove their excess skin.
Each No-Tuck spoke of their personal story of salvation. Stories of excess. Stories of weight gain from lack of exercise. Stories of how the Model saved their life.
At the end of the confessions, Sophia dabbed a tear from the corner of her eyes and said, ‘Beautiful and inspiring, isn’t it?’
Clive wasn’t sure what to say. The No-Tuck’s stories had been uplifting and emotional, but he was worried about the tone from the Ultra. There was an edge to it that went past a hint of anger to full on threat. ‘What’s an Ultra? I thought Pure Greens were the most devout followers of the Model?’ Clive said.
‘No, the Ultras set the Church up. They think the Model is too lenient. They think the government could do much more to save the environment by lowering the population and consumption. They only take half of the Model’s allowance. The rest they see as excess that brings death to the planet. That’s why half of their robes are black.’
Clive frowned, feeling more unsettled by Sophia’s explanation.
***
The meeting closed, the congregation started to drift away.
As Sophia said goodbye to her friends, Clive hung back, inching towards the rear of the room. He crabbed sideways, his back to the wall as he made his way to the green and black door.
He reached for the door handle and tried to turn it, but it was locked.
As he removed his hand, the handle snapped down and the door flew open. A man in green and black filled the doorway and towered over Clive.
He snatched Clive’s arm and gripped it hard. Squeezing and twisting as he walked him towards the exit.
‘This room is reserved for Ultras, Citizen.’
He shoved Clive in the back, sending him off-balance out and into the night.
‘Not for you,’ the Ultra snarled.
Chapter 29
Sully’s mood was worsened by the wind and the imminent threat of the heavy rain from the morning returning. He didn’t know where the other three were, but it must be better than this. Each folder was a secret, but his folder ‘C’ had taken him to Glasgow and then this small place called Dumfries.
The others must have known this was the worst place, he thought. That’s why they let me have the folder. ‘Conspiracy,’ he muttered. But he’d show them. He’d already left a message on the forum using his hotel’s internet connection and a one-use only account. However this all played out, he was heading to Gretna Green.
For now, he had to pretend to conform. The folder had given him his instructions and so he was heading to the athletic centre, following a small group of locals who all seemed immune to the weather. He missed the clear, blue skies of Tuscany.
Arriving at the low brown brick building of the athletic centre, Sully followed the group and the signs around the side of the building and along a long, drab brick wall. The clouds seemed to get darker, and pushed the afternoon into impersonating the night.
At the entrance to a field stood a man wearing a thick waterproof coat. He held a small tablet device and each of the people in the group ahead paused to read it before carrying on up a small incline to a field.
Sully approached and the man smiled. ‘We don’t get many tourists, but you’re more than welcome all the same.’ He pushed the tablet towards Sully.
He took it, he felt a small buzz from his iTourist and the tablet flashed ‘Entrance fee paid – please accept waiver to enter.’
Sully read the waiver document and acknowledged that any injury or fall wasn’t the organiser’s liability, and that getting struck by a ball was an inherent risk of attending a football match, and neither the centre nor the players could accept any blame or liability.
He tapped his agreement into the tablet and trudged up onto the field.
The players were already on the pitch and the referee stood over the ball and blew her whistle three times. ‘I have inspected the pitch and I am declaring this a “Wet Pitch”. As such the slip hazard risk is confirmed as “Severe”, and the risk mitigation plan demands no running. This will be a “Walk Game”.’
The referee ushered a player forward, she blew her whistle again and the game began. The players walked around, kicking the ball and Sully turned away.
‘Pathetic,’ he said, and headed towards a group of trees and bushes on the other side of the pitch.
‘I’m too good for this,’ he muttered to himself. ‘I’m one of The Four – the winner of the ultimate game. They should pamper me and bring things to me. Not make me walk around in the rain.’
Sure, Serge had explained it all. The helpers would be tracked. When the game started the police would rerun his routes, see everywhere he had been and see who else had been there. Anyone coming to him to give him what he needed would be tracked and caught.
But he was Sully. He was worth their sacrifice.
The parcel he had to collect was meant to be in the bushes. Thrown from a safe distance so that the police couldn’t know who delivered it.
I make a sacrifice for the game – so should they, he thought, but there he was. He had no choice if he wanted to be in the game. He would win the money, the BST hand and everyone would hail him as a champion.
Sully stepped over a low bush and straight into a muddy puddle. ‘Shit.’
He scanned the bushes, looking for his parcel. He started to panic when he couldn’t see it. Was this more conspiracy? They didn’t want him to be in the game.
He strode around in the low bushes, sweeping his hand over the tops of the bushes to see if the parcel was hidden underneath. His only reward was a wet hand to join his wet foot.
Then his toe hit something solid.
‘Yes,’ he said as he bent and picked up a parcel. It was wrapped tightly in plastic against the weather and had the letter ‘C’ written on it in black ink. The parcel must have been there some time, some days even, as the ‘C’ was streaked and dissolving.
Sully pushed the parcel under his arm and hurried towards the exit, ignoring the questioning glances of some of the crowd.
***
His mood hadn’t improved when he followed the iTourist’s route from the athletic centre to his start point.
He pushed against the door, feeling the resistance from the disused, rusty hinges. No glamorous location, no adoring crowds. Instead, he stood alone in an abandoned room. A thick wooden table was the only remaining furniture. Its top was scarred with hundreds of cut marks and stained with a red tint.
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Part of the roof had come away, and water dripped through the gap and down the wall. The room was darker than the afternoon outside so Sully tried the light switch. Nothing happened.
The information status on his iTourist said 15:47. Thirteen minutes to go.
Sully let the thought grow in him, feeding his anticipation.
The game was his.
He put his parcel on the wooden table and started to tear at the wrapping. Despite being thin, it was strong and stretched rather than tore. He pulled and stretched and stuck his fingernails in to try and break through the seal.
Finally, he got through it, and unpeeled the parcel’s layers, like pulling the bandages off a mummy.
The waterproof, outer covering looked to have done its job, as the box inside was dry and undamaged. Sully snapped the catches on the box’s lid open and lifted the lid, feeling his excitement grow.
On top was a towel. Sully took it out and unfolded it, spreading the folds flat on the table.
His hand returned to the box and pulled out a large lamp. He clicked it on, splashing the table with a harsh blue-white light.
Sully put the lamp on the table and pulled out the next item.
He gasped, gulping down his fear. He knew it would be in the box, but seeing it and holding it was something else. Something real.
The machete’s curved blade flashed with the reflected light of the lamp as he twisted it in his hand. He touched the edge very gently. It was extremely sharp.
Sully placed the machete reverently on the towel, careful to stay away from its edge. Despite its excellent condition, the machete was old. Its handle and blade showed scuffs and scrapes from use. You couldn’t buy them now. Too dangerous. Illegal to even own.
The lamp and machete had been sourced locally. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his BST universal mount that had been inside his case on the journey from France. It could go through the security scans without looking like anything other than a piece of clothing.
Sully put it on the table next to the machete which seemed to wink at him like it knew what was coming.
The only other thing in the box definitely couldn’t be sourced locally or risked in his luggage. Serge had boasted about the cost and complexity of smuggling it into the Forbidden Island. Something in his voice made Sully think that there had been many failed attempts, but Serge had said nothing and glared at Sully when he asked.
Sully put both hands into the box and lifted the game controller out, like a priest lifting a sacred relic.
It was heavier than he thought, and he placed the game controller onto the towel. He marvelled at it. It had four fingers and a thumb – a hand-like thing, but with a solid base that seemed a perfect match for his BST universal mount. The hand looked almost grey in the bluish light from the lamp.
The screen in the game controller’s palm was off. A black, empty rectangle.
His iTourist clicked over to 15:52. Eight minutes to go.
Sully stared at the screen on the controller. Waiting for it to come to life, and signal the start of the game.
It stayed black.
The light outside faded, and Sully could hear the rain start to bounce on the roof. The shadows cast by the lamp deepened, and Sully could hear his own breathing.
Sully glanced at the machete. Should he cheat and start early? No, not this time.
The rain banged down heavier on the roof.
Sully stared at the game controller again.
His iTourist clicked over to 15:54.
Six minutes to go until the world’s greatest game.
Chapter 30
For once, Serge didn’t have a cigarette on the go as he checked his computer. His breath was shallow, and his chest tightened as the excitement and stress built.
15:54 in the UK. Six minutes to go.
He had spent a lot of money with iMe tracking his Four and he had recently topped up the balance on Chile Gaming Services, Inc’s iMe account. The minimum credit took him way over what he needed, but Serge could afford to lose a few pounds to iMe. Sales of registrations for status updates on Forbidden Island had gone better than expected. The last time they had opened the website to allow new registrations, the five thousand slots had all gone in four minutes. The registrations account balance was very, very healthy. The amount they had taken in bets had nearly caught up. It would soon eclipse registrations.
His four contestants were all at their starting points. Serge had watched every move of their iTourist’s signals as they followed their instructions. Well, more or less, but these were high-achievers not mindless sheep, so he had expected them to push the rules.
Tatsuko had landed in Southampton and headed to the hotel as she was told. She had collected her parcel from its hiding place easily. She was at her start point in Southampton centre on time, but Serge worried about some of the shops she had been to the previous evening.
Lilou was his favourite. Maybe because she was French. Serge thought that a little patriotic bias was allowed at this stage. There would be none later.
She had made her way to Worcester and picked up her parcel without drama or deviation.
Femi had had the hardest journey, but now waited in Derry.
Sully was in Dumfries. Serge had laughed as he watched his signal thrash around in the bushes. He was a pompous fool, Serge thought.
15:55.
Time to start. He pressed the ‘Five minutes’ button on the game’s master window on his computer.
He waited.
This was the moment of greatest technical risk.
He held his breath.
And relaxed as each game controller hand responded and came online, their positions glowed on the game’s master window of his computer. If it was able to show the iMe signals as well, they would be almost perfectly overlain.
He pressed the ‘Contestant View’ button and the game master window redrew into four segments. Each segment showed the contestant’s name and a graphical representation of the contestant’s game controller hand.
Each hand-shaped controller counted down. 04:55, 04:54, 04:53.
He could almost feel their tension, imagining the contestants watching their game controllers intently.
Serge checked another page on the game master window. Fifty-six thousand subscribers online and growing. All watching the same clock countdown past three minutes to go.
He knew Jack would be looking at his own clock. Blind to the real-time status. Too high risk. It would be stupid for him to express any interest. He would need deniability.
All he could risk was a quick glance at a tweet.
The timers all hit 00:10. Will they do it? Serge thought. They had all passed the tests, but this was different. They had to do it themselves.
They had to survive.
The clocks all hit zero.
He clicked on his computer to bring another window to the front. It held his latest tweet.
‘Hi to all you film fans, a sports comedy theme today. I was tempted by “Run Fat Boy Run”, but I settled on “Ready to Rumble”.’
He pressed send and clicked back onto the game master window, staring at the screen, willing the game controller hands to move.
Chapter 31
Tatsuko glanced at the clock on her game controller, 04:55. She still had time. She wasn’t going to waste it watching the rest of the countdown.
She was in a disused butcher’s shop, with a large, scarred chopping bench. The angle of the pale afternoon sun through a window cast a shaft of light across the bench. She had the contents of her parcel laid out on a towel: game controller, machete, lamp. The lamp was off. She had already checked that the game controller fitted her BST mount.
The bench also held some of her shopping. The brand-new, battery-powered multitool balanced on top of its box. She had charged it overnight in the hotel, so she was sure it had enough juice. A flexible metal shaft snaked from the multitool and ended with a small circular base. The base had a light and a spring-loade
d clamp that when Tatsuko pulled down on it, she could attach one of the circular cutting discs onto the end of the shaft. When she released the base, its spring forced the base up to grasp the disc. The disc was the hardest and sharpest they made.
To check that the disc was on correctly, she held the shaft in her right hand and used her left hand to blip the power of the multitool.
Instead of the sound of the multitool powering up and the disc spinning, the end of the shaft holding the cutting disc, flashed red. The display on the multitool’s casing alternated two error messages: ‘Error code: 1’ and ‘Error code: 2’.
Tatsuko found the error codes in the user manual – no safety glasses detected, and no safety gloves detected.
She checked on her game controller: 03:43. Still time.
Tatsuko pulled the safety glasses and cut-proof gloves out of their boxes, glad now the shop assistant had insisted she bought them.
Relieved that she had charged them as well, she slipped the glasses on and pressed the power button. After a pause, the glasses buzzed and the ‘Error code: 1’ message disappeared.
Tatsuko slipped both gloves on, careful not to cover the iTourist with the cuff of the left glove. She pressed buttons on each glove and was rewarded with a buzz from each and the disappearance of ‘Error code: 2’.
She must have breathed a bit heavily and had steamed up the glasses. As she pulled them off her face to wipe them, the ‘Error code: 1’ reappeared. The glasses must have a proximity sensor or something she decided.
Glasses back in place, no errors showing, Tatsuko held the end of the shaft and pressed the power button.
This time the cutting disc spun up with an excited whir. She moved the disc down towards the bench, and as it touched the wood, the disc slowed momentarily as it dug into the wood, then cut a neat furrow into the bench, shooting dust away from Tatsuko.
She lifted the disc and turned the power off. The edge of the disc glowed red and the smell of burnt wood drifted towards her.
