The Complete Afternet: All 3 Volumes In One Place (The Afternet)

by Peter Empringham

  The Italian hesitated at the door, but a gentle shove took him inside, and his new companion walked past him and took a seat as part of a larger circle. Initially hesitant, Benito did the same. After a while the room went quiet and somewhat to his surprise the Canadian began to talk.

  “We have all done evil during our lives,” he said, “and now we have decided to change our ways.” The assembly mumbled variously ‘Right! and ‘Yeah!’.

  “We know it will be hard,” he went on, “but if we follow the programme, and support each other, we can make it through.” More mumbles of support. “We have a new friend here today, and I know that you will all try to help him, and be there for him when the going gets tough.” A number of pairs of eyes shifted towards Benito. “Who wants to address us first today?” The man looked serenely around the circle. After a moment, a tiny woman rose to her feet.

  “I’m Audrey. And I’m an Evildoer.” She said.

  “Hello Audrey.” The others spoke in unison.

  “I haven’t been evil today. I was last evil seventy one days ago.” There was a small smattering of applause, but Audrey wasn’t done, “But the family who’ve just moved in next to me are really pissing me off.” Sharp intake of breath all round. Audrey went on to explain that she was increasingly tempted to slit the throats of that family, because they seemed to be really happy despite the fact that they were dead. A number of those present offered counselling of a kind, and then several others in turn got to their feet and told everyone how they weren’t doing evil despite their terrible lives. There were tears and smiles, rounds of applause, cheers and jeers.

  At length, the leader turned to Mussolini.

  “Benito. Do you feel ready to talk to the group?”

  In fact he would rather have walked from the barn, locked the door, and set fire to it, but he was here now, so he could show them what real evil was. He rose to his feet, portly, hair slicked back, neat gunshot wound in his chest, and surveyed the circle of people. They all looked at him expectantly, with the eyes of those who couldn’t wait for the opportunity to show empathy.

  “My name is Benito,” he said, “and I am an evildoer.”

  “Hello Benito.” The crowd murmured in unison. Right, he thought, I’ll show them some evil. Ten minutes later he was sobbing uncontrollably into the shoulder of a plump woman in angora who was there because she had stolen church silver.

  Over the next few weeks, Benito went cold turkey. He learned from EA that there is no such thing as ‘cutting down’ where evil is concerned. Vice, he was informed, is deeply addictive, and even minor misdemeanours can lead to an addict falling back into truly wicked ways. The angora woman, Juanita, was designated his ‘buddy’, to be called upon when temptation fell into his way. Possibly for the best, she took the view that this service should be provided on a proactive basis, and lurked close by him. She called it ‘soft attention’, but in life it would without doubt have been categorised as stalking.

  If his fingers stretched tremulously towards a piece of fruit on a market stall, or a currant bun on a hawker’s tray, Juanita would arrive at his shoulder, stare at him soulfully. Should his hand arch back to beat someone guilty of a real or imagined slight, he would feel soft fingers upon it. When his boot swung to deliver a hearty kick to some tiresome child, he found it held in place behind him until he pitched forward onto his face. He gradually ceased all such activities.

  At the meetings he found himself able to say, “I haven’t been evil today. I haven’t been evil for forty days.” Then fifty, then sixty. Juanita’s ministrations became almost redundant, although she still shadowed him everywhere he went.

  One morning he came upon a crowd, and noted that they were gathered round something at an ‘Afternet Café’, whatever that was. He edged his way forward until he could see that there was some kind of moving picture, upon which words appeared and disappeared, with brightly coloured symbols. Someone was sitting in front of it and entering words on a strange typewriter, with no roll, no ribbon, and no bell.

  Over the next couple of hours, he watched several people sit at the machine and type away, causing laughter and interest amongst all of those watching. When each one first took their place at the machine, he saw that the picture flashed “EVIL? EVIL ENOUGH TO JOIN US? ENTER YOUR NAME HERE!”

  Many did something to move past this message straight away, but others entered their names, and then the machine would tell them where they were in the ranking. It was like watching teenagers open their exam results.

  Finally he was at the front of the crowd, and sat in front of the picture. He mimicked what he had seen done by the others, and when asked the question as to whether he was evil, his hands trembled above the keys. ‘I haven’t been evil today,’ he thought, ‘I have not been evil for seventy one days.’ Nonetheless, he typed his name, curiosity overriding all other thought.

  The machine went off like a one-armed bandit signifying a jackpot.

  ‘SILVER!’ the screen shrieked. ‘CONGRATULATIONS, YOU ARE A SILVER LEVEL MEMBER, RATED 8.7!. YOU ARE INVITED TO POL’S POT RESTAURANT FOR THE FIRST MEETING OF FIENDS REUNITED. GET TOGETHER WITH OTHER EVIL PEOPLE AND DO EVIL THINGS. EVILLY.” He was unaware that the crowd had drawn back somewhat, alarmed both by the noise, and the concern at the status of the pudgy figure at the keyboard.

  The picture went on to give him more details about the meeting, suggest possible merry japes which may transpire, and alerted him to the fact that Terms and Conditions may apply, the offer was open only to those who had entered their names correctly, and suggested various punishments should that not be the case.

  Benito felt a shiver of excitement. Amidst all of this boredom, something was going on which could use his talents! He stood from the chair, quivering at the thought, and mouthing the location of Pol’s Pot to help commit it to memory. He felt a hand softly against his shoulder, and turned to see Juanita. She looked dolefully up at him, her eyes full of the empathy of the religious zealot.

  “Turn away from this Benito,” her voice quavered. He noticed possibly for the first time the slight whistle on the ‘s’. “You are a shtar of the programme. You are shtrong. You have brothersh and shishters here.”

  Mussolini slowly raised his huge hand to her beseeching face, touched the cheek, which creased with a smile. He grasped her entire face in his hand and shoved her violently.

  “Get away you old hag! I am required to fulfil my destiny!” He declaimed grandiosely.

  She careened backwards into the onlookers and then pitched into the sloppy, trodden dirt. Mussolini stared briefly down at the mud-stained face tearfully gazing back at him from the ground, then pushed through the crowd as he strode away.

  Business at Pol’s Pot had improved considerably, and in a very serious way it was thanks to Jenkin Furvill. In all truth, the young man had seen his application as something of a game, and that it would be used very much in the way that Mark Zuckerberg’s baby had come to be in a parallel universe. In this world, therefore, he had thought simply that people with a past would be saying that they were feeling good, had hooked up with a significant other, and post photographs of their bottoms. This was different. The users of Fiends Reunited were much more interested in finding a way to revive past ‘glories’, and this meant getting together with like-minded souls.

  The rocky path up to the mountainside hostelry was becoming like the modern day ascent of Everest, with a constant flow of people hiking upwards and leaving litter and other detritus wherever they went. The owner welcomed the newcomers with open arms and increased prices, mentally classifying them as they revealed their level of membership. He made sure that the small number of Gold members were seated at the best tables, the Silvers at the periphery or en route to the toilets, whilst the rest were spread out upon the hillside trying to eat goat curry from paper plates.

  There was a bit of a hiatus when a flight of nuns on a hiking trip happened upon the assembly, and were under serious threat. Batches of the nasty types lo
unging on the hillside began to murmur and look for weapons, but Pot was not in the mood for pre-emptive slaughter. He managed to persuade the nuns that the views from the crest were spectacular and sent them on their way with a few portions of goat’s head soup in foil containers. They went on their way to much grumbling from the crowd on the hill, wimples flying, singing in close harmony ‘I am sixteen going on seventeen’, which from the look of them hadn’t been true for some time.

  When Pot felt that there was a quorum, he quietly went amongst the prime suspects and steered them towards a private upstairs room, to which they repaired with little fanfare. Satisfied that he had everyone he needed, he briefed his staff on servicing the needs of the burgeoning crowd, and turned to head upstairs and meet with his peers.

  As he did so, a large figure appeared in the doorway, the setting sun behind him almost eclipsed by the porcine silhouette, a few shafts of light thrusting past his shoulders and causing those inside to squint to look at it.

  “I am here!” The figure thrust out its’ arms dramatically as though thanking the assembly for the non-existent applause. Mussolini (for it was he) took two paces into the room, his boots thumping on the floor. He looked around at the brimming tables, faces in various states of disrepair staring back at him with little sign of recognition, though he ignored their ignorance.

  “Who’s in charge here?”

  Eyes flickered towards Pot, though no one looked for too long. The Cambodian walked slowly towards the new arrival and stopped a few feet in front of him, looking up at the moist-lipped face.

  “Hello Shorty. Where’s the boss?” There was a collective intake of breath around the room.

  Pot was nothing if not stereotypically inscrutable.

  “Can I help you?” he said calmly, “Perhaps if I had your name and membership grade?”

  Mussolini continued to search the room over Pot’s head as he said matter-of-factly, “Benito Mussolini. It said silver, but that must be a mistake.”

  “I don’t think the system makes mistakes. If it says silver, you are silver.”

  He was calmness personified, and Mussolini stopped his perusal of the restaurant to look down at the small man in front of him.

  “And you are?” he said.

  “In charge. Please take a seat and have something to eat. You should particularly enjoy the kid ravioli. Very tender. Now if you will excuse me I have a meeting to attend.”

  Mussolini’s mouth moved as though he were tasting the pasta and not enjoying it very much.

  “It’s a mistake.” He insisted.

  The Khmer Rouge leader sighed. On the one hand he could just slaughter the porky ingrate on the spot, but the fact remained that he was a member, and silver was not bad on the scale of misbehaviour. He could be useful.

  “Come with me.” He said quietly. Mussolini gave a grim smile to the onlookers as he followed the little man through to the back of the restaurant, convinced that he was going to be allowed into the inner circle. In a small office near the kitchen was an Afternet terminal. Pot went to the desk.

  “Mussolini, you say?” The Italian nodded and sniffed, looking around the drab office with unhidden contempt. The screen sprang to life, the words and pictures scrolling down as Pot scanned the content.

  “It says silver.” Mussolini raised an eyebrow, unconcerned by the obvious mistake. “Let’s see. You ran away from military service. Oh! You went to Switzerland. You can get silver membership there for crossing the road at the wrong time.”

  Il Duce stared angrily at the other man, who was peering intently at the screen.

  “Ah. Assassination attempt, that’s usually some credit.” The Italian chest puffed out. “Oh. Shot in the nose. Slightly.” It deflated. “Still, big target. No, sorry. You didn’t actually do much, did you? You didn’t stop anything, and you indirectly subjected your people to horrible outcomes, but you weren’t holding the gun.”

  Mussolini looked as if he was going to cry.

  “Silver, Benito. Sit outside with the others. Eat some pasta, have a glass of red wine. We’ll tell you when we need you; you’ll be very close to those actually perpetrating the evildoing. As it was in life…” He left that phrase hanging, and the Italian leader followed him meekly back into the restaurant.

  Pot pulled out a chair at a table populated by three other ne’er do wells.

  “Introduce yourself to these people, Benito. I’m sure you have a lot in common.” He turned and walked slowly up the stairs.

  Sixteen

  Mary’s illegal entry to the booking system for travel to the living world had finally borne fruit, and at the same time given her a good deal of respect for the skills of Jenkin Furvill. Mary had spent a life in Information Technology but The Afternet was like no system she had ever seen. Whereas there was a basic logic behind all programs in living systems, this one would take you down a path and then shoot off somewhere else for no apparent reason. In the back of her mind was the knowledge that an untrained youth had cracked it, so she could do the same.

  After initially displaying some interest in her efforts, the others had gradually mooched off to pursue their own, less critical pursuits, and only came back to her side when she said, “Got it.” She thought she had said it to herself, but her concentration was so complete that the words had dropped into the gloomy room, and her colleagues appeared at her side.

  There were no free slots for months, but she had secured Administration access, which gave her the capability to elbow others aside in order to get a ticket to ride. She was also able to see that Jenkin and Slaven had already made the trip.

  “I guess we need to go as soon as we can.” She said. “Who shall we bump?” The four of them peered at the screen, which listed those due to travel in the next few hours.

  “Hell of a lot of angels going down there.” Marcel observed. “Must be some kind of recruitment drive.”

  “No.” Justin pointed to the top right corner of the screen. “Look at the date.”

  He had a point. In life, it was the week before Christmas. “I suppose,” he said, “they have to do some kind of promotional activity.”

  “Excellent!” said Marcel. “A couple of those being a bit late won’t be noticed. So some shepherds don’t get to see a heavenly apparition on time? So what!”

  Mary wasn’t quite as flippant as Marcel, but figured that their need was greater. She picked a slot a couple of hours away, and replaced the names of a pair of seraphim with hers and-?

  “Who’s going?” she asked, realising that hadn’t really been discussed. “I’ll need to be there in case Jenkin’s up to something on computers. Who’s coming with me?” Geoffrey excused himself on the grounds that he wanted to find out what Tony Soprano would do about the ducks in his swimming pool, and Marcel cut any further discussion short.

  “We can’t let you and Justin go down on your own, you don’t know what you’re doing. Besides,” he cocked his chin towards Marchant, “he’d probably make a run for it.”

  Justin ceased stuffing his pockets with the cash he was taking for when he made a run for it, and denied that would ever be his intent.

  “Whatever.” Said Marcel, “you’re not going. You stay here with Geoffrey. We need you to keep an eye on what’s happening with this Fiends Reunited

  thing.”

  “How can we do that? I can’t get onto it, can I? I’m not evil, Marcel.”

  “Have you checked?” Justin looked uncomfortable.

  “Well, no, obviously. What would be the point?”

  “Oh, go on.” Marcel was grinning wickedly at Marchant, who had begun to twitch. “You’d be amazed how little you have to do to go to Hell, Justin, and from what I’ve heard, you weren’t exactly Mother Theresa. Go on,” he prodded, “have a look.”

  “We could probably just sign in with your name, Marcel,” Mary tried to cut the tension in the air, but Marcel maintained his gaze directly at Justin.

  “No. I want him to try.”

  After a
moment, Justin walked the couple of paces to the terminal and sat down. He brought up the Fiends Reunited screen, and after a brief hesitation with his fingers hovering over the keys, entered his name. The egg timer in the middle of the screen seemed to be there for an eternity, but eventually the screen turned to blue and in large yellow letters informed them:

  TEMPORARY BRONZE STATUS. (For more information click here)

  “Temporary…what does that mean?”

  “You see,” said Geoffrey, pointing at the screen, “where it says to click for more information?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Well, if you click there, it will give you more information.” They all looked at the vegetable man, who had adopted an expression he believed to display wisdom, but which actually hinted at the onset of a stye.

  Turning back to the screen, Justin clicked as directed, and the screen filled with text.

  “See?” he said. “It’s gone to appeal.”

  “Only because neither of them want you.” Said Marcel. “It’s not really a cause for pride; being not quite bad enough, is it? At least I was good at being bad.”

  “Oh, look, that’s enough.” Mary intervened to stop Justin’s response. “The point is, you’ve got access, even if only temporarily. I think Marcel’s right. You need to keep an eye on what’s happening with this thing, because we don’t know where it’s going to lead.”

  “What if it leads somewhere we don’t like?” asked Justin.

  “See?” Marcel sneered. “That’s exactly the wishy-washy kind of attitude that leaves you unjudged. If it does, do something about it. And if you have to do something, take him with you.” He gestured towards Geoffrey, who was nervously scanning the TV schedules for the start of The Sopranos.